Page 4 of Wicked Ruin

His eyes cut to Declan, and his jaw tightens. “Take it off her.” The words are cold, almost mean, an order that doesn't allow for debate. Declan curses under his breath, cuts his eyes to me, and stares at the purple band that he seems to have only just noticed on my arm. The door clicks shut, and we’re alone again.

“Oh god. What was that? What's wrong with the purple band?” I ask him. My night of freedom’s not looking promising. I feel like I could cry.

“We're not talking here,” Declan says. “Come with me.” He reaches his hand down to my elbow and moves me through an open doorway.

This room is small and quieter than the club—the bass still pulses through the walls, but it's muffled and distant. There's a lamp and a comfortable sofa. The kind of space that exists in places like this for purposes I probably shouldn't think about. This is where people sign contracts, where they negotiate hard limits. A place where no one interrupts what happens when that door closes, which is exactly what Declan does now. It cinches shut, and he turns to me, holding out his hand. “Your arm.”

I stare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. He is, without qualification or caveat, the most attractive man I have ever seen in my short life on this earth. I, Bridget Kavanagh, who has faced down a bone marrow diagnosis and told the universe to go to hell, would do anything—absolutely anything—this man asked of me. And that thought should alarm me more than it does.

Band. Right. Yes. I hold my arm out to him. I look away because I can't stop it from trembling, and he takes it more gently than I expect.

He holds my arm steady in his left hand and, with his right, slides two warm fingers beneath the band to find where it's clasped. It's a completely practical thing to do. There's no reason for it to feel intimate and sweet and sexy. The lamp in the corner catches him differently in here than the strobing club lights did, and I have to look away.

I turn back quickly because his fingers are warm against the inside of my wrist, and he's looking down at the band with his full attention. I’m suddenly extremely aware that I am in a private room with the door closed, with Declan McCarthy, and I don't entirely hate it. The band comes free, and I want to cry because it means he's going to let me go—which he does, unceremoniously, the next second.

He steps back, and I take in a deep breath. He turns it between his thumb and index finger in a way that feels obscene. Then his eyes flash to mine, and he looks at me with an unreadable expression.

“Why are you here, Bridget?”

“I wanted a night out,” I tell him quietly. “I wanted⁠—”

“No. You could’ve gone to any damn club in Ballyhock. Why are you here?” His eyes move around the room meaningfully, then back to me. “In this club. Tonight. Tell the truth.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Then open it again. I don't know why I tell him the truth. I don't know why it feels impossible to do anything but.

“To lose my virginity,” I say in a rush of words, then immediately wish I hadn’t.

The silence that stretches between us is cavernous. He keeps looking at me but doesn't speak.

“I'm sick,” I tell him, because apparently I'm committed to telling this perfect stranger my entire life story, and there's no going back. “I’m dying, technically, though we're trying not to be dramatic about it. It's not contagious, don't worry.”

I say it the way I’ve learned to. When you use words like terminal and dying, you see the way people’s faces change, and you learn to either phrase things differently or move on quickly.

I look away and blink hard because my eyes are watering and my throat is tight… and I don't like this. “It's not that kind of sick. It’s… bone marrow. Which is—anyway. I'm rambling.” I straighten up and swallow again. “The point is, I don't want to die without—I just wanted one night when I got to be a normal person who does a normal thing.”

“And you came here,” he says slowly, “to lose your virginity.”

I don't know if he's disbelieving or simply shocked. “Well.” I shrug. “It's a sex club, right? What better place?”

He stares at me for a long moment with an expression I can't fully read. Then he tilts his head back and exhales toward the ceiling, still turning that purple band between his fingers.

“I could tell you about a hundred better places off the top of my head without even fucking trying,” he says, lowering his chin to look at me again. “Such as anywhere else.”

He drags a hand through his hair. “I don't know why you look at me like I'm being unreasonable. Literally anywhere—a hotel, your home, the back of a car belonging to a boy your own age.” He shakes his head. “Not here. Not tonight. Not like this.”

My face heats. “You make it sound so… cheap.”

“I'm not making it sound like anything.” His voice has gone lower, and somehow that's worse. He takes a step toward me. My long hair has fallen in my face, my forehead damp. He reaches over and tucks it back, sliding it gently behind my ear. I swallow hard. “I'm just telling you that you deserve someone who would make it memorable. Special. Someone who would take good care of you.”

I shrug. “People have casual sex all the time. It’s not that big a deal.”

His eyes darken. “Oh, really? Fine, then, Trouble.” He steps closer. Did he just call me Trouble, like it’s my name? “Let’s find out the difference between…”

His eyes are locked on mine. My heart is beating too fast.

He kisses me—brief, closed, almost clinical, like he's making a point before he's made it. I gasp and blink, surprised at his nearness, the brush of his lips against mine so quick I half wonder if I imagined it.

“—and this.”