“One night.” Lola’s gaze flicks over my face, catches, then slides to Beckett. She hooks two fingers into his sleeve and jerks her head toward the house. “C’mon.”
Gage’s fingers wrap around mine, warm and certain, tugging me forward. The porch steps creak. Cruz’s footsteps follow, his breathing a little uneven behind us as we move through the dim hallway.
Gage pushes the bathroom door open with his shoulder.
The lights flicker on with a clinical buzz. White tile gleams under fluorescents that hide nothing. In the wall-length mirror, three ghosts stare back. My reflection stands center, skin pale beneath a layer of desert dust, crimson streaking from templeto ear. Next to me, Gage’s left eye disappears into purple-black swelling, a streak of dried blood mapping a rust-colored path down his cheek. Cruz appears on my left, the split in his cheekbone glistening wet, his bottom lip cracked and weeping.
Our eyes meet in the glass. Nobody speaks.
Cruz opens the cabinet with a practiced motion, grabs a white plastic kit with a red cross emblazoned on the front. The kit lands on the counter with a hollow thud. Cruz moves to the other sink, twists the knob. Water rushes against porcelain. Cabinet doors click shut. The air shifts, fills with sharp antiseptic that cuts through the copper tang of blood as steam begins to curl upward from the tap.
I press my palm against the cool marble counter and reach for the cloth with my other hand. Fire shoots from fingertips to shoulder blade. My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek.
Gage’s eyes find mine in the mirror.
Cruz’s gaze flicks over, then away.
“How do you think Coco’s taking the news?” I drag the wet cloth across my temple, leaving behind a trail of pink water that races toward the drain. My pulse hammers against the thin skin of my throat, each beat echoing through the damaged joint until my fingers tremble against the cloth.
“Not well.” Gage presses a towel to his face.
Cruz holds gauze to the gash on his cheekbone and murmurs, “As expected.”
I nod, my eyes dropping to the sink. The water runs. Nobody speaks. The tap drips once, twice.
The mirror flashes with movement—a new reflection behind us.
Rafe.
His shoulders fill the doorframe, blocking the hallway light. His shadow stretches across the tile floor, touching the edge of my boot. The fluorescents catch the angles of his face,hollowing his cheeks, darkening his eyes as they move from the blood-streaked washcloth to Gage’s swollen eye to Cruz’s split cheekbone.
When his gaze lands on me, I lift my arm to wipe at my temple again. My shoulder seizes. A hiss escapes through my teeth before I can trap it.
“Stop.”
The single word vibrates low in the small space. My fingers freeze mid-air.
In three steps, his hand closes around mine, calluses rough against my knuckles as he takes the cloth and sets it on the marble. His other hand brushes my hair back, fingertips grazing my scalp, leaving a trail of heat.
“Hop up.”
I press one palm against the cold counter and push myself up between the sinks, biting the inside of my cheek against the throb in my shoulder. The marble chills my thighs through my jeans.
“You should’ve asked for help,” he murmurs as he steps forward.
My knees part automatically. “I can do it myself. And we’re all hurt.”
He tsks as he slides between my legs, close enough that his belt buckle presses against the inside seam of my jeans. His breath warms my forehead. He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t acknowledge how perfectly he fits there.
He just reaches for the cloth again, wets it, and turns my face slightly toward the light.
The bathroom shrinks to just the space between us.
His fingers brush my temple, tucking strands behind my ear as he works the cloth over crusted blood. Each swipe is precise. Efficient. No gentle murmurs of “this might hurt” or “almost done.” Just the steady pressure of fingertips against my scalp.
My heartbeat drums against my ribs as the image flashes behind my eyes—Rafe standing in twisted metal, gun steady in both hands, jaw locked, eyes scanning for threats. The memory shouldn’t send heat spiraling low in my stomach, not with Gage three feet away dabbing at his own wounds. Not with the weight of what just happened still hanging over us. Yet here I am, caught between brothers, my body betraying every rational thought.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles whiten, focusing on the cool marble instead of the warmth radiating from where he stands between my knees.
