“I’ll go back to sleep, then.”

“Good.” I tuck her in and kiss her forehead. “Sleep.”

I stride out of the room before I change my mind.

And I know that I’m running from her, because she has the power to wound me like no other. If Hyde had gotten to her…shit. Her absence from this world would hurt me more than anything I’ve experienced so far.

I wander into the kitchen, deposit the glass by the sink, and head into my study. I need an action plan. I scribble down everything that I need to do, then send Andrea an e-mail to cancel my meetings in Washington, DC. I tell her I’ve had to return to Seattle, but can still have the meetings via WebEx or phone. I press send, knowing that once the news cycle picks up on Hyde’s arrest, it will be self-explanatory.

I pull out Hyde’s file to have another look through the information Welch has provided, to see if there are any clues to Hyde’s insanity.

I keep coming back to one detail that’s been nagging at me since I read it the first time. I wonder if it’s a coincidence or material to this mess.

Jackson “Jack” Daniel Hyde.

DOB: Feb 26, 1979, Brightmoor, Detroit, MI

Hell. I’m so tired my brain is fried, but I know I won’t sleep. I need some fresh air to clear the fear and anxiety from my system.

Quietly, I sneak into the closet and change into my running gear, but before I go out, I check on Ana. She’s fast asleep. With my iPod strapped to my arm, I head down to the lobby in the elevator.

As the doors open, I note the two photographers outside. I slip through the rear doors to the utility area, then through a series of corridors and out into the passage behind the building. I hit the early morning streets of Seattle, The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony” playing loud and proud through my earbuds.

I run and run and run, down Fifth Avenue to Vine. I run past Ana’s old apartment, where Kate Kavanagh should be sleeping off her hangover. I run along Western, veering off to go through Pike Place Market. It’s grueling. But I don’t stop until I’m back outside Escala. And then I do it all over again.

I return a sweaty mess with my Mariners cap pulled low over my face. I make my way unrecognized through the press gathered outside the building and safely into the elevator.

Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen.

“Gail! How are you?” I ask as soon as I see her.

“Good, Mr. Grey. Glad you and Taylor are back.”

“Tell me what happened.”

As I fill and drink a glass of water, she gives me a quick run-through of last night’s events. How Ryan ushered her into the panic room. And afterward, once Hyde was caught, what happened with the police and paramedics. “I never thought we’d have to use that room.”

“I’m glad I had it installed.”

“Yes, sir. I’m grateful, too. Do you want a coffee?”

“Not yet. I’ll have some orange juice for Ana.”

She smiles. “Coming right up.”

“Is Taylor awake?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Let him rest.”

She hands me the juice, and I leave her to go wake Ana.

She’s still asleep.

“There’s some orange juice for you here.” I place it on her bedside table and she stirs, her eyes are on me, her teeth toying with her bottom lip. “I’m going to take a shower,” I mutter and leave.

I strip quickly, leaving my clothes on the bathroom floor. My run has done little to improve my temper. I start washing my hair vigorously, and mentally run through a checklist of what I have to do this morning. I sense Ana before I hear her. She closes the shower door, then steps up behind me and places her arms around me. I stiffen at her touch.

Everywhere.

Don’t touch me.

Ignoring my reaction, she pulls me closer, so that I feel her warm, naked body against me. She presses her cheek to my back.

We’re skin on skin.

And it’s unbearable.

I’m too mad at you right now.

I’m too mad at myself.

I shift so we’re both under the water and continue rinsing the suds out of my hair. She presses her lips against me in small, soft kisses.

No. “Ana,” I caution her.

“Hmm.”

Stop.

I burn for her.

But my thoughts are too dark.

I’m too angry.

Her hand skims down over my belly, and I know what she has in mind. But I want none of it.

I want all of it.

All of her.

No!

I place both of mine on hers and shake my head. “Don’t,” I whisper.

She steps back, immediately, as if I’ve slapped her, so I turn around and her eyes flit to my erection.

It’s just biology, baby.

I clasp her chin. “I’m still fucking mad at you,” I whisper, and rest my forehead against hers, closing my eyes.

And I’m fucking mad at myself.

I should have stayed in Seattle.

She reaches up and strokes my cheek, and I desperately want to give in to her tender touch.

“Don’t be mad at me, please. I think you’re overreacting,” she says.

What!

I straighten, so her hand falls to her side, and glare at her. “Overreacting?” I rant. “Some fucking lunatic gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife, and you think I’m overreacting!”

She gazes up at me, but she doesn’t back away. “No, um, that’s not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me staying out.”