Page 110 of Blades Out
I wanted to like this.
God, I wanted to. Wanted to let the warmth of this moment settle into my chest and chase away the cold that had lived there for weeks. Wanted to stop cataloging the differences between Ben's easy affection and Rhys's controlled distance. Wanted to stop comparing the way Ben's hand brushed mine when he passed the salt to the way Rhys's fingers had trembled when they gripped my wrists.
I stabbed my fork into the pasta harder than necessary.
Stop.
Ben was talking again—something about the restaurant's history, how his roommate's sister worked here—and I nodded along, forcing myself to focus on the cadence of his voice instead of the phantom heat of Rhys's mouth moving against mine.
It didn't work. Every time I closed my eyes to take a bite, I saw dark eyes and controlled fury barely leashed. Every time Ben smiled, I measured it against the memory of Rhys looking at me like touching me might destroy us both.
I took another bite and hated myself for wishing I was somewhere else.
With someone else.
Ben set down his fork and tilted his head, studying me with an openness that made my chest tighten. "You have really pretty eyes," he said, voice soft. "I don't think I've told you that yet."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Oh. I—thank you."
The compliment landed warm and sincere, exactly the kind of thing a girl should want to hear on a first date. Should make her pulse skip. Should make her feel seen in the right way.
But there were no sparks. No electric jolt. No breath catching in my throat. Just warmth and gratitude and the uncomfortable awareness that I should be feeling more than I was.
I looked down at my plate, fumbling with my napkin.
Ben reached across the table—slow, telegraphed—and brushed his thumb against my cheek. Gentle. Careful. His touch feather-light as he caught a crumb I hadn't felt.
"Got it," he murmured, pulling back with an easy smile.
My stomach twisted.
Because all I could think about was Rhys.
Rhys's hands—rough, calloused, trembling with barely controlled restraint—circling my wrists hard enough to leave phantom impressions on my skin. The way he'd caged me against the wall like I was something he needed to possess but couldn't allow himself to keep. The desperate edge in his grip, violence and tenderness tangled so tightly I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Ben's touch was kind. Respectful. Safe. Everything I should want.
And I hated—hated—that it felt like nothing compared to the memory of Rhys pinning me in place with hands that shook because he wanted me too much.
I forced myself to meet Ben's eyes, to smile like I wasn't comparing every gentle gesture to the controlled fury of a man who kissed me like he was drowning.
"Thanks," I managed, voice steadier than I felt.
Ben settled back in his chair, oblivious to the war raging behind my ribs. He picked up his wine glass, still smiling that open, uncomplicated smile. And I sat there hating myself. Hating that safety felt hollow. Hating that I wanted the danger more. Hating that even here—on a date with someone good and kind and present—I was thinking about the man who wouldn't stay.
I reached for my water glass and swallowed hard, willing the guilt down.
This was supposed to be moving forward. It felt like drowning instead.
Chapter 22
Rhys
I told myself I was checking on her because the neighborhood was shit.
Because I'd seen someone watching her before—lurking where he shouldn't be, eyes tracking her movements with the kind of focus that set off every alarm I'd spent years learning to trust. Because the locks on her apartment door were flimsy enough a decent kick would punch straight through. Because she was alone, vulnerable, and if something happened to her while I sat in my sterile apartment pretending I didn't care?—
My knuckles went white against the steering wheel.
