The rain came down in sheets, drumming against the pavement, soaking through my clothes. But I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t anything except fucking furious. She stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself.

I dragged a hand through my wet hair, pacing, breath sharp. “You called Will a junkie,” I said, each word a blade. “Said Michael’s father never loved him. Called Damon a rabid dog.”

Her shoulders jerked, like I’d shoved her. “Kai—”

“And me?” I cut her off, my laugh humorless. “Saint Kai? My daddy issues? That’s all I have going for me?”

A muscle in my jaw jumped. She didn’t deny it.

I wanted her to lie to me. To tell me it wasn’t her, that it was all some sick fucking joke, that she wasn’t the person who’d been running Blacklist—who’d dissect my friends, picking them apart.

But she just stood there. Silent. I had trusted her. I had loved her. And she’d been using me.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You meant all of it.” I snapped.

I exhaled sharply, hands on my hips, head tipping back as I blinked up at the rain.

When I looked at her again, I wanted to hate her. Needed to.

But I didn’t.

And that pissed me off more than anything else.

“Tell me,” I said, stepping closer, my voice quieter now, rough. “Tell me you never cared. That it was all a game. That I was just another fucking story for you to write.”

Her throat bobbed. “I—”

“Say it.”

Her lip trembled and I should have walked away. I wanted to.

But instead, my fingers curled around her chin, tipping her face up. And before she could stop me—before I could stop me—my mouth was on hers.

She gasped, but it was swallowed by the rain, by the way I kissed her like I wanted to burn the world down. It was messy and rough and punishing. My hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against me, forcing her to feel exactly what she’d done to me.

She clung to me like she was drowning.

Maybe she was.

Maybe I was too.

Because when I pulled away, breath ragged, forehead pressed to hers, I knew the truth.

I wasn’t going to let her go.