Heat.
Instant, searing, bone-deep heat.
It crackles through my skin, racing up my spine, curling low in my stomach. My breath catches. His fingers tighten around mine, his grip firm and grounding. A white-hot shiver courses through me, sharp and consuming, and from the way his chest rises, the way his muscles tense, he feels it too. We break apart. Fast. Like we’ve both touched something scalding hot. Maybe we have.
“Maybe it’s a good idea if we don’t touch each other,” he mutters, rubbing his palm against his jeans like he can scrub me off his skin.
I huff. “Right. Because we hate each other so much?”
He exhales, slow and controlled. His gaze flickers toward the open door as if he’s waiting, stalling, trying to come up with something that makes sense. “Look,” he says, finally turning back to me, gesturing between us, voice edged with a warning. “Whatever this is, it’s not happening. We don’t know each other. Last night was—” He stops, jaw ticking, like saying the words is painful. “I don’t trust you.”
Of course he doesn’t. Not with who my father is. Not with the blood that runs through my veins. I lift my chin. “I don’t trust you either.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Something sharp and knowing. And then he does the last thing I expect.
He chuckles.
It’s low, rough, barely a sound, but I feel it vibrate through my bones. The absurdity of it makes me want to laugh too, but nothing about this is funny.
“Let’s just get all this over with,” he says, voice flat. “And be done with each other.”
It should be simple. Easy-peasy.
Then why does it feel like it won’t be?
I don’t answer him. I just grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and move past him toward the exit. I don’t touch himor look at him. But my body is hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. It’s too much and too little at the same time.
A trace of heat lingers where his hand held mine. I push it down. Ignore it.
Bridger’s voice cuts through the thick air. “Come on, let’s go. Now.”
I sit at the edge of the open door and dangle my legs over the side. The drop isn’t far, but the second my feet hit the ground, my knees buckle slightly. I stumble, catching myself, but a sharp yelp escapes my mouth before I can stop it.
How embarrassing.
Damian lands beside me, boots kicking up dust. He smirks, just slightly, and I glare at him.
I hate how gorgeous he looks.
I force my attention away from him, redirecting my focus to the world in front of me. A rugged mountain range rises in the distance, its jagged peaks standing sharp against the sky. Beyond the stretch of cracked pavement, a handful of small planes and gliders sit in neat, orderly rows, their wings gleaming under the relentless sun. In the distance, a tall white sign stands against the backdrop of endless sky, its faded blue lettering reading “Jean Airport, Sport Aviation Center.”The words seem almost surreal. We didn't even land at a real airport. My stomach tightens with unease. I don’t even know how far we are from Vegas.
I swallow back any questions, for now. The air is thick, scorching hot, dry enough to burn my throat. The scent of sun-scorched metal and sagebrush clings to the wind. But there’s something else too. Something metallic. Rust, maybe. Or blood.
Heat rises in thick waves off the cracked earth, making the world ripple and distort, but past it, past the suffocating brightness, storm clouds roll in, heavy and black. They swallow the horizon, creeping closer, slow and ominous.
A storm is coming.
Even though I was born here, it’s been years since I was in Nevada. Years since I breathed this hot, dry air. Since my boots pressed into this cracked, unforgiving dirt. I should feel something besides anger—nostalgia, regret, maybe even relief—but I don’t. There is no bittersweet tug, no wistful ache of homecoming.
There is only white-hot rage.
It snakes inside me, twisting sharp and tight, pressing against my ribs like it wants to gouge its way out. The heat of the desert is nothing compared to the fire searing through my veins.
Memories claw their way up, choking me, dragging me back to a time when I still believed in things like luck and second chances.
My sixteenth birthday.
Vick had promised me something special, something just for me. I should have known better.
