Regan made a wounded sound.
Edge’s jaw flexed.
I closed my eyes.
“My father’s going to kill somebody,” I whispered. “He’s going to kill them all.”
“No.” Dylan’s voice stayed low. “Your father has a good head on his shoulders.”
A cracked laugh pushed out of me. “Have you met him?”
“Yeah. I have.”
Edge made a sound that might have been offense or agreement.
Dylan ignored it. “And he’s got people around him making sure rage doesn’t drive the bike. There’s a plan. You just need to rest and get well enough to play your part in it.”
I opened my eyes.
“What part?”
Something changed in his face.
Just for a second.
Humor, maybe. Or mercy.
“Graduation trip in Mexico.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Bikinis. Beach photos. Sun poisoning if we need realism.”
Regan let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh.
I stared at him.
Then, because apparently my brain was still floating somewhere above the desert in a cloud of tequila, smoke, and bad choices, I said, “I’ve always wanted to try a piña colada.”
No one spoke.
I added, “Not the virgin kind.”
Dylan’s eyes flashed.
Just once.
Barely.
But I saw it.
Or thought I did.
His face tightened around the word virgin like it had hit somewhere he did not want anything hitting. His gaze stayed on my face, careful and controlled, but the air shifted. Warmed. Snapped taut.
My heart gave one stupid, wounded flutter.
