Page 88 of Dallas Rivals

“Give me a second,” I say when I finish breathing, although inside I’m counting the plants in my field.

She nods patiently with her warm eyes. I feel like an idiot for stopping this; I’m burning for her, but I can’t. Because of him, my chances of having a normal life were completely ruined.

Oliver, you’re broken.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she whispers, her hands sliding over my thighs.

I cup her face, my chest tight, fury burning low in my blood.

“You have no idea how much I want this,” I growl, unable to hide the anger at myself for ruining it.

She tilts her face against my palm, letting me trace her cheek.

It’s the softest thing she’s ever done.

And somehow, that image punches straight through every wall I’ve built.

My mouth opens—words clawing their way up—but it’s like a snake coils around my throat and squeezes until I’m silent again.

“Maybe it would help if you talked about it, Oli.”

Oli.

Only Killian calls me that.

But when she says it… it feels different.

I shake my head, though every part of me is screaming to let it out, to open my chest and hand her everything inside.

“I can’t,” I say, pressing my palms over my eyes.

Her voice lowers, gentle and patient. “My grandma used to tell me that if I didn’t say what was eating me alive, one day it would eat me whole.” She pauses, her gaze unwavering. “The day I was finally ready, she sat behind me and just… waited.”

Lowering my hands from my face, I risk a glance at her—the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, kneeling quietly in front of me. My voice is barely a whisper. “What did you tell her?”

“I was dating a guy from school back then,” she begins, her voice steady but soft. “Adam. I really liked him. He was my first big love. One day I caught him with my best friend—wrapped around each other in the bathroom. I felt humiliated, hurt. I never told anyone what I saw. Just… kept going, pretending everything was fine. But my grandma, she could see right through me. I stopped visiting her. I lost weight because I couldn’t keep food down.”

The pain that threads through her words makes something twist in my gut.

“When I finally told her,” she continues, her eyes distant, “it was like the world lifted off my shoulders. I know it’s not the same as what you’ve lived through, but⁠—”

“You had your heart broken,” I interrupt quietly. “My pain doesn’t cancel yours.”

Cala turns around, resting her arms across my thighs, her bare back facing me.

Funny how much easier it is to speak when the other person isn’t looking you in the eye.

The work gets lighter.

And the snake loosens its grip.

Thirteen years earlier.

There were two ways to look at the situation—one good, one bad.

The good news was that I wasn’t being dramatic.

After a full week of feeling like my body had been run over by a truck and then politely backed over again just to be sure, the test results finally came back. Turns out I really was sick. Which was satisfying, because my parents had been convinced I was throwing a tantrum about their upcoming trip to the Maldives.