Page 6 of Almost Ravaged

The lightest of touches inspires tingles all over my skin, an effervescence more powerful than I’ve ever experienced. He’s leaning forward. Inching closer. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around what will happen if he actually kisses me right now.

“There.”

“Ew. What are they doing?”

“Get ’em.”

My vest vibrates between our bodies when the first hit registers, and I shudder impulsively.

With a scowl, Tytus pulls back. Then he snags my hand and takes off.

Between the intensity of his grasp and his natural speed, I have no choice but to follow.

The vest vibrates again, then again, setting a rapid rhythm, each hit sending a jolt through my body.

“Tytus,” I squeal, lifting one hand to my chest, as if that’ll shield me from the onslaught. “They’re nailing me.”

He growls, and before I can even register what’s happening, our positions are swapped. He’s behind me now, his back to mine.

“Keep running.” He raises his laser and takes aim.

I turn, and for one breath, I let myself admire his wide stance and the broad, tense shoulder muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt. Then I get enough wits about me to actually help, firing a few shots at the kids on the edge of the group.

“Sawyer. Go.”

I pivot on my heel and take off, though I instantly slam a shoulder into a carpeted wall.

With a quiet umph, I steady myself. Once I’ve got my bearings, I make two lefts and dart into the shelter of a small alcove at the back of the arena.

With my hand to my chest, I will my heart rate to settle and take stock.

It’s darker back here, only the glow of one black light illuminating the space. I’m an easy target for anyone who stumbles upon me.

Hiding here is a terrible defensive strategy, but it’s more than ideal if Tytus’s head is where I think it is and he hopes to find me waiting.

My breaths continue to saw in and out of my lungs, but the constricting vest makes it nearly impossible to pull in enough air.

Groaning, I unbuckle the bottom clips, releasing the straps that dig into the soft part of my waist. Relief washes over me immediately, and I pull in the deepest breath I’ve taken all day. Closing my eyes, I focus on slow, steady inhales, even as my pulse continues to race.

When Tytus doesn’t immediately appear, apprehension floods my veins. I shift from hip to hip and roll my neck from side to side, all the while second-guessing my choice to hide here. Should I go back out there and find him? How much longer until the game is over?

I stick my laser gun between my thighs and adjust my bun, slicking back all the loose, frizzy tendrils.

Once that’s done, I still don’t know what to do with my hands. Why didn’t I check the countdown clock before I hid? It feels as though it’s stopped. I resort to cracking my knuckles, a bad habit I picked up way too young and have never been able to break. So young, in fact, that I remember sitting on the hard, cold bleachers at Atty’s first U8 tournament and pressing down on each knuckle until my joints were so stiff I couldn’t make a fist.

Despite knowing I shouldn’t, I’ve just started the process over on my left hand when a whisper snags my attention.

“Rogue?”

My body tenses, aching from the inside out.

“Back here,” I choke out, my heart now taking up residence in my throat.

Then I wait.

Wait, and hold my breath.

Wait, and hope, and wonder. What are we doing? Why does today feel so different?