Page 45 of Death Rydes Shotgun

I turn my head and watch his heavy chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pulses as we both try to catch our breath.

Pine smoke, rain, and the strong odor of what we just shared on the straw floor creates a thick, hot, and heavy air within the barn.

My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird, my skin flushed and sensitive to the cold draft creeping through the crack of the barn door.

The violent, feral edge between us hasn’t vanished—it’s just settled into a low, smoldering ember.

Ryder shifts, his dark eyes cutting over to the fire pit.

The dancing flames have died down to a dim, orange glow, casting long, dark shadows across the rafters.

“Fire’s getting low.” His voice is rough and gravelly from the sex.

He pushes himself up off the straw in one smooth, powerful motion.

I lie on my side, resting my head on my bent arm, completely unashamed as my eyes trail over his bare body.

The firelight catches the broad slabs of muscle across his back, the heavy line of his shoulders, and the dark, intricate ink that covers his skin like armor.

He’s broad, lethal, and imposing—a vision of pure, dark power moving through the dim light toward the stack of twigs in the corner.

Then, a quiet buzz vibrates against the floorboards near my hip.

A tiny square of white light cuts through the darkness.

It’s Ryder’s phone, resting face-up on his discarded hoodie in the straw.

The screen has lit up with a generic notification, illuminating the quiet corner of the barn.

Curiosity, sharp and instinctive, pricks at the back of my mind.

I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the cold glass, and lift the phone to my face.

The screen displays his lock screen image.

My breath locks tightly in my throat.

It’s an old, grainy photo taken with a cheap flip-phone camera over a decade ago.

Standing under the flickering yellow lights of a high school hallway is Noah, smiling wide and bright at the camera with his arm thrown possessively over the shoulder of a boy beside him.

The world around me instantly tilts, the sound of the rain outside fading into a quiet, distant roar as my mind is yanked violently backward into the past.

High school.

A sudden, vivid memory crashes over me like a wave of ice water.

The crowded, locker-lined halls of Blackwood High. Noah walks down the corridor, and right beside him—always half a step behind—is a tall, scrawny, painfully thin boy. He’s a ghost in those halls.

A quiet, invisible shadow who wore an oversized black hoodie every single day, keeping the deep hood pulled low over his face to hide the horrific yellowing bruises and black eyes inflicted by his father.

The kid who never spoke to anyone, who flinched at loud noises, and who looked at Noah like he was the only sun in a pitch-black universe.

The kid everyone ignored.

“Something interesting?” Ryder’s voice cuts through the memory like a blade, snapping me back into the cold, drafty barn.

I flinch slightly, pulling my eyes away from the screen to look up.