It’s him. Even from this distance, the way he moves is unmistakable—the broad shoulders, the predatory stride, the black hair falling over his forehead.
He freezes at the edge of the road, staring at the stage. Then, he starts running.
I stumble over my next sentence. “We… we expect the… uh, the community center to…”
Devlin doesn’t use the stairs.
He leaps onto the stage in one fluid, terrifying motion, his face a mask of such raw, unbridled fury that the student council president actually shrieks and backs away.
“Why the hell are you covered in wounds?” he growls.
Before I can blink, his hand is a vice around my elbow. He’s dragging me off the stage, away from the shocked gasps of the student body.
“Sorry, there’s an urgent emergency!” I squeak into the mic just as he hauls me behind the heavy canvas of the backstage tent.
“You’ve completely lost your mind!” I exclaim, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
He pins me into the corner of the tent, the fabric muffled against my back. He gives me a gentle shake, his fingers digging into my arms.
“What happened? Speak up right now!” His eyes are glassy, frantic—he looks like a man on the edge of a psychotic break. “You’re covered in fucking wounds from head to toe.”
My anger evaporates instantly. He looks so… broken by the sight of me. I soften, reaching out. “Calm down, Devlin. Relax. I’m absolutely fine! You can see for yourself. They’re just minor scratches. The bandages just make it look worse than it is.”
He doesn’t listen. He scrutinizes every inch of me, his breathing heavy and ragged.
I carefully place my splayed palm on his chest, right over his thudding heart, hoping to ground him. He looks down at my hand, staring at my pale fingers against his dark shirt like I’ve just performed a magic trick.
“Tell me,” he orders.
“Bloody hell, I can’t believe you dragged me off the stage in front of everyone,” I mutter, but his eyes narrow, a growl vibrating in his throat. “All right, all right!”
I explain it. The motion sensor. Monica. The motorcycles. The fire. I downplay the danger, making the jump through the glass sound like a clumsy trip rather than a life-or-death leap. “Monica saved me, really. But we didn’t find Gerald. He must have escaped. I’m going to look for him as soon as I’m done here.”
Devlin’s breathing hitches. He looks like he’s about to explode.
“Devlin, come on. You just got back,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Maybe I’ll make you some tea in my room? It’s quiet there.”
“Tea,” he repeats, the word sounding like a profanity in his mouth.
“Well, yeah… tea. I’m not allowed to have a coffee maker, which is stupid because the twins on the third floor smoke weed all day and nobody says a word—”
He squeezes my shoulders again, a sharp sound of distress leaving his throat.
I squeak in surprise, and he recoils immediately, his face ashen. He thinks he hurt me.
“I’m not in pain!” I start to say, but he cuts me off with a roar.
“I left you for two days!” he shouts, the sound echoing through the tent. “I assigned a wrestler—a fucking wrestler—to watch you every evening! And you manage to get caught in a fire and a biker attack in the middle of the night? You jumped into a pile of rubble and didn’t write a single word to me?”
I gap at him. “The wrestler? Well then… He didn’t tell you anything? He didn’t notice I’ve been covered in bandages since yesterday?”
Devlin’s eyes turn into black slits. “No, he didn’t. How lovely that I come back to find you on stage looking like you’ve been through a meat grinder!”
“Quiet! Everyone can hear you!” I stroke his hands, trying to soothe the tremors I can feel under his skin. “I’m not beaten up. I’m fine.”
“You’re going to stay at home,” he says, his voice turning into cold, hard steel. “For a very, very long time. Until the last scratch has healed. No more heroic deeds. Ever.”
“No, I won’t!” I bristle, my own temper finally flaring. I bare my teeth at him, then reach up, grab him by the hair, and pull his head down.
