Page 56 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

Raine’s eyes stay on me, sharp enough to cut, but his lips are still in that easy, effortless grin of his. “We’ll see how long you last, rookie.”

“Long enough,” I fire back, my voice flat, even though my pulse is kicking hard beneath my skin.

“Come on, Isaac,” Isla coos, looping her arm through his like we’re all just having a friendly chat. “Don’t scare him off before race day.”

Isaac doesn’t respond or even glance her way. He just gives me one last look like he’s already figured me out before turning to the trail again. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Isla lets go of her brother and reaches into the side pocket of her pack, fishing out a marker and uncapping it with a pop. “I’m giving you my number.” She reaches for my wrist, and it takes everything in me not to yank my arm back .

Her grip is surprisingly firm for how dainty she always pretends to be. She pushes my hoodie sleeve up enough for her gaze to catch on the black lines inked into my skin.

Her brows lift. “Oh, these are pretty. Not really practical right now, though.”

She turns my wrist, flipping my hand palm up, and starts writing on it, leaving her number and a heart.

Gross.

“There,” she purrs, stepping back and capping the marker with a satisfied click. “Call me.” She winks, then pivots, finally trailing after Raine down the hill.

I stare at my palm, almost feeling the numbers scalding straight through my skin to the muscle beneath.

Poor Mason didn’t stand a chance.

This is what Isla Raine does. She finds your weakness and gets into your head.

A memory hits me, and suddenly I’m seventeen again.

I hate her now like I hated her then.

The gondola line is long, especially when you’re alone in the crowd.

Riders are packed in tight, bikes balanced against hips, and the sun is beating down hard, making the space feel even smaller. It’s loud with laughter, gear chatter, and the metallic click of cleats on concrete, but I still feel like I don’t belong here.

Not with the junior girls, thanks to Isla’s running commentary about how I think I’m better than them, hotter, cooler, whatever lie gets the most traction, and definitely not with the boys, who look at me like they’ve never seen a girl in a race jersey before.

If I’m anything, I’m just faster. That’s it, and I’d never brag about it. I just let the clock do the talking, but Isla twists that, too, making sure no one gets close enough to see the truth.

I’d kill to be part of their group, to giggle about inside jokes and talk bike setup while waiting for the lift, but they keep their circle tight. I’m always just outside it, close enough to hear the laughter but not the punchlines.

I don’t care when I’m with Dane and Finn, but they’re not here right now, too busy with their runs. So, I’m on my own.

I hate this part.

I tug at the hem of my jersey, trying to smooth it over the chest guard, but it sticks, soaked through with sweat. It doesn’t matter that nothing is actually showing, apparently, just existing with boobs is enough to warrant attention, and yep, they’re looking.

I hear the low snickers from the cluster of guys nearby. One of them elbows the other, muttering something under his breath, both of them glancing back at me like I’m an exhibit. I fold my arms across my chest, wishing I could be anywhere else.

“Gravity’s got to be tough on you, huh, Hiccups ?”

My stomach drops.

That fucking bitch.

Isla’s voice is sugary sweet and loud enough to catch the attention of half the line. She stands a few feet away, her bike leaned casually against her hip, posing like she’s on the cover of some glossy magazine.

I don’t look at her, don’t want to give her the satisfaction, but it doesn’t matter.

She steps closer, her gaze laser-focused on my chest. “All that extra weight up front? Must be hell on your balance.”

The boys laugh. Of course, they laugh.

The other girls stay silent, but nobody says anything, too afraid of their leader. I fold my arms tighter, staring hard at the dirt beneath my boots and ignoring the flush crawling up my neck. I want to snap back, to spit something sharp enough to shut her up, but I hear their voices in my head.

“Actions speak louder than words, baby girl.” Finn.

“They’re just jealous. Show them on the track.” Dane.

So I grind my teeth, dig my nails into my arms, and stay silent.

Isla leans toward me. “I mean, not all of us are built to race, right? Some of us are… sleeker.”

I press my lips together so tightly it hurts because that’s what I’ve been taught.

Let your racing do the talking.

I hate everything about this, feeling like I don’t belong, even though I know I can outride all of these assholes, and hate that Isla’s words still bother me, even when I know better.

I hate her, and that she makes me feel like I’m less, like I’m not enough, but I’ll show her where it counts—on the track.

That’s a promise I’m determined to keep.

The line shifts, and a few riders move forward. Isla tosses a hair flip as she walks back to her group. Now, all the girls laugh with her when she giggles, and I think that’s it, that the moment is over, the sting already starting to settle in my chest.

Then someone pushes his bike into the space she left behind.

A guy, helmet on, dressed head-to-toe in black, his jersey pushed up to the elbows.

Mason Payne.

He plants himself between Isla and me like a wall, a fucking shield . He stares straight ahead, arms relaxed, like he just drifted into that exact spot because it happened to be open, but for a moment, I wonder.

Did he hear what she said? Decide she didn’t deserve the last look ?

I don’t know, but he doesn’t glance my way, not once.

Maybe he just likes that patch of shade.

But he stays there, right next to me, all the way up to the gondola, and even though we never exchange a word, something in my chest loosens.

Just a little.