Page 38 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Alaina

The gym door clicks shut behind Finn, and I stand there, staring at the space he left behind like it might open back up and give me a do-over.

Another sob claws up my throat before I can stop it, but I choke it down. Barely.

What the fuck did I just do?

The air still smells like him. Sweat, soap, and something warm and syrupy that feels like safety, which is bullshit, because nothing about this feels safe.

My whole body feels peeled open, nerves flayed raw, the ghost of his hands still skating over every inch of skin I usually keep hidden, and his voice still reverberates in my head.

“ Show me the truth of it.”

And I let him. I fucking let him see everything.

The scars. The damage. The wreckage.

I didn’t just let him see it, I guided his hand. Invited him in like I wanted to be known, and I could afford that kind of closeness.

Stupid. So fucking stupid, Alaina .

I look up, meet my reflection in the mirror, and flinch. I look exposed . Raw. My clothes are a mess, my face is blotchy, and my skin that is usually so carefully covered is revealed.

I rush to grab the hoodie and yank it over my head so fast I nearly trip, but it’s no good. The fabric doesn’t erase his fingerprints, and it doesn’t scrub away the way his voice shook when he said baby girl like he meant it.

And then he looked at me like I was a goddamn mistake.

I slam my hands into the mirror, palms flat, forehead pressed between them, like maybe if I press hard enough, I can shatter the reflection and crawl out of this moment.

The mirror vibrates so hard, my phone slips off the bench beside me and clatters to the floor, the screen lighting up like a spotlight, and that damn song is still playing on repeat.

I can’t stop shaking. My breath is ragged, and my chest hitches like my body can’t decide if I’m about to cry or scream. Maybe both.

He saw me, really saw me.

And then he ran.

My ribs ache with the memory of his fingers ghosting over them, so I pull the hoodie down to my knees, but it’s no good. The ghost of Finn’s fingers remains, trailing along my ribs, hips, and just under the band of my bra. It burns.

Drowning in the aftermath, I just stand there, trying to remember how to function.

Then my phone buzzes at my feet, vibrating against the floor, and I flinch as I remember the fight with Dane, the reason why I was in here crying my eyes out in the first place.

My hands are still unsteady as I crouch down and grab it, shutting off the music before reading the newest text from my brother.

Dane

Al, please tell me you’re okay.

My throat tightens as my fingers move on instinct, typing out the only thing I can offer.

I’m fine.

It isn’t a lie, but it’s not the truth either. It’s only the best I can offer him that isn’t silence. Before I can even put the phone down, it rings. Of course.

I stare at the screen, Dane’s name filling me with dread. My thumb hovers, but I can’t. I can’t face this right now, can’t deal with whatever mix of worry, panic, and guilt is waiting on the other end of the line.

Hitting the side button, I shut it up and shove the phone deep into my hoodie’s front pocket. Then I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, and wrap my arms around my knees, trying to fold in on myself, trying to make the shaking stop.

Even that simple movement hurts in this body.

Everything is more fucked now than it was ten minutes ago, and it was already a mess then.

Why did I pull him in, kiss him like it could’ve meant something, when I know otherwise?

I should regret it. I know it’s a mistake for both of us, but when I identify everything I do feel, the regret isn’t there.

If the only kiss I ever get in this lifetime is that one, I’ll take it.

I always wanted Finn Greer to be my first kiss.

And never in my wildest dreams did I expect him to kiss me back like that, like he wanted me too.

He kissed me like it was our last day on Earth, and that irony has my head falling to my knees as fresh tears pour out of me. They’re the kind that taste like hope, regret, and every fucked-up almost in between.

For just a second, I thought…

… I felt…

Like I was worth saving.

I turn my head and press my cheek against the top of my knees. Breaths hiccup in and out of me, trying to find the rhythm again, only pausing when I hear the door creak open.

Footsteps approach, but my watery eyes are too blurry for me to make out who it is until the figure is right in front of me, and his knees drop to the floor, so close I could reach out and touch him.

Luc-fucking-Delacroix.

His hands are on me instantly, one bracing my shoulder while the other cradles my head, turning and pulling my face to meet his frantic gaze.

“ Petit. ” He breathes out, his voice laced with something I can’t name. “What did he do?”

His blue eyes search mine intently, trying to read the whole fucking story that’s written across my face.

He’s too close for comfort right now, and I shove his face back with my palm, pushing him off me as I scramble to my feet.

