Which makes no sense.
When I’m settled, he closes the door gently, softer than someone his size should be capable of, then walks around the truck, Ally following.
“Where am I going?”I ask through the cracked window.
“Ally’s grabbing some stuff from your house,” he shares casually.“But you’re not staying there tonight.”
My pulse skips.“Where am I staying?”
“With me.”
The words hit me like a soft blow, shocking but not painful.
“With you?”
He nods once.“Safe.Quiet.Cameras all over.”
“And guns, I’m assuming?”I try to joke, though my voice betrays the nerves.
He looks at me like I asked if water was wet.“Yeah.”
I swallow.
He slides into the driver’s seat, body filling the space with heat and tension.His hands wrap around the wheel, big, rough, scarred.But when he glances at me, something softens in his eyes.
“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he explains quietly.
“I’m not,” I whisper, surprising myself.
He nods once like that matters more to him than he’ll ever admit.And then we’re off.
We pull out of the parking lot, Ally trailing behind us in her car.The scenery rolls by, streetlights fading into trees, the morning fog lifting slowly from the road.Riot drives with one hand, the other resting casually on his thigh.
I notice the way the tendons flex in his forearm.I notice the tattoo peeking beneath his sleeve, beautiful and intricate tribal style design.I notice the way his chest rises and falls in measured breaths, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.My gaze drifts upward, following the line of his jaw.
He catches me looking.
For one heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but something dangerously close.
“How’s the head?”he asks, voice low.
“Sore,” I admit.“Foggy.”
“Vision?”
“Blurrier when I move too fast.”
“Chest pain?”
“Manageable.”
“Dizzy?”
“Sometimes.”
He nods, taking that in, adjusting his speed slightly, slower, smoother.
