Page 112 of Blades Out
She wasn't his.
The thought carved itself through my chest with brutal simplicity, stripping away every lie I'd told myself about distance and control and doing the right thing. She could smile at him. Could let him walk her to doors and murmur soft words that made her blush. Didn't change the fundamental truth lodged so deep in my bones I couldn't dig it out if I tried.
She. Wasn't. His.
Ben's hand stayed on her waist as they reached the entrance.
Mine curled into fists against brick, silent and absolute.
Ben lingered just long enough to say something that made her laugh softly, something I couldn't hear but felt like broken glass dragging through my chest. His fingers brushed her arm once more before he stepped back, that easy smile still plastered across his face like he'd won something.
He turned. Walked back to his car with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from thinking the night went well. From believing he'd made progress. From not knowing I existed in the shadows across the street, watching every movement with the focused intensity of a predator tracking prey.
The engine started. Headlights flared.
I didn't move. Didn't shift my weight or adjust my stance or do anything that might catch his peripheral vision in the rearview mirror. Years of learning how to be invisible when it mattered kept me perfectly still, perfectly silent, a shadow among shadows.
The car pulled away from the curb.
My eyes tracked it—relentless, unwavering—as it glided down the street. Watched the brake lights flare red at the intersection. Watched them turn left and disappear behind a building two blocks down.
Still didn't move. Waited until the sound of the engine faded completely. Until the street fell back into the hollow quiet of late evening punctuated only by distant traffic and the hum of streetlights overhead.
Only then did I breathe. Deep, controlled, pulling oxygen into lungs that felt too tight. Forcing the cold discipline back into place where it belonged, wrapping it around the violent possessiveness that wanted to chase that car down and make damn sure Ben understood exactly whose door he'd just walked her to.
I pushed off the wall. Crossed the street with measured steps—not rushed, not hesitant, just deliberate forward motion that carried me from shadow to lamplight to the building's entrance where she'd disappeared moments ago.
The door clicked shut behind me. Stairs stretched upward, narrow and dimly lit. Third floor. Corner unit. I knew the layout because I'd memorized it the first time I'd walked her home, cataloging exits and vulnerabilities with the same automatic precision I applied to everything else.
My footsteps made no sound against worn carpet. Controlled. Silent. The way I'd moved through arenas before games, conserving energy, focusing intent into something sharp and absolute.
Deadly calm settled over me like a second skin.
She was fumbling with her keys when I reached her floor. Back to the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched, still wearing whatever nervous energy the date had left her with. The soft scrape of metal against metal filled the quiet space as she tried to line up the key with the lock.
The door started to swing open.
My hand shot forward—palm flat, controlled force—and slammed against painted wood. Held it there.
She gasped, spine going rigid, head whipping around fast enough her hair caught against her cheek. Wide eyes met mine in the hallway's dim light. Recognition hit her in stages—shock, confusion, something that might've been fear except it softened too quickly into something else entirely.
"Coach Ac?—"
I crowded her against the doorframe before she could move. Before she could slip inside and lock me out where I belonged. Hood still pulled low enough to shadow half my face. Close enough her breath caught—sharp, startled, the sound of it hitting me like a physical blow.
"Did he touch you?"
The words scraped out rough and low, barely recognizable as my own voice. Gravel and broken glass and something darker underneath that I couldn't quite bury.
Her eyes went wider. Lips parted on an inhale she forgot to release.
She nodded. Small. Uncertain. Honest.
The admission punched straight through whatever control I'd wrapped around myself on the walk up. My hand moved before conscious thought caught up—fingers closing around her wrist with deliberate gentleness that cost me everything. Too gentle. The kind of careful that meant every instinct screaming inside me wanted to be anything but.
Her pulse jumped beneath my fingertips. Rapid, frantic, the wild flutter of a trapped bird beating itself against a cage. I felt it throb against my palm—proof she was just as wrecked by this as I was, just as unable to pretend we could exist in the same space without combusting.
I pulled her hand toward me. Slow. Inexorable. Giving her every chance to pull away even as I knew she wouldn't.
