Chapter One
Shane
Iadjust my tie in the hallway mirror, but the silk knot feels less like formal wear and more like a choking hazard.
The estate is already loud. The air smells of expensive lilies and the overly sweet pastries my mother insists on ordering from the city. Underneath it all, I feel the hum of a headache building behind my eyes.
I check my watch.
Twelve seconds past eleven.
My girlfriend, Emily, will be here in twenty minutes, expecting me to be the perfect, attentive partner to boost her follower count. I should be dreading the performance. Instead, my pulse is hammering against my collar because I know someone else is walking up the front steps right now.
I shouldn’t care or even notice that she’s late but I do.
Dove. My sister’s best friend. The title is a shield I’ve been hiding behind for years, a flimsy excuse to keep my hands in mypockets and my distance respectable. But that label is wearing thin.
I close my eyes for a second, and I’m not in the foyer anymore. I’m back in the dive bar on Capitol Avenue a year and a half ago. It was my sister Cordia’s twenty-fourth birthday, and some drunk frat boy had gotten too handsy with Dove near the pool table. I didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Honestly, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to. So, I did the only thing I could. I moved.
I didn’t just hit him. I destroyed him. I remember the crunch of bone, the way his head snapped back, and the terrifying fact that I couldn’t stop. If the bouncers hadn’t pulled me off of him, I might have killed him. And the worst part? It felt good. That’s why I’m dangerous. There was no fear in Dove’s eyes, but I felt danger in my soul.
Any other woman would have been terrified of the violence, of the blood on my knuckles. But not her. She stepped right between us, placing her soft, small hands on my chest, right over my heart. She didn’t even glance at the guy on the floor; she stared directly at me.
I felt like her hero. Her protector.
“Shane,”she whispered, her eyes wide and impossibly hazel.“Come back. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
She wasn’t worried about herself. She was worried aboutme. She cleaned my cut knuckles in the bathroom sink later, humming softly, treating me like a wounded animal instead of a monster. As the blood washed down the sink, I realized I had no control over myself. That was the night I realized I was in trouble. That was the night I realized Dove Mercer wasn’t just sweet, she was the kind of light that makes shadows look darker by comparison. A woman who cleans the blood off the man who punched someone several times right in front of her.
I pulled away then. I started dating Emily two months later, after Dove tried to kiss me on New Year’s Eve. Not because Ilove Emily, but as a mask. As a calculated move to put distance between myself and the one woman I knew would ruin me. Or more likely, I would ruin her. And then once that’s over, my sisters will hate me. Dove is friends with both of them.
Emily is safe. Emily speaks the language of status and surface-level engagement. She doesn’t look at my hands and wonder if they hurt. Instead, she studies my watch and wonders what it cost.
It’s better this way. I’m too jagged for someone like Dove. She needs a nice guy. A teacher. Someone who buys her flowers on Tuesdays, not someone who wants to burn the world down because another man looked at her too long.
The doorbell rings. The sound vibrates through the floor, straight up my spine.
“I’ll get it!” I shout, my voice rougher than intended.
My younger brother, Theo, yells back, from the kitchen, “Sure thing, bro.”
He’s probably already eating the pie. Once, when he was six and I was sixteen, I caught him scooping out the middle of one with a fork, and covering up the empty spots with whipped cream.
In three long strides, I cross the foyer. My hand grips the cold brass handle. Before I open the door, I take a breath, ordering my heart to slow down. Be normal. Be anything other than the mess I become whenever she’s near.
I pull the door open.
The breath I took never leaves my lungs. It seems as entranced by her as I am, bathing in her proximity.
Dove stands in the sharp April sunlight, turning the gold in her soft brown hair into a haloed vision that hurts. She’s wearing a dress—something pastel and soft that clings to her waist and flares at her hips, leaving her arms bare to the breeze.
She looks like spring. Like innocence. Most importantly, like everything I’m not allowed to touch.
My eyes sweep over her, unauthorized and hungry, tracing the line of her throat down to where the fabric dips just enough to taunt me.
“Hi, Shane.” Her voice is a melody, soft and warm.
“Dove.” It comes out as a groan, low and ragged. I clear my throat, forcing my hands into my pockets so I don’t reach for her. “You’re late.”
