Yes, but what are you after you've alienated everyone, hmmm? What kind of creature then?

Tate shook those thoughts away. She was going to do whatever it took to get some fucking closure. What had Jameson said in Paris? What sugary sweet lie had he spun? Seven years? It was time to end it. Then she would just walk away. Start life, for real. Maybe a little later than most people, but hey, better late than never. Maybe she'd go back to school. Maybe she'd become a nice, normal girl, finally. Maybe she'd take Nick up on his offer and move to Arizona. Who knew?

She certainly didn't.

“We are almost there. Are you alright?” Sanders called out. She smiled up at the ceiling.

You know you'll lose him. Is it worth it?

“I'm good,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Let's get this over with,” Tate growled, leaning her head forward.

They were pulling down the driveway. Jameson's house sat far back on his property – estate would be a more appropriate word – and a pebble filled circular drive led them to the large brick building. The driveway was long, and though there was none right then, she figured that when it did snow, it must have been a bitch getting the driveway plowed.

Well, for anyone else, it would've been a bitch. For Jameson Kane, all he had to do was snap his fingers and people probably cleared the snow away with their tongues.

Not me. Not anymore.

“Patience there, tiger. Wouldn't want you getting sick again,” Jameson teased her. Tate glared at the back of Sanders' head, watched his neck turn pink with a blush.

“You don't have to tell him everything, Sandy,” she grumbled. Sanders had brought her back in December, tried to cook dinner for her while Jameson was out of the country. She had barely made it onto the porch before she lost her cookies over the railing.

“Yes, he does. Unload the bags, will you Sanders?” Jameson asked, opening the door and stepping out before the car had rolled to a complete stop. Tate slid across the seat and got out behind him, refusing to take his hand.

She took a deep breath and started stomping forward. She walked up the steps and barreled through the front door, coming to a stop in the hall. There. Like ripping off a band aid. She stood in the entry way, staring at the stairs. Now if she could just get her feet to move forward, she would really be winning.

“Are you alright?” Sanders' soft voice asked again, and she turned her head to find him standing behind her.

“As I'll ever be. I can take that,” she started, reaching for a suitcase that had been packed for her. Sanders breezed past her, heading up the stairs.

“It's fucking freezing in here,” Jameson grumbled, walking up next to her. She glanced at him.

“Only because you're used to it always being so hot – you kept it like a furnace in here,” she snapped.

Like a crematorium.

“Well, you've always insisted that I'm the devil. Wouldn't want to break from character. C'mon, let's get a fire lit, and I'll have Sanders ...,” he rambled on, heading towards his library.

Tate couldn't move. She couldn't go in there. Her ghost was trapped in that room. She and Jameson had easily spent more time in that room than any other room in the house – including his bedroom. When he was at home, he worked out of the library, used it as an office. At night, he stayed in there, close to the fire. Reading. Drinking. Talking with her. Touching her. She could not go in there.

“No,” she said, her voice louder than she'd intended. He stopped just outside the library door, turned towards her.

“Excuse me?” he asked. She licked her lips and closed the front door behind her.

“I don't want to go in there. You have a million rooms here, why don't you actually go see some of them. Have you ever even been in the study upstairs?” she asked, trying to think of any excuse at all, without giving away her fear. Jameson narrowed his eyes.

“I don't give a fuck about my other rooms. I like this room,” he replied.

“That's stupid,” she rolled her eyes.

“You're stupid, but you don't hear me bitching about it every two seconds,” he pointed out.

“Yes, you do.”

“Shut up.”

“Or let's go to the conservatory,” she started to offer. “I wonder if my geraniums are still alive. Did you hire -,”

“Tatum, cut the bullshit. Why don't you want to go in there?” Jameson demanded.

She took a deep breath. Stared him in the eye. Jameson hadn't seemed to have caught onto it yet, but she had a very powerful weapon against him. Sex. He simply couldn't resist it, and he was easily distracted by it. His one weakness, if it could be called that. It was very handy for Tate, because she used it to forget. When she was lost in his heat and his skin and his fire, she could forget she wanted to hurt him, the way he had hurt her. Forget that she wanted to destroy a small piece of his heart, the way he had done to hers.

Tate moved her hands to the buttons on the jacket she was wearing. Popped the top one open. Jameson cocked up an eyebrow. She worked the second one open, then trailed her fingers down to the third button. By the time she got to the bottom button, both his eyebrows were raised, and he had a decidedly mean glint in his eye.

Good, I need something to sting extra hard tonight.

“Because it's boring,” Tate breathed the word as she let his jacket fall to the ground. “Always in the library. You're so vanilla, Kane. A million rooms, and you only ever want to fuck me in one.” She clucked her tongue at him as she kicked the coat away from her feet.