He gave the smallest, almost bitter smile.
“Prettier than all the girls in Hollywood. Just like this. Bloodied lip, wild hair, brush tangled in it, looking like you fought the whole desert and made it apologize.”
That was stupid.
Ridiculous.
Impossible.
I had never been spoken to like that.
Not by boys at school, who looked at me like a dare or a dirty joke. Not by club men, who treated me like a niece, a daughter, a protected thing. Not by anyone who knew what my face carried.
Beautiful.
Not despite the wreckage.
Inside it.
My eyes burned.
“I’ve never felt like this,” I whispered.
His hand stilled in my hair.
Then he chuckled softly. “What? Drugged up and in pain?”
I stared up at him.
“You know what I’m saying.”
His amusement faded.
The morning seemed to hold its breath around us.
Hooves kept moving. Regan and Nate were ahead now by several yards, giving us privacy or pretending to. Probably both.
Dylan’s arm stayed firm around me.
Too firm.
Not firm enough.
“You can’t say any of it,” he said.
My throat tightened.
“You can’t, Destiny.”
“Why?”
His laugh was humorless. “Because you’re seventeen. Injured. Half drugged. A possible felon. Unpatched and off-limits in every direction a woman can be off-limits.”
“I’m not a woman?”
His eyes dropped to mine.
“That is not what I said.”
