My throat tightens unexpectedly.
I glance down at my drink quickly before anyone notices.
But of course, Daltyn notices.
His eyes narrow slightly. Concern flickers across his face. That same protective look he always gets when he thinks something’s wrong.
And suddenly I realize something terrifying.
I’m starting to feel safe here. Safe with him. Safe with all of them.
Which means leaving might hurt a whole lot more than I originally thought.
22
PEYTON
“I’m fine,” I mutter for the tenth time while Daltyn drives us toward the clinic.
“You limped into the kitchen this morning.”
“It was a little stiff. It’s working itself out now.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
He snorts softly before glancing toward my boot-covered foot. “Your death heels almost took you out.”
I gasp dramatically. “Don’t insult the shoes.”
“They look like tiny weapons.”
“They’re beautiful, tiny weapons.”
“They nearly snapped your ankle in half.”
“They did not. It just bent in a way it doesn’t normally bend.”
His lips twitch slightly.
Victory.
My stomach twists nervously as he pulls into the clinic parking lot. Doctors make me anxious. Bills make it worse. The combination is basically my personal nightmare.
Daltyn notices. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
His blue eyes narrow. “You say ‘fine’ the same way Connor says ‘I have a plan.’”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
Despite myself, I laugh softly. But the nerves stay.
Daltyn parks, then reaches across the console and gently squeezes my hand. The touch catches me completely off guard.
