Page 25 of Dominate

“Don’t do this.”

“Micah—”

“Don’t you dare.”

The doorknob rattles.

He looks at me. Really looks, and I see everything he’s got in him, all of it naked. Terror. Want. The kind of tenderness he hasn’t figured out where to put. His chest heaves. His lips are swollen and red and marked with my blood.

“Stay away from me,” he whispers.

Then he’s moving.

He slips through a side door I hadn’t noticed, a narrow steel panel beside the cabinets, and it swings shut on its hydraulic arm just as the main door opens. A nurse in navy scrubs stops short on the threshold, clipboard in hand. A tech hovers behind her.

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry. I thought this room was empty.”

“He just left,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than it has any right to. “I was just leaving.”

She glances at my face, then the butterfly bandages, then my mouth. Her expression softens. “You should get that lip looked at.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I will.”

I walk out past her, down the corridor, into the noise. My legs move on their own. Behind me, the side door stays shut, and somewhere on the other side of that wall, the man I just kissed runs as fast as he can.

I stop at the bathroom. Push inside. Lock the stall.

Press my back against the cold metal and slide down until I hit the floor.

My lips are swollen. My body aches, every muscle drawn tight, my pulse still slamming in places pulses shouldn’t reach. I press two fingers against my mouth and they come away smeared red.

Not all of it is mine.

Coward, I think, and the word tastes bitter. He looked me dead in the eye and ran. Told me to stay away like I was the one who kissed him.

But anger only gets me so far.

Underneath it, something else stirs. Small at first. Then not small at all. It’s warm and stubborn and dangerously close to hope.

Because Zane Butler kissed me like it meant everything.

And nobody runs that hard from something that means nothing.

8

MICAH

One week since the fight. One week since the kiss. One week of silence from Zane Butler.

I’ve tried everything. Texts that go unread. Calls that go to voicemail. DMs that show as seen but never answered.

Nothing.

Fine. If he wants to pretend it didn’t happen, two can play that game.

Except I can’t play that game. I’ve never been able to pretend. It’s not in my DNA.

The heavy bag swings back at me and I catch it with a grunt, sweat dripping into my eyes. My shoulders are screaming. My knuckles ache even through the wraps. I’ve been at this for two hours and I still feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.