He follows with a curse, hips jerking hard, spilling into me with a groan that vibrates through my bones. I take every drop. I want it all.
And when the haze fades, when breath finally drags back into my lungs, nothing changes.
We just... stay there. Pressed to the wall. Raw. Tangled in each other like neither of us remembers how to let go.
Then, softer, almost against his will, he presses his lips to my temple.
“I hope you know I meant every word, Little Grim.”
And fuck me... I believe him. Honest to god, I do.
Which is exactly why I should be terrified.
Because this, whateverthisis, might be even deadlier than any wraith.
The thing about Lark is, time moves differently around her.
I notice that before anything else. Before ambition. Before the way she looks like she knows exactly how to cut a man open if he ever gave her reason.
I didn’t get it at first.
Didn’t even realize what was happening until a couple of days after I took on the Camaro. That was when she asked me if I ever wanted something better than my life. She just looked at my hands and saw someone I don’t normally let exist.
And yeah, I told her the truth.
That there’s a cap on me somewhere.
A ceiling I can see but never break.
Guys like me don’t evolve. We just try not to die too fast.
That was then.
Now I keep showing up at that half-collapsed garage even though there’s no reason to anymore. The Camaro’s been running perfectly for some time. Doesn’t matter. I still make excuses.
Like a fool.
Rey and Fisher have no idea.
Thank God.
If they ever clocked how deep I let this go? I bet I’d be dead by now.
But what can I say? Lark’s got that something, and I don’t mean sex. She’s a mystery by design. Talks with her hands when she’s fired up. Gives me her history in broken shards, never in order, never enough to make a clean picture. Sometimes she disappears for days and comes back with a split lip, won’t say where she got it.
And we’re not a couple. Not officially.
But I’ve never stuck around this long before.
I kind of stopped seeing other girls, too.
It’s comfortable like this. I keep my world off-limits; she keeps hers to herself. She doesn’t know anything about the crew, and I don’t ask about her side of town.
It works… until it doesn’t.
Because one night, after a late run down the coast, we’re sitting on the hood listening to waves punch the shoreline, and she decides to ruin things.
“There’s a race next Friday,” she says. “Big one.”
