Oh.
Oh no.
No, no, absolutely not.
I was lying in bed with an IV in my arm, a burned hand, a possibly concussed skull, and criminal charges circling me like vultures. I was not noticing the way Dylan Degan’s mouth pressed into a line when he was trying not to feel something. I was not feeling anything back.
I was still drugged.
Obviously.
This was drugs.
And trauma.
And maybe brain swelling.
“I meant because I’m almost eighteen,” I muttered, horrified.
Nate laughed somewhere outside the room.
Dylan closed his eyes.
Regan made a strangled sound.
Edge stood.
“Out.”
Dylan’s eyes opened.
I panicked before I could stop myself.
“No.”
Every adult in the room froze.
Fantastic.
Perfect.
Could this night get more humiliating?
Probably. I had set several vehicles on fire and crashed my father’s motorcycle. Apparently, I was committed to the full experience.
“I mean…” My throat worked. “I just…”
I couldn’t explain it.
Not without sounding worse.
I didn’t want Dylan to leave because when he was in the room, the dark didn’t feel as close. Because he had heard some of my ugliest words in the desert and hadn’t handed them over like evidence. Because he told the truth in a way that didn’t feel like punishment.
Because once, three years ago, he had bled on the clubhouse floor and still looked away when he realized I was too young for his eyes to linger.
And now he was here.
Looking.
