Pull yourself together, Angel, she ordered herself sternly. She jabbed impatiently at the eyes that were damper than she felt they ought to be, and started across the vast concourse toward the immense Departures board to look for the next train to London. She hadn’t thought about what she would do when she got there. There was time enough on the train ride south to think it through, she reasoned. She knew only that she had to get out of Scotland. She had to put as much distance between them as possible. Up above her, rain drummed down on the famous glass roof that stretched for acres. She drained her coffee and then set off for the appropriate platform.
She had the impression of him first, from a distance, standing halfway down the platform—a tall, dark figure dressed all in black in the center of the walkway, standing perfectly still as hordes of commuters streamed around him. Some of them did double takes to look more closely at his face, his scars, and it took her longer than it should have to accept the fact that it was Rafe standing there, grim and quiet, waiting.
For her.
Her stomach dropped. And then flipped.
She should have turned and run. Anyone with any pride would have done, but Angel couldn’t seem to help the masochistic streak that ran through her and kept her walking toward him. She wanted this to mean something, his being here. She wanted things she knew better than to name. She wanted him—still—to her great and abiding shame. But this was Rafe, and she knew better than to hope. Look where that had led her so far!
“Are you here to pick up your property?” she asked coldly. “Your not-quite brood mare? Because I’ve quit that position. You’ll have to buy another one.”
She came to a stop in front of him, rocking back on her heels and tilting her head to look him in the eye. She couldn’t read anything in all of that chilly gray. She didn’t know what she thought she wanted to see. She shifted her bag on her shoulder, feeling something suddenly that was surprisingly close to shy. Awkward. A complicated rush of emotion worked through her, making her sway slightly on her feet. She told herself it was only exhaustion.
He reached over and traced what she knew were deep bags beneath her eyes, and his mouth tightened. She wanted to feel nothing when he touched her. She wanted to be blank—cured of that devastating addiction to him by the terrible things he’d said. But the same old fire danced to life low in her belly, filling her with chagrin. And need.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply, devastatingly.
It was too much. She couldn’t process it.
She felt her face crumple slightly, and she batted his hand away, fighting with herself until she got back under control. She felt unbalanced. Commuters jostled all around them, bursting with hurry and stress, but all she could focus on was Rafe, and the careening sensation inside of her. As if all of her screws were coming loose at once and she was in imminent danger of flying apart.
And then she felt nothing but the red-hot haze of rage. Everything he’d said, everything he’d done, flooded into her, and she was no longer frozen. She was no longer worried about losing him—she already had.
Which meant she had absolutely nothing left to lose at all.
“You can’t just show up on a train platform and apologize!” she threw at him, her voice some kind of strangled whisper, the anger taking her voice away with its strength. “Do you think this erases everything? Do you think it changes—”
“Angel.”
Just her name, in that dark magic tone of his. It shouldn’t have affected her. She shouldn’t have cared. All of the cruel things he’d thrown at her whirled in a loop in her head, and the misery of it, of this, threatened to swamp her. She should hate him. She hated that she didn’t, that she couldn’t, and she focused it all on him.
“It was my mother, by the way,” she told him, tears in the back of her throat, distorting her voice. He blinked. “My mother is the one who ran up that bill. She used my name to get the credit card. It was her debt—but I knew she wouldn’t pay it. She doesn’t have the money and even if she did, she has convenient amnesia when it comes to her debts. What was I meant to do?”
“I believe you,” he said quietly. “I do.”
“Did I deserve those things you said to me?” she demanded wildly. “Did I deserve the names you called me?” He moved as if to put his hands on her upper arms, as if that might soothe her, but she twisted away. “Don’t!” she said sharply. “That won’t work anymore.”
She worried it would work all too well.