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“Because I can.”

Simple as that. No other explanation. It was pointless to argue, and honestly, I was incredibly happy to have Anthony and Kayla in New Jersey. Their kindness brought light to my world when I’d been consumed by shadows. I considered exchanging numbers before I left West Virginia, but I didn’t know the protocol. Obviously it was a moot point since they were in my home.

Shaking my head, I replied, “Sometimes I think you have more money than sense.”

“Quite possibly.”

“You need a hobby.”

“You’re my hobby.” He winked.

“That was hot.” Kayla fanned herself with a hand.

“Hey!” Anthony shot her a hard look.

“What?” She shrugged. “It was.”

“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes. “All right, anyone who isn’t in the medical field or my patient needs to vamoose for the next hour. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Zak left after giving me a quick kiss, saying he’d get some work done in his home office until I was finished. Forty minutes later, I was begging for mercy. Sweat dripped off my chin. Muscles I didn’t even know I had were writhing in pain. Mistakenly, I thought Anthony had been tough on me at the hospital. In reality he’d been holding back. According to him, the next six weeks were crucial in my recovery. Without building up my quads and core, I’d never have the strength to wear Mathilda for any length of time. So we got busy.

Every morning that week offered the same routine. Eat breakfast. Ride the elevator to the gym. Get my ass kicked.

Poor Zak took the brunt of my grumpiness, and he did it without complaint. He chuckled when I got snippy, and cheered the loudest when I walked three steps on the prosthetic without the walker or crutches to hold me up.

It was hard on my body and hard on my mind. The nightmares intensified. More than once, I woke up screaming. The first time, Zak raced to my room like he had at my apartment, barely dressed, gun in his hand. He climbed behind me on the bed, pulled me into his arms, and promised I was safe. His calm, steady voice mixed with the gentle, side-to-side sway of our bodies eventually eased the trembling. After that, he offered to stay in my room “just to sleep,” he assured. I agreed quickly.

By Friday, I was done letting a dead man win. Machail was gone; he couldn’t haunt me any longer. With that in mind, I contacted a psychologist who specialized in the kind of trauma I experienced. Her name was Dr. Ivy Jackson, and she didn’t make me wait weeks for an appointment. She called me back after lunch. Zak was there with me because I didn’t want to be alone. He held my hand while I recounted what happened to me, leaving out the bits about the Bratva. When our hour was up, Dr. Ivy gave me a few ideas to use if my emotions got the best of me. Taking a walk, journaling, listening to calming music were some of the suggestions she made.

The other thing she instructed me to do was to identify a person or a place that made me feel safe. I knew immediately. Zak was my person. He was my rock and my shield without taking away my independence. I’d become a romance book cliché, falling hopelessly in love with my boss. The gray areas of his life, which normally would’ve scared the shit out of me, didn’t.

My heart wanted what it wanted, even if my mind wasn’t fully onboard.

Two lines formed at the front doors of Shade. On the right side were the A-listers who had a name on the guest list, on the left were the walk-ins who hoped Lady Luck would be on their side. Daria, Lennon, and I didn’t wait in either. We were escorted by a male bouncer to a private entrance around the side of the building, then immediately to the VIP section on the second floor. The journey was slow, considering I was wearing Mathilda.

Our corner table gave us an unobstructed view of the entire nightclub. It had a sleek, modern vibe, with deep crimson walls and black tile floors. On the lower level, the dance floor was packed tight with bodies moving to the rhythm of the music being played by the DJ, while other guests milled around the high-top tables strategically placed around the perimeter of the club. There were four separate bars that I could see; each had a line at least ten people deep.

The VIP area was vastly different. We were sealed off from the noise below by four floor-to-ceiling glass walls, allowing conversations to flow freely. Music from the club was pumped in through a speaker system, though at a much more tolerable level. Instead of standing tables, we had black leather booths to sit around and a waitstaff at our disposal.

“This place is incredible,” Daria gushed, taking a sip of her fruity cocktail.

“Have you been here before?” Lennon asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “I was too busy with work. Besides, this isn’t really my scene.”

“Me either,” she and my sister both agreed.

“Since we’re already here, let’s have a few drinks to celebrate Lennon’s new job.”

Our waitress was good, she arrived with fresh glasses before our old ones were even empty. I lost count of how many we had after round three, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Spending a night cutting loose with my sister and my friend was exactly what I needed.

The three of us talked and laughed for what seemed like hours. At some point, the mood at our table shifted from jovial to somber. One minute we were roaring over a story Daria told about one of her patients at the hospital, the next she was crying. It happened so fast I felt like I had whiplash. I exchanged a look with Lennon, who was equally confused. Digging through my purse, I found a tissue and handed it to my sister. She wiped the tears from her eyes only to have more fall in their place.

“Charlie’s been texting me,” she blubbered.

“What?” I roared, then said more softly, “For how long, Daria?”

“It started two days after I moved here. I block one number, and he’ll text from a new one.”