Luc stands just as fast, towering over me and looking like he can’t decide whether he wants to punch someone or burn the room down.

“Noth…” I start, but he turns his glare on me and interrupts me before I finish the word.

“ Don’t . Don’t deny it. This sure as fuck doesn’t look like nothing.”

There’s venom in his tone, but I don’t know if it’s meant for me or the world in general. I’m too tired to sort it out, and I doubt Finn told him anything if they ran into each other.

“I can’t deal with your shit right now, Delacroix,” I murmur in my deep voice as I step to the left to move past him, but he moves, too, easily blocking the way with one long-legged step.

I pivot to the right, but he lifts his arm, bracing his palm against the wall so his forearm becomes a barrier, trapping me.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I snap.

“Better than you?” he says without missing a beat, raising a cocky eyebrow. “ Non. ”

I glare up at him. “What are you even doing here?”

He doesn’t relent even an inch. “Just came back from the club. Doesn’t matter.” His eyes continue searching mine, and his expression softens slightly. “What’s going on?”

I shrug. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

“You’re wasting your time,” I mutter, brushing my face with the back of my sleeve, trying to erase the evidence.

He breathes out slowly, his eyes softening even more. “Then let’s waste it right.”

I brace myself instinctively, body rigid, but his hands are gentle as he pulls me forward until I fall into him and the hug he is offering.

His arms wrap around me like it’s nothing, and he’s done it a hundred times before.

But he hasn’t.

No one has. Not like this.

I don’t know what to do for so many reasons because if I lean in and accept it fully, he might feel my chest and figure me out. If I accept it emotionally, I might start sobbing again.

So, I just keep my hands awkwardly between us, palms pressed flat against the front of his hoodie, and focus on nothing but his rapid heartbeat.

His breath brushes the top of my head before he rests his chin there like he’s gearing up to stay here for a good long while.

“Breathe, Petit .”

I want to tell him to fuck off, to release me, to stop acting like he cares, but he’s so warm, and he smells like lavender oil.

And I’m just hurting inside and out and so fucking tired.

So, I lean in, just for a second.

Luc squeezes me and hums in approval before he shifts, bending down just enough to get his arm under my knees, the other still behind my back, and then lifts me clean off the floor.

“ What the fuck are you doing? ” I sputter, instinctively locking my legs around his waist to keep from tipping backward. I should’ve known better than to expect Luc to stay still. My hands grab fistfuls of his hoodie, too startled to be graceful about it.

Luc walks us toward the hallway. “We’re going to talk. Or hug this out, but not here, it’s not the vibe.”

“I can walk,” I mutter, glaring at the side of his neck.

He chuckles. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t walk in the direction I want you to.”

I want to argue, I really do, but my limbs feel like lead, and my head is a mess, and honestly, it feels kind of good not to have to make the next decision. His hard stomach is right up against my pelvis, and suddenly I’m very grateful I forgot to pull out the rolled-up socks shoved in my boxers.

The steady motion of being carried lulls me. I rest my forehead against his shoulder as my eyes drift shut, and I do nothing but exist in his arms.

Every few seconds, a hiccup jerks through my chest, leftovers from the crying and the reasons for the crying.

Luc’s hand rubs slow, steady circles over my back like he’s trying to soothe a wounded animal. Maybe he is.

By the time he unlocks his hotel room door and kicks it shut behind us, I’ve drifted firmly between asleep and awake. He lowers me gently onto my feet, hands careful at my waist, and I blink around, dazed.

As I’m trying to steady myself, he plops down on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him. All I can do is stare, unable to process what is happening, how I allowed myself to end up here.

The bed is a mess, covers half off, pillows sideways, but it’s what is in the middle of his bed that makes me pause. There, curled up, fast asleep like he owns the damn room, is his rat, and I can barely hold back the shudder threatening to race through me as I wrinkle my nose.

Luc follows my gaze and scowls. “Why do you hate my son?”

“I don’t hate him.” I cross my arms. “It’s just… his naked tail is so gross.”

“Yeah, well, he thinks you’re gross too.” He frowns like I insulted his actual bloodline before he scoops up Toulouse and cradles him dramatically to his chest. “Don’t listen to the meany , mon amour, ” he croons, pressing a kiss to the top of the rat’s head. “You are beautiful. Perfect. A king.”

I snort.