A laugh bubbles up from my own throat. It’s half-hysteria, half-relief, riding high on adrenaline and the knowledge that we're still alive.
“Jesus, Bells,” Lola grumbles, pulling me out from underneath Rafe.
“Careful. He’s hurt,” I warn as I swallow down the huff of laughter.
“Who’s hurt?” Gage peers over from the row behind us, his gaze narrowing as it sweeps over me.
“Your brother got shot.”
Voices collide in the cramped van—Lola's high-pitched alarm, Bishop's throaty curses from the driver's seat, Cruz’s rapid-fire questions, and Gage's low, threatening growl. Each voice crashes over the others like waves in a storm, the volume rising with every second until the metal walls seem to vibrate with their panic and rage.
I lean forward and reach for Rafe’s shoulder, where the blood is the darkest. “Let me look at it.”
“I’m fine, baby,” Rafe murmurs low, capturing my hand. “Best leave it until we get home.”
I stare at him for a moment, biting the inside of my cheek as I debate on what to do. He just grins at me from his sprawled out position on the floor of the van, this wild look in his eyes as his head tips back.
“Don't be ridiculous,” I snap, pitching forward on my knees across the gritty metal floor of the van. I slip my backpack off, the weight of stolen treasures making it land with a heavy thud as I thrust it at Lola. “Give me your sweatshirt.” I hold my hand out toward Gage without looking, fingers splayed impatiently in the dim light.
A bundle of warm, worn cloth hits my palm with surprising force. I crawl into Rafe's space, the van's lurching movements making me sway as I position myself between his parted legs. His blood is darker than I expected, almost black in the shadows, and sticky against my fingertips as I press the wadded-up sweatshirt to his shoulder, feeling the heat of his wound radiating through the fabric.
Rafe hisses between his teeth. His right hand flexes against my thigh, fingers digging into denim hard enough to leave five perfect bruises by morning. The muscles in his jaw ripple beneath stubbled skin.
“Fuck that hurts,” he growls, voice dropping an octave as he looks at me from underneath half-open lids, pupils blown so wide his eyes appear almost black in the dim light of the van.
I ignore how close he is. I swallow hard, but can't wash away the lingering taste of him—salt and iron and something dangerously addictive. The phantom pressure of his lips still burns against mine, and my throat tingles where his fingers had pressed moments earlier.
“You can take it, Rafe, can't you?” I ask, voice steadier than I feel.
He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, dragging it slowly through, leaving it flushed and wet. His fingertips dig deeper into my thigh, five distinct points of pressure that send electricity racing up my spine.
“I could take worse,” he says, voice practically a purr.
The words hit lower than they should, and I have to dig my nails into my palm to keep my face composed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say flatly. “If you pass out, I’m stapling you.”
Rafe’s smile widens, teeth flashing white, and if I didn’t know better I’d think he was enjoying this. The pain, the chaos, the mess of it all. Maybe he is.
Maybe this is where he feels alive too.
“Try not to bleed all over the van, Rafe. We were planning to bleach-bomb it, but now we’ll have to strip it,” Bishop says from the driver’s seat as he takes a hard turn, the tires shrieking.
“Hey, you wanna let everyone know we’re running away from a fucking crime scene?” Beckett grumbles, reaching over and holding a hand to the dash to brace himself.
“Your concern is touching, brother,” Rafe drawls, flicking his gaze over my shoulder before settling back on me.
“You wanna fuckin’ drive, kid?” Bishop snaps at my brother.
My hackles raise at Bishop's tone, a flash of heat crawling up my neck like wildfire through dry brush. I clench my jaw so hard my molars ache, but I swallow the retort burning on my tongue. Not now. Not with Rafe bleeding under my hands. I’ll deal with him later.
“You good, man? What do you need?” Gage says, his voice closer than I realized, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper—suddenly filling the cramped space between us.
I keep pressure on Rafe's shoulder, feeling the warm blood seeping through the sweatshirt, staining my fingertips crimson. I do my best to ignore everything else—the sway of the van, the shouting, the electric current running between us.
“I'm fine. 'Tis but a scratch,” Rafe says with a dismissive wave of his left hand. He winces, a flash of genuine pain crossing his features before his mask slips back into place. His hand drops, and his fingertips graze my other thigh, leaving five burning points of contact through my jeans like a brand.
Not even one part of me believes it was accidental—the lingering pressure of his fingertips, the deliberate way they traced across my jeans like he was mapping territory.
“If he’s quotingRomeo and Juliet, then he’s fine,” Cruz says on an exhale. “Fuck, man. What happened back there?”
