She relaxes against me, inch by inch, melting into my side, her head tipping back to rest on my shoulder—a gesture of trust that knocks the wind out of me.
Just when I think I might lose myself, she shifts again, barely—a whisper of friction that sends pleasure coursing through me. My grip tightens on her hips, possessive and bruising, as I bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent.
“You undo me,” I murmur, low enough for only her to hear, the words heavy with longing.
In this charged silence, the world outside fades away, leaving just the two of us suspended in this moment, aching for something we both know we shouldn’t want—but can’t resist.
And she stays.
Soft.
Warm.
Pressed against me like she finally understands the truth:
I would burn down everything—my father, the money, the legacy—to earn her back.
And I’m just getting started.
Chapter 23
Talia
Genny’sapartmentisn’tanapartment tonight.
It’s a command center. A battlefield. A pulse of frantic energy wrapped in printer paper and half-empty soda cans.
It’s Sunday night. Saturday passed in a blur of recovery skates and silent texts, but nobody is resting now.
The coffee table has been dragged into the middle of the room, covered in pizza boxes, highlighters, sticky notes, and Genny’s three-monitor Franken-computer rig. Wires snake across the floor like veins.
And we’re all here.
Declan’s people.
My people.
The room feels like a team huddled in the last sixty seconds of overtime.
I drop onto the far end of the couch, pulling my knee up, wrapping my arms around it. Not hiding. Just… containing the energy under my skin. Declan sits beside me, thigh pressed against mine, heavy and warm. He hasn’t let me drift more than a few inches all night.
And I haven’t pushed him away.
His hand rests on his knee, fingers tapping once, twice, then stilling. Every time someone new enters the room—Zoë slamming the door, Gio stumbling in behind her, Dante’s quiet footfalls—his knuckles brush my leg. A silent check-in.
You okay?
Still here?
Still with me?
I hate how much it helps.
I hate how much I’m starting to lean toward him instead of away.
And I really hate that I brought something for him.
The hoodie pocket of my sweatshirt hides the small plastic bag—the novelty goalie mask keychain I bought at the campus bookstore. Stupid. Silly. Totally not me. But the moment I saw it, my brain whispered:he scored a goal on Friday.
