“We’ll give him an hour to get his shit together,” Enzo growled from the door, stepping closer, his eyes hard as flint. He was beyond angry and into dangerous territory, trembling with restrained violence. “And then, we’re coming back for answers. If he lies, if he stalls to waste our time?—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Lyric shrank against the pillows as if he could disappear. He was wrecked. Not so much needy as pathetic. And the way he stared at me—as if I was his savior—set my teeth on edge. Fuck that noise.
I didn’t know if he was guilty or innocent. But I knew that look—helplessness that dug under my skin, sinking claws into something primitive. The more broken he appeared, the more I felt as if I needed to fucking save him rather than letting him die like Danny. As if his fear—real or imagined—somehow made him mine. And that scared the shit out of me more than anything else.
He wanted to live.
And I knew what it meant to want to live more than anything else in the world.
I waited until the door closed, and it was only me and him, then I helped him lie flat.
“Sleep,” I snapped and stepped away, jaw tight. He stared up at me with those reddened eyes, the impossible shade of gray-green, brimming with tears. His gaze flicked to the door, then back to me, as if he was trying to calculate if I’d leave him undefended. “They won’t come back for an hour. Give Enzo time to calm down.”
“Don’t… let them… hurt me…”
That one hit harder than I expected. I froze for a second, teeth grinding, before I forced the words out. “Not your fucking protector,” I lied. But even I didn’t believe it.
Then, I yanked the chair from the corner and dropped it down between Lyric and the door. Planted it as a fucking barrier.
He watched me for a beat before his lashes fluttered down—long, dark, absurdly delicate—and he closed his eyes. Bruises painted his throat in raw shades of violet and blue, proof of the damage I’d already done; his skin was pale, the chiseled cut of his cheekbones too prominent beneath thin, bruised skin. He had one of those stupidly pretty faces—made to be kissed, ruined, maybe both. And I was standing there like a fucking creep, memorizing him.
His long dark hair was tangled, twisted into knots, but I could imagine it soft, clean, spread out over a pillow. Could imagine running my fingers through it, tugging at it, pulling his head back to taste him—and the thought should’ve made me sick. It should’ve made me pull away. But it didn’t. It lit something up inside me, something dark and possessive and wrong. I knew it was twisted. Knew it wasn’t about care or comfort. And still, I clung to it as if it belonged to me.
Jesus.
I should’ve stopped staring. I didn’t.
I crouched and tugged the blanket up a little higher. My fingers brushed the inside of his wrist. Cool skin, so thin I could see the ghost of blue veins. He didn’t stir.
There was a scar beneath his jaw. Not fresh, but jagged—maybe a knife or glass. I wanted to ask what happened. I wanted to ask who’d left it.
I wanted to put my mouth on it and promise no one would ever touch him again.
I stood too fast. My heart kicked against my ribs as if I’d been caught doing something filthy.
Fuck. I needed air.
I tore my eyes away, but the image of him under me, over me, in me, was haunting and shameful. He was shaking. Broken. Sweet.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
SEVEN
Lyric
I woke with a sharp gasp,pain flaring through my chest and ribs as if someone had cracked me open from the inside.
Something wasn’t right. I should’ve been getting better.
Instead, my head spun, heat blooming under my skin as I burned from the inside out, and sweat clung to me, chilling in the cool air. My breath caught, shallow and fast, and for a moment, I had no idea where I was. It was dark, but not pitch-black, and every shape blurred into shadow. I blinked, eyes struggling to adjust, and slowly the dim outlines of the room came into focus—the edge of the dresser, the closed door, and Rio.
He was exactly where I’d last seen him, as though he hadn’t moved at all.
My throat felt dry and raw, every word a scrape of glass. “Hello?” I whispered.
He turned his head, slow and deliberate, and stared at me. Then, he nodded. That was it—a single nod, nothing more, no word, no grunt, and I knew that was all I’d get from him. So much for rushing to my side to protect me.
