Page 59 of Top Shelf

I hear him scoff. “The human wrecking ball?”

I cross my arms. “It seems like he hates you.”

“Can’t say. We’ve never had an issue before. Not until you showed up.”

My stomach knots. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He laughs. The sound has a sharp edge I’m unused to hearing from him. “Pretty sure it means the brawler has a crush on you. And that little scene today…was because he was jealous.”

I fall silent, mulling over his words. It would explain why Lucian barged into the supply room, looking like a starved bear, and demanded to know what I was laughing about with Evans.

I mean, Lucian already admitted that he warned Evans away from me. Something Evans had already told me, but I thought perhaps he was lying or being dramatic, but I guess not. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, though. I mean, Lucian even had theaudacityto say I was his.

I’ve seen the fire underneath all that fear, and I’ve already decided. You’re mine.

Appearing fully dressed from behind the lockers, Evans stalks toward me, his duffel slung over his shoulder. He’s already sporting a cocky smirk and arrogant swagger as he approaches.

I push off the door, stepping slightly to the side.

“Don’t worry, Winslow. I’m up for a little competition.” He pauses at my side, winking. “May the best man win.”

Then, he’s gone.

I stand in the silence that follows, the scent of pine and menthol hanging heavily in the air.

Isaac Evans is funny. Confident. Nice, even, but he doesn’t set my nerves on fire. He doesn’t make me forget my name. Doesn’t make my world tilt the way it does when Lucian’s too close, or when Silas is looking at me like I’m something untouchable, or Ronan says my name like a curse and a confession wrapped into one.

I don’tfeelwith Isaac.

But with them?

It’s heat and danger and gravity all rolled into one. It’s the ache of remembering things I don’t want to remember—and the terror of wondering if I got it all wrong.

Lucian’s tongue in my mouth.

Silas’s cold palm on my cheek.

Ronan’s words echoing in the dark.

They’re not just boys. They’re the storm I’ve spent years trying to outpace.

And I’m tired.

I’m so, so tired.

Of running.

Of not knowing.

Of not trusting myself.

But most of all, I’m tired of pretending none of this is happening. That I can keep ignoring the pull. That I don’t already feel like I’m caught in something I can’t walk away from.

So maybe I won’t run tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll show up.

Even if it scares the hell out of me.