[A lot of feels over episode 2, and I want to acknowledge them all as legitimate and reasonable. I was shocked along with you. I pray I have done justice to this extremely sensitive subject, but it's entirely possible you won't agree with how I portray it. That said, please take this next installment with a grain of salt and treat it as the fiction it is… Thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think!]

Vincent leaned over the stainless steel basin of his bathroom sink. The muscles in his arms and hands still trembled as he splashed cold tap water onto his face. His gut cramped again but he ignored it; he had nothing left to dispel, having disgorged itself of his last meal already. He cupped his hands, took a drink, and swished the foul taste out of his mouth. He wasn't sick; he was sick to death.

He'd come directly to the houseboat from Catherine's rooftop. He shouldn't have left her like that—on the floor where he'd shoved her with enough force to injure! But coward that he was, he couldn't face those accusing eyes a moment longer. And now he didn't know what to do.

He scrubbed the hand towel across his face then studied himself in the mirror. Cold, dead eyes stared back from a face he didn't recognize—not anymore. The hard planes of his jaw were stubbled in shadow, his cheek bones sunken; the deep groove between his brows nothing but a jumble of dark, angry lines. Was he a man . . . or a beast?

The shaking started up again—this time more severe. Months of training had taught him rigid control and absolute stillness. But all that had disappeared. He curled his palms into fists and pressed them to the counter as he continued looking in the glass. "Who are you?"

Funny, that was the same question he'd asked Catherine when she and her friends caught and tranqed him at the docks when Zhao got away. She knew who she was, even if he didn't. But who was he?

"I am a soldier on an extremely important mission," he ground out. It was the mantra he'd been saying to himself for weeks now. He laughed, a hollow sound. Was he trying to convince himself? Because what a joke!

Yes, it had been a mistake to go to the roof—both times. He knew it then; just couldn't make himself stay away. Yeah, that 'pull.' He felt drawn to her like no other. She was more than under his skin; she was in every breath he took, every thought in his head. He could pick her heartbeat out of crowd. And even though he knew it was physically impossible, even for him, he thought he could hear it now—pounding hard as she thought of him. Of what he'd done to her. How she must hate him!

God, he hadn't even stayed around to see if she'd been injured! Vincent dropped his head into his hands. The scent of her was still in the room—the scent of their lovemaking. He couldn't escape.

This is what comes of breaking every rule.

If he was a good soldier, he'd report his deficiency to Condor and ask for a reassignment far away from the city. Away from her. Condor would not be pleased. In fact, he might demand information about this woman—possibly even order him to harm her for her interference. Not that he hadn't already done that himself. No. He couldn't do it. He was reluctant to let his commander know anything about her. He had to protect her now as she had been protecting him. But now he'd also have to protect her from himself.

The man she said he used to be didn't line up with anything that made sense. They had picnics on the rooftop? Who does that? He let a woman protect him? And yet, what kind of man was he that he'd hurt an innocent woman? She'd done nothing to deserve it. Sure, she'd been badgering him. She wanted him to remember and he couldn't! It made him angry, yes, but not at her. She said they were 'meant to be.' Could fate be changed? And if so, had he changed everything tonight?

Vincent sagged down onto the lip of the tub in the small, modular bathroom and hung his head. Catherine. Oh, God. He'd violated her trust on so many levels—and that not long after she'd given herself to him—body, mind and soul—in complete trust and surrender. Their physical connection was as strong as their emotional one. He'd never experienced such a thing with another woman, at least not that he could recall. It made him angry that he couldn't remember their former relationship.

At first, he thought it might be a lie. He didn't understand her motivations. But after last night . . . But how could he have forgotten something like that?

He didn't really know if she was friend or enemy, but it didn't matter anymore, did it? Because now he was her adversary. And she's a cop, for pity's sake! She obviously had resources and connections to have tracked him more than once. What will she do now? He wasn't stupid—it's called assault.

Her words still rang in his ears, accusing: "I don't remember you ever doing that." How would he know? He didn't have any memory!

Vincent stood, restless. Seeing his face in the bathroom mirror, he stopped. "I didn't ask for her interference," he told the man looking back at him. "I tried to warn her away; she didn't listen. She doesn't understand the stakes."

But perhaps neither did he.

Last night she seduced him and he took what she offered. Why not? There was an attraction between them he couldn't deny. Should he have resisted? Was there any man alive who would have? Apparently, yes—the man I used to be.

"Who are you?" he asked again. "A soldier," he repeated. The face in the mirror mocked him. "No, you're not. You're a weak, cowardly fool!" With a jerk of his powerful arm, he slammed his fist into the glass, shattering the mirror and his image into a spray of silver shards.