His thumb brushed once over my knuckles.
“Trust me,” he said quietly. “I do understand.”
I looked at him then.
Really looked.
There was something behind his eyes I had seen before, but never close enough to name. A locked door. A boarded-up house. A grave nobody visited because visiting made it real.
“I’ve been selfish,” I whispered. “You’ve already given up so much for me. I’ve made you an accessory to my crimes.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes didn’t.
“The wrong crime is what I do,” he said. “Not the life I would’ve chosen, but it’s the one I ended up in. We all have a story, Beautiful.”
I held my breath.
He leaned closer, his voice barely above the sound of the machines near my bed.
“I just haven’t told you mine yet. Maybe someday I will.”
Maybe someday.
It sounded like a promise.
It sounded like a goodbye.
I hated both.
“Please,” I said.
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he cursed under his breath and looked toward the ceiling like he was asking every saint and sinner in New Mexico why they had put him in this room with me.
“All right,” he said.
My heart jumped.
“But we do this my way.”
“Your way sounds bossy.”
“My way keeps Edge from burying me under a cactus.” Dylan straightened. “Tell them you need sleep before they ship you out at dawn. No drama. No sudden strength. No heroic speeches. You are pale, wounded, emotionally fragile, and very convincing when you shut up.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s the murder face.”
“I can still throw something at you.”
“You can barely lift your arm.”
“I’ll use my rage.”
“That might work.” He checked his watch. “I’ll come for you at ten-thirty. Nate can convince Regan and the others that everyone needs to sleep before they do something crazy and go off the handle. He’s good at making common sense sound like his idea.”
“What about the bed?”
