“I know,” I said.
And I did.
I knew he was right.
I knew I was seventeen. I knew I was broken open and raw. I knew I was leaving by dawn, maybe leaving the country, maybeleaving this entire bloody chapter of my life behind before anyone could ask me what really happened.
I knew Dylan had his own ghosts and maybe he’d become a part of mine. The first man who gave me a taste of real passion. That elusive alive feeling that made me feel free and chasing the stars across the desert sky.
Dylan let go of my wrists slowly.
“We need to go,” he said.
I nodded, but I didn’t move right away.
Dylan walked beside me back to the horse close enough that his arm brushed mine, far enough that he was keeping the promise I didn’t have the strength to keep for both of us.
“I’m not tired,” I whispered.
His quiet laugh disappeared into the night.
By the time the ranch lights appeared through the trees, my body was shaking with exhaustion.
Dylan felt it.
“You’re about to collapse,” he murmured.
“I made it.”
“You did.”
There was pride in his voice.
Soft.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
We slipped back inside the way we had left. The house was still quiet. The fake body from pillows still lay under the blankets, undisturbed. The sheets were cool.
My bones ached.
My mouth still remembered his.
Dylan pulled the blanket up around me and tucked it beneath my chin like he had any right to be tender.
At the door, he paused.
“Get some sleep,” he said.
“Dylan?”
He looked back.
“Thank you.”
For a second, the mask slipped.
