He leans back, eyes glassy, chest rising too fast. “I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say. “I do.”
He blinks, eyes burning as he turns his face away. A fractured exhale slips out, almost a sob he won’t allow.
I reach over, touch his forearm lightly. He freezes, then his whole body loosens, like every tense line dissolves under my hand.
“Go to class,” I murmur. “Text me when you’re out. Here's my number.” I airdrop my contact.
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
He unbuckles, fingers shaking, and gets out. But before closing the door, he leans in again, forehead almost brushing the frame.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “For not walking away.”
Then he shuts the door and heads toward the building, and for a second I just sit there, gripping the steering wheel like it might stop my brain from spinning.
God, Talon.
It shouldn’t feel like this. Not with everything happening. Not with Abi circling like a vulture, my dad probably two breaths away from being the next missing husband, and Minxy sitting in that school with a target painted on her back.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the shape of his mouth when he apologized. Or the way his voice dipped when he said I held the reins. Or how it felt having him look at me like I was the only person who’d ever told him no and meant it.
It’s stupid. It’s dangerous. It’s the worst possible time to feel anything for anyone, let alone a boy in my class.
A boy I technically shouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole and a lawyer present. A boy who wants me with every messed-up, furious, hungry part of himself.
And the worst part?
I want him too.
Not in the cute crush way I could ignore. Not even in the “he’s pretty, whatever” way.
No—this is that deep, hot, magnetic pull that drags low in my stomach and whispers things I have no business wanting when my life is hanging by a thread, and duct tape.
Three men.
Three men who look at me like I’m gravity and they’ve been floating too long.
Three men who make my pulse trip over itself without trying.
Three men who move like they were engineered in a lab to destroy my self-control.
Honestly? That should be illegal.
Well… I did practically pull them from the same gene pool.
The realization hits, and a laugh bursts out of me—loud, sharp, unexpected. I clamp a hand over my mouth, still laughing into my palm.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I’m doomed.”
I grab my bag, shove the car door open, and step out into the chilly morning air. Time to put my brain back onto something safe. Normal.
Clinical notes class.
I straighten my shirt, pull in a breath, and try—fail—to wipe the lingering smile off my face as I head toward the building.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
