Page 217 of Rogue Riders Duet

I end the call without another word, because I can’t stand the sound of their heartbreak on top of my own.

EIGHT

Alaina cried herself to sleep in my arms.

Her good hand was fisted tight in the fabric of my hoodie, like she was holding onto something that wouldn’t break apart on her, unlike everything else today. And merde, did she cry. Not the soft, silent kind from last time I held her. This was shaking, breathless, throat-wrecking sobs. The kind that punches holes in your chest just from hearing it.

And all for that asshole.

Now I’m sitting on the edge of her bed, elbows on my knees, just watching her breathe. She’s finally still, cheeks blotchy, lashes wet, and I hate the way she curls in on herself like she’s bracing for another blow, even in sleep.

Fucking Greer.

He said he took her virginity in the gondola, like that was a completely normal, totally chill sentence to drop in front of a goddamn audience. Like we were all just going to nod and clap and go “Ooh, romantic.”

And yeah, part of me wanted to deck him myself. It wasn’t the sex part triggering me, although fuck him, but the stupidity. The fact that he was throwing her pain out like confetti, and the way she crumbled like her whole spine gave out the second those words hit the air. She didn’t even make a sound. Just collapsed inward.

And he didn’t even get through all of it before Dane’s fist met his face.

But he showed up. He stood there, eyes locked on Dane, knowing full well what was about to happen and said it anyway—no soft version or sugarcoating.

No bullshit.

He could’ve lied, dodged, or stayed away and saved his nose, but he didn’t. That took balls, and merde, I hate that it counts for something, but it does. I don’t know what the hell it says about him, and I sure as shit don’t know what it says about me—the fact that I can sit here and give him credit in my head, while still fantasizing about knocking his perfect white teeth into the next arrondissement.

I glance at Alaina again, still curled up, and she looks so small.

So fucking petite.

“You deserve better than him,” I whisper.

She deserves the fucking moon, but maybe that idiot finally knows it too.

I’ll never be the one who makes her cry like this. Jamais. I’d rather rip my own heart out than be the reason hers shatters. I’ll be the one who lets her fall apart without needing to pick up the pieces. The one who stays quiet when the sobs come hard.

And that starts here with acknowledging the mess and accepting that there’s a part of her heart that still beats for Greer and maybe always will. I’m still going to be here, standing right beside the pieces, not asking her to choose, just asking to be close enough to matter.

She said she was stupid for him but stupid for me too.

I am so fucking stupid for her.

The kind of stupid that stays up all night just to watch her sleep more easily. That would carry every ounce of her pain if it meant she could breathe free for one goddamn minute.

So yeah, I’ll be here.

Even if someone else is too.

I reach out, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead, when the flash of pink from my hoodie sleeve catches my eye, and just like that, I’m back outside the hospital with Mason, standing there in the cold, my hoodie drowning him.

That look in his eyes still haunts me as well as the texts we sent. The ones I didn’t overthink, even when I should have, because the flirting came as easily as the insults once did, like we were born speaking the same stupid, stubborn language.

It’s always been that way with him.

Gravity and fire.

And putain, if that doesn’t make something click.

Wanting her so much it fucking aches doesn’t erase those complicated feelings for Mason, no matter how much I might wish it would. In the same way that wanting Greer might not mean she doesn’t want me just as much.