I looked at Dylan.
At the man who had once bled in our clubhouse and dropped his gaze because I was too young. At the man who had found me bleeding in the brush and carried me home. At the man who hadnot repeated the things I said when I was too drugged to guard myself.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Edge closed his eyes.
Opened them.
Then gave one short nod.
Dylan mounted first. Easy. Smooth. Like the horse had been expecting him. Then hands lifted me. Edge’s hands. Regan’s. Tarak’s maybe. A whole lifetime of protection holding me up and letting me go at the same time.
Pain burst white behind my eyes when they settled me sideways in front of Dylan.
I hissed.
Dylan’s arm came around me immediately, firm across my middle but careful of my ribs.
“Easy,” he murmured near my ear. “Breathe through it.”
His chest was warm at my back.
Too warm.
Too solid.
Not family.
That was my first clear thought.
This was not Edge’s arm, or Tarak’s, or Cal’s, or any safe uncle-shaped protection that had been wrapped around me since I came to Santa Fe.
This was a man.
A dangerous man.
A San Diego Royal Bastard with quiet hands and dark eyes and the kind of restraint that made my body notice things it had no business noticing while bruised, bandaged, and still seventeen for one more week.
I was going to blame the drugs forever.
Regan mounted beside us with Nate helping her, though she glared at him when he tried to fuss. Nate swung onto anotherhorse with the IV bag rigged awkwardly but high enough that Doc stopped swearing under his breath.
Edge came to my side.
The horse shifted, and Dylan’s arm tightened slightly to keep me steady.
Edge saw.
Of course he did.
He reached up and touched my cheek.
Just once.
“Come back to me,” he said.
My throat closed.
