Page 60 of Blades Out
He didn't look back. Not once.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Pulse roaring in my ears. Skin still tingling where his fingers had been—temple, cheek, the ghost of contact I could still feel even though he was gone.
What just happened?
I didn't know. Couldn't process it. Couldn't make sense of the way my entire body felt electrified and hollow at the same time.
He'd touched me like I mattered. Then run like he regretted it.
I exhaled shakily and yanked the car door open. Slid inside. Locked it immediately—muscle memory, survival instinct. Gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared at the empty parking lot through the windshield.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
The unknown number flashed across the screen.
I didn't open it. Couldn't. Because right now, sitting in my beat-up Honda with the phantom warmth of Rhys's touch still branded on my skin, I wanted to hold onto this feeling just a little longer.
The feeling that maybe—just maybe—I wasn't completely alone.
Even if it was a lie. Even if he never touched me again. Even if tomorrow he went back to being the cold, distant assistant coach who barely looked at me.
Right now, in this moment, someone had touched me like I was worth something.
And I was going to let myself believe it. Just for tonight.
I started the car. The engine coughed twice before catching. I pulled out of the parking lot slowly, checking my mirrors obsessively, scanning shadows for movement that wasn't there.
The arena disappeared behind me.
But the memory of his fingertips against my skin?
That followed me all the way home.
Chapter 12
Rhys
I power-walked across the parking lot like something was chasing me.
Jaw clenched so hard my molars ached. Hands shoved deep in my pockets because if I didn't lock them down, I'd turn around. Go back. Touch her again.
And I couldn't do that.
Stupid.
The word pounded through my skull with every step.
Stupid, reckless, selfish.
I could still feel her. The softness of her skin beneath my fingertips. The warmth of her temple where that strand of hair had caught. The way her breath had hitched when I'd reached for her—sharp and surprised and something else I refused to name.
I'd crossed a line. Knew it the second my hand lifted. Knew it when my fingers grazed her cheek. Knew it in the electric charge that shot through my chest when our eyes locked and she didn't pull away.
I'd done it, anyway.
My chest tightened. Panic I didn't want to acknowledge, clawing its way up my throat. Not the sharp, immediate kind that came with danger. The slow, suffocating kind that came with wanting something I had no right to want.
She was too young. Not legally—she was an adult, I knew that. But in every way that mattered, she was too young for the kind of damage I carried. Too fragile for the wreckage I'd make of anything good.
