Page 146 of The Devil of Downtown

His finger traces my cheek.

“Can I kiss you, baby?” he murmurs. “I’ll be gentle.”

I nod, barely more than a breath, and he’s already there—his mouth brushing mine as if he can’t quite help himself. It’s like a first kiss, slow and careful, testing me out, seeing how much he can take.

I shift toward him on instinct, and he feels it, his hand tightening at my waist to steady me. A low moan slips out—part pleasure, part pain—and he catches it instantly.

“Too much?”

“No,” I whisper, even as my breath shakes and I grit my teeth.

“So stubborn,” he says, his fingers brushing my lips.

“We need to take it slow. I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Not now. Not ever.”

I close my eyes, his hand still warm against my cheek, and for the first time since the crash, my body believes it.

3 Weeks Later

The rain is so loud that it drowns out everything else.

I’m in the back seat, hands braced against the front seat, the road slick and shining under the headlights. The wipers can’t keep up. Water streaks the glass faster than they can clear it.

Brody is driving.

“Slow down,” I say. My voice sounds strange in my own ears—thin, swallowed by the storm. “Brody, please.”

The car fishtails. My hand claws at the seat in front of me.

“Stop,” I say, louder now. “Just stop the car.”

He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are rigid, his grip locked on the wheel. Then, slowly, he looks at me in the rearview mirror.

But it isn’t Brody anymore.

It’s Dane.

The same green eyes. The same mouth. The same expression I’ve learned to read too well.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The headlights flare white. The world lurches—

I wake with a gasp, my body slick with sweat, my heart hammering hard enough to hurt.

For a second, I don’t know where I am. My chest burns with panic; the echo of the crash is still ringing in my ears.

Then I hear him.

Dane is asleep beside me, breathing slow and evenly. I reach for him without thinking, my hand pressing flat against his chest, right over his heart. I wait for the thump beneath my palm, solid and sure.

There.

Only then does my own breath begin to settle.

Outside, thunder rolls low and distant. Rain lashes the windows. Storms still do this to me—set my nerves on edge before anything even happens. The night Brody died, the sky had sounded like this, too.

I ease out of bed carefully, padding barefoot down the hall. The house is quiet, wrapped in darkness and howling wind. I fill a glass at the sink and carry it into the living room, stopping in front of the towering window that looks out over the lake.