When the camera was rolling, Kellan seemed fine—he smiled, teased, tasted, appeared like he loved her—but the minute there was a break, he went rigid stiff, and kept his eyes sealed shut. I don’t think he’d opened them once since he’d finally caved and kissed her. He must be terrified of what I thought, of what he thought he’d see on my face.
The filming took hours, and I was exhausted by the time they wrapped. Looking pleased as punch, Diedrich profusely thanked his stars and announced that he’d see everyone tomorrow. Kellan shot up off of the bed, grabbed his robe from a crew member nearby, and darted off the set before I could even call his name. For the first time since it began, Sienna looked sad as she put her robe on over her still-bare chest.
Ignoring her melancholy, I set off in search of my morose husband, but I couldn’t find him. The place was a maze of hallways and people. I ran into the other D-Bags before I ran into him. Back in street clothes, a boisterous Evan wrapped me in a bear hug. “Kiera! You are not gonna believe how badass we looked!”
Setting me down, Evan searched the hallway. “Where’s Kellan?”
As Matt gave me concerned eyes, and Griffin chatted with a nearby blonde that I recognized as Kellan’s robe holder, I shrugged. “I don’t know . . . he kind of took off.”
Matt shrugged. “Maybe he needed air? Maybe he’s waiting in the car?”
Not knowing where else to look for him, I nodded and let the guys escort me outside. Sienna waved as I passed by her dressing room. She was back in her street clothes as well, but her fit body was still seared into my brain. As was the image of Kellan’s tongue running up her throat. My stomach was churning a little bit when we got outside, and I inhaled the fresh air like I’d been in a stagnant cave for decades.
Evan patted my back, then pointed at a black limo waiting for us. “Car’s here. Let’s go see if Kellan’s waiting for you.” Eyes moist, I gave him a weak nod.
The driver opened the door as we approached. My heart was thudding as all of the boys hopped inside. I heard Evan greet Kellan. So he was hiding in the car. I heard Griffin ask him how it was, and I felt faint. It was awful. That’s how it was. I hesitated at the car door, not sure if I could stomach seeing Kellan yet. It was all just too . . . fresh.
Hating myself, I ducked into the car and purposely avoided looking his way. I stared out the window as the car started moving. I could feel Kellan’s eyes on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. It was the oddest feeling I’d ever had. I recognized how difficult it had been for him, I realized that he’d pretended she was me so he could get through it, and I wanted to comfort him, because I’d seen how badly he’d been bothered by doing it. And yet, at the same time, I didn’t want to see his face. I knew if I did, I would see hers too. And I just couldn’t handle it at the moment.
As the conversations in the limo died down, the tension built. Eventually, it was so thick I had to believe that even Griffin felt it. In fact, he started to ask, “Are you two fighting?” but someone elbowed him before he could finish saying it. Good thing, too, because I wasn’t sure if we were or not. All I knew was I still felt ill, and I still loved Kellan more than anything.
I got out of the car the minute the driver opened the door and dashed upstairs, slamming our bedroom door shut. I had to see him. I couldn’t possibly avoid him. I just needed . . . a minute. Grief welled in me, followed immediately by guilt. This was my idea, and I’d requested to watch it. All of this self-inflicted pain was unnecessary. I couldn’t stop feeling it, though. Hearing the guys in the lounge area, I quickly walked into the bathroom and turned on a faucet so I could cry in peace. As I wiped a knuckle under my eye, I noticed my bloody palms from where I’d cut myself. Eyes wide, I scrubbed my hands under the cool water.
That’s when the bathroom door was tapped on. “Kiera . . .”
There was so much pain in his voice, I shut off the water. I hiccupped back a sob and stared at myself in the mirror, willing myself to calm down. This was only as big of a deal as we made it. I remembered the look of horror on his face, the clear reluctance in his first few kisses. Those images helped burn away the heated, passionate kisses that had happened later. I could do this. I could handle being with him. I could handle being his wife.
When my breathing returned to normal, his voice called to me again. “Kiera . . . please.”
His voice hitched, and I heard a sound I’d never wanted to hear from him again. He was crying. Wiping my hands dry, I opened the bathroom door. He had his head in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking. I immediately wrapped my arms around him. He buried his head in my neck, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me . . . please don’t leave me.”
I held him tight to me, my tears threatening to resurface. Stroking his hair, I shushed him, whispering, “It’s okay . . . I’m not mad . . . it’s okay.”
Eventually, he pulled back to look at me; his eyes were red, his cheeks wet. “How can you not be mad after what you saw? How can you not . . .”—his voice hitched—“hate me?”