Just before disappearing around the corner, he calls back, “At least wait until the first venue before you ruin her whole damn life.”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m already thinking about her again.
How close we were.
How she looked at me.
How it felt for her to need me.
Blake has ruined her, but I’m going to ruin her even more.
The difference is that I’ll make her love me for it.
***
Three hours until the first venue.
Tony, our driver, said we’re heading to Omaha, but I don’t give a shit where we’re headed. The only thing that matters is who’s with me.
Sleep claws at the edge of my skull, dragging me down by the roots, but my body’s still running high. Skin hot. Muscles coiled like I’m standing on stage with a thousand eyes burning into me.
I shouldn’t have gone into her bunk.
I shouldn’t have said all that shit like I meant every word.
But I did.
And now, she’s behind the same damn curtain, breathing the same air, and I can still feel the shape of her fear and curiosity wrapped around my throat.
Just sleep, Reign. Let it go for a few hours.
Yeah, sure.
I push off the wall, heading toward my room at the back of the bus, past the bunks. The hallway’s dim and narrow, vibrating with the constant hum of the road underneath us. Everyone else has gone quiet. Music’s off. Laughter faded.
But me?
My pulse is still screaming.
I stop before I even realize where my feet are taking me.
Her bunk. Middle, right side. Curtains drawn tight, like it’s supposed to keep something out—or in.
She’s asleep. I can’t tell by the rhythm of her breath—slow and deep, the exhale a body only gives when it’s finally let go, when the world stops demanding and just lets her rest. And fuck, if that doesn’t undo me.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve already pulled back her curtain, just enough to take in the sight of her. She’s curled toward the wall, knees tucked slightly, blanket riding halfway up her back, with one arm folded beneath her head, her fingers tangled in the sheet like she needed something to hold on to. Her mouth is parted just enough to make my pulse hitch. Her brow—normally furrowed from too many unspoken thoughts—is soft now. Relaxed. No tension. No panic.
I lean in closer, one hand braced on the frame, and her scent hits me—strawberry shampoo and something warm beneath it, something sweet I can’t name, but it makes me think of teeth and skin. Her lashes twitch once, brushing her cheeks as if she’s chasing something in her sleep.
Or maybe being chased.
Is it about me yet?
Bzzz.
The vibration cuts through the stillness. A faint glow pulses beneath the blanket.
