The thing on my chest thunders and I lurch forward, unglued from the pavement, the too-big shoes making it impossible to run. I trip two steps closer with held breath. Closer. Close enough that the scent burns my nose and heat of the flames lick at my skin.
“Tristen!”
“Get him back!” someone yells, and another bystander reaches for me, clasping onto the baggy hoodie and pulling. I yank right back, freeing myself with a yell.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
I keep running. Tripping. Falling over debris and felled bikes. The Band-Aids stain with black as I climb over shit, my pant leg ripping when I snag. My sleeve sizzling when I get too close to the flicker of orange.
I don’t stop until I catch Hatley’s light hair, half smudged with soot or oil.
“Ten! Knock it off!” he yells and my brows furrow deeper the closer I get. “Ten.”
Squeezing through the small crowd, my heart stutters at the sight of Tristen’s bloodied lip and cocked back arm.
“No! Stop!”
I rush forward, but I don’t make it between them before Tristen’s knuckles connect with the guy's jaw. Crimson sprays from his mouth as he stumbles back and Tristen squares up for another round.
“Tristen.”
Pushing between them with burning eyes and a roll to my stomach, I grab at the blood staining his hands. Hook my arms around his elbows. Anything to get his sight to meet mine.
I regret it when it does.
Brown eyes are bloodshot and dilated. Both brows busted. A sheen of sweat coating his dirt-smeared forehead. A flare to his nostrils and a snarl lifting his lip.
His helmet is missing. So are his gloves.
But it’s not the physical details I pick out that make me regret getting so close.
It’s the look.
How those kind eyes that have watched over me, that have watched his best friend, have turned to something nightmarish. Like he doesn’t even see me.
Like I’m not even here.
“Tristen …” It comes out weak. Quiet. So damn pathetic between the insults the other guy keeps throwing out. “Please don’t.”
He jolts, his eyes darkening, and wraps up my grip.
“Step back, Em.”
I shake my head and swallow hard even though he’s trying to push me aside. “No.”
“He made me wreck Envy,” he says so low that it sends a distressed shiver down my spine.
“I-I-I’ll help you fix her.” I lick my drying lips and hold his grip right back. “Just please stop fighting.”
There’s a moment. A stretch of silence where he stills, his sight trained over my shoulder, his pushing halted. It feels like he’s going to listen. To stand down. That he’ll stop putting himself in harms way.
But then he opens his mouth.
“He talked shit about you.”
I rear back. “Me?”
His eyes flash again. His jaw gritting tight enough to make the muscle jump.
