Neither of us speaks as the tension hums between us, electric and unbearable. I stare straight ahead, heart pounding, mind racing, because everything just changed, and I have no idea what comes next.
11
OLLIE
The car doorshuts with a soft, expensive thump, and for a second, the world is only the hush of leather seats and my own pulse trying to crawl out of my throat.
Vinny slides behind the wheel again and checks the mirrors with that same expression he wore while pinning a screaming woman’s wrists to her own body. Calm. Contained. Efficient.
Rafe sits beside me in the back, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin space between our knees. He hasn’t let go of me since the holding room. Not physically. Not even now, though his hand isn’t on me anymore. The grip is in his posture. In the angle of his shoulders. In the way he keeps glancing at me like he’s waiting for something.
For me to snap.
For me to fold.
For me to wake up and remember how terrified I’m supposed to be.
My face still feels sticky where the drink dried, and my shirt collar smells faintly like alcohol and citrus and someone else’s delusion. The memory of the blade flashing in the air keeps replaying—sharp as a camera flash, bright enough to burn.
And then there’s the kiss. The kiss is its own kind of burn. A different kind of weapon. A different kind of risk.
Rafe’s jaw works once, like he’s biting down on words. He looks out the window, then back at me, then away again.
“What?” I ask, because my brain won’t stop filling silence with panic.
He blinks. “Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile and not quite. “I’m… checking.”
“Checking what?”
“If you’re going to start breathing into a paper bag,” he says flatly, and there’s no humor in it. “Because you look like you’re about to.”
I huff a breath that should be a laugh but comes out shaky. “I’m not.”
Rafe’s eyes narrow. “You should be.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But I’m not.”
He studies me like that’s the strangest thing I’ve ever said.
Vinny clears his throat. “We’re five out.”
Rafe leans forward slightly. “Any sign of media?”
“Not yet,” Vinny says. “Crowd outside was hungry, but it always is. Venue security is scrubbing phones where they can. Your people are on it.”
“My people,” Rafe repeats under his breath like the phrase tastes wrong. Like he hates that this is normal.
I swallow hard. “My agent’s going to have a stroke.”
Rafe’s gaze snaps to me. “You need to call him.”
“Yeah.”
“Tonight.”