Page 14 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

D ylan stalked into the kitchen, his boots striking the tile like gunshots, the images from Savannah’s phone still screaming through his head in high-def horror.

They wouldn’t stop—his baby sister, barely twenty, grinning like a damn fool as she flashed the crowd at some sleazy L.A.

bar. Cameras caught every angle. Every regret. Every ounce of his fury.

He snatched his phone off the counter, hands already shaking, and hit Call before he could talk himself down. Pacing. Clenching and unclenching his jaw. Each ring spiked his heart rate higher.

Finally, her voice, small and brittle, broke through the line. “Dylan?”

“Hey, Lindsey. How are things going?” His words were too bright, too light—so tight they nearly snapped. He wanted to scream, to climb through the phone and shake sense into her, but she was his sister. And she knew him too damn well.

“I guess you saw the report,” she murmured. “Please tell me you didn’t see the pictures.”

“The ones of my sister flashing the crowd in full, glorious HD?” His voice rose without his permission, punching against the cabinets. “Oh yeah. I saw everything.”

“Oh God,” she whispered. A long, shuddering breath dragged over the line. “I hoped you wouldn’t…”

“It’s not going to just go away, Linds. This kind of shit follows you. You think it’ll blow over, that people won’t care? This is forever. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t, okay?” Her voice sharpened with an edge of desperation. “I was blowing off steam with friends. Something you wouldn’t understand, Mr. Perfect. Mr. Calm. Mr. Always-in-Control.”

The bitterness stung more than he expected.

“Besides,” she continued, tone flinty now, “it’s part of the plan.”

His stomach sank. “What plan?”

A sigh that spoke volumes. “Dylan, I’m a teen TV star. That’s all anyone sees. The perky blonde. The sweet girl next door. I’m too old to play a kid, and nobody wants to cast me as anything else.”

“You think getting drunk and showing the world your boobs is the fix?”

“It gets attention! It forces people to see me as something different—as a woman. As an adult. That was the whole point. I need people to forget who I was.”

He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “Let me guess. This was Mom’s idea. Her and Stan, right?”

“They’re just trying to help.”

“Help? By setting you on fire and calling it a spotlight?”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” she snapped. “You don’t get it. My show’s canceled. No one’s calling. I’m out of work, Dylan. And Mom and Stan?—”

“—Are parasites. And you know it.” His voice cracked with raw frustration. “You know better than this.”

Her silence on the line was a living thing, thick and trembling. When she finally spoke, it was quieter, broken. “You think I want this? You think I like being laughed at, judged, exposed?”

Something in his chest twisted hard. He slumped into a chair, rubbing his face with both hands. “Shit. Lindsey, I’m sorry.”

She gave a watery laugh, nothing like the carefree girl he used to push on the swings. “Too late for sorry, D. I’ll handle it.”

“Come out here,” he said, the words tumbling out. “Georgia. Stay for a while. Get your feet under you.”

Her tone turned sharp. “You think I’m weak. That I need saving.”

“No. I think you need a break—from them, from all of this. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.”

“Somewhere like you,” she said, voice full of something he couldn’t name. “You’ve always had a plan. Always known what to do. That’s not me. I’m not you, Dylan.”

He softened his voice. “I don’t want you to be me. I just want you to be okay.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I’m not doing drugs,” she said finally. “Just... a little drinking. Maybe some pot. Nothing else. I swear.”

Her voice—small and uncertain—gutted him more than the photos. It reminded him of the kid who used to curl against him during thunderstorms and beg him to never leave.

He swallowed. “Promise me you’ll stop whatever you’re doing that’s making you feel this desperate. Please.”

“I don’t need your pity, Dylan.”

“I’m not pitying you. I’m begging you.”

She sniffed. “Don’t call me for a while. Not until you can talk to me like an adult. Goodbye, Dylan.”

The call disconnected.

His hand remained frozen around the phone, fingers locked so tight the plastic creaked. He made a motion to throw it—but a warm hand slid over his. Savannah.

She pried his fingers loose gently and laid the phone on the counter. But she didn’t let go. Her other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him. Comforting without a word.

“She’s spiraling,” he rasped. “Mom’s feeding her poison, and she’s drinking it like champagne. I can’t stop it. I can’t…”

Savannah flinched slightly at the rough edge in his voice, but she didn’t move. Her hand just kept stroking slow, steady lines along his shoulder. Grounding. Reassuring.

His shoulders slowly dropped, the tight band around his chest loosening just a little.

“It’s her path, Dylan,” she said quietly. “You can offer the road out, but she’s gotta take it herself.”

“She won’t. And I can’t just watch her implode.”

Savannah eased into the chair beside him, her hand still wrapped in his. “I know that feeling. I’ve been trying to save Lucy since we were kids. Made her lunch, beat up bullies, did her damn math homework. But there comes a point…”

He looked over at her, weary and wary.

“She has to want it,” Savannah said. “You can be the net. But you can’t stop the fall.”

He wanted to argue. To deny it. But her voice was calm. Steady. Laced with truth he didn’t want to hear.

She stood then, gently sliding her hand from his. Bent to brush her lips across his forehead. The softness of it, the simple tenderness, undid him more than anything.

“I should go,” she whispered. “You okay?”

He nodded, though his throat was too tight to speak. She turned—and something in him panicked.

He caught her hand. Tugged her back.

Meant it to be a friendly gesture. A thank you.

But her eyes met his. Wide. Understanding.

Their mouths collided.

Her lips parted in surprise, but he didn’t hesitate. He took advantage, stroking his tongue along hers, tasting her—beer, steak, something sweeter and purely her. Her arms braced against his shoulders. She moaned into his mouth, the sound echoing through his whole body.

God, she felt so right.

He tangled a hand in her hair, angling her better, needing more. The other slid beneath her shirt, craving skin. He traced the line of her spine, then gripped her hip, his fingers dipping under the waistband of her shorts to find the warm, soft curve of her ass.

She gasped and pulled back, breathless, eyes dazed. Her lips were swollen. Her nipples pressed against the thin cotton of her shirt, drawing his gaze—and his desire—like a magnet.

Dylan blinked, trying to clear the haze.

She straightened, running a trembling hand through her hair and tugging her shirt down. “Well. Um. I think I’ll go now.”

He jumped up, bumping the chair. It teetered. He caught it and muttered, “I’ll walk you out. You okay to drive?”

She nodded. Too fast.

“I’ll come by tomorrow for Sadie. Use the crate this time,” she added, her tone edging back toward professional.

Right. Back to reality. Maybe she wasn’t as affected as he was.

She turned too sharply and smacked her hip against the counter. “Ow. Sorry. I’ll, uh... talk to you later.”

Then she was gone, the front door clicking closed behind her like the lid on Pandora’s box.

Dylan stared at the empty doorway, heart pounding.

Shit just got complicated.