“No time,” I say. “I’ll take her.”
Shelby nods, barking directions to the infirmary. Rorie’s shaking, blood running in a thin line down her thigh. Maya and Jeremy rush over, worried chatter buzzing around us.
“I’m fine,” Rorie insists, but her voice wobbles.
Crouching, I lift her gently from the ground. She hisses through her teeth but doesn’t protest. I place her on the ATV and hop on in front ofher. Her hands tighten around my middle, no sass, no bite. Her fingers tremble when she fists the hem of my shirt, attaching herself to me.
“Ready?” I ask, glancing back.
She doesn’t answer. But she holds on.
And I drive—faster than I should, one hand on the throttle, the other brushing her knee: I’ve got you.
CHAPTER 47
I BRUISE, YOU BURN
RORIE
Pain pulsesin my leg with every heartbeat. The infirmary is minimalist and pristine, white lacquer surfaces, glass accents, and lush, green plants.
The air smells faintly of antiseptic and high-end linen spray. It’s cold enough to raise goosebumps. I shift on the exam table—no crinkly paper here, just smooth leather stitched with care—and wince as the motion sends another throb through my thigh.
A beach towel Nolan snatched off a sun lounger in the mad rush over is still wrapped around my thigh, now streaked with blood and sand. The edges are bunched where he tied it in a knot, hands shaking slightly.
Across the room, he paces a few steps one way, then back again. His fingers twitch at his sides, brushing over the hem of his shirt, then raking through his hair. Every few seconds, his eyes dart toward me, then away, like he’s debating if now is the right moment to speak. The silence between us crackles with tension, raw, unsettled, jittery.
I watch him. Watch the way his fingers twitch like he wants to punch something. Watch the way his chest rises and falls in controlled breaths, like he’s trying not to break.
There’s something lurking beneath the surface, coiled, and unsaid—a secret lodged in his throat that he hasn’t worked up the nerve tospit out yet. He thinks if he stays quiet long enough, I won’t notice. But I do. I did. Silence doesn’t erase what Thatcher said. Or what he didn’t.
I give it a second. Let him stew in it. Then, finally?—
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “You shut up real quick back there.”
Nolan’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “What?”
I cock a brow. “When Thatcher put his hand on your shoulder, you didn’t say a word.”
“It wasn’t the time or place to argue,” he says, voice clipped.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Just like it wasn’t the time or place to question how you win your accounts?”
His nostrils flare. Still no bite.
“This again?” he grinds out. “I told you, that’s not how we win.”
I tilt my head. “It’s how your teammate does.”
He drags a hand down his face, then drops it, fingers flexing like they want to curl into fists.
“You want the truth?” he says quietly, like it costs him something. “Jackson’s the one undercutting everyone. He’s Thatcher’s nephew. The day after I caught him and Chloe, Thatcher called me in, said he needed someone to ‘groom him for leadership.’”
I blink. “So he made you?—”
“Take him under my wing. Smile through it. Pretend it never happened.”
Jesus.
