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Something in his voice makes my chest ache harder than the wound.

Not anger.

Fear.

Real fear.

For me.

I look away first.

Big mistake.

Because the second I do, I become hyperaware of everything.

The heat of his body against mine.

His arm still around me.

The rough scrape of his fingers against my jacket.

The fact that I haven’t moved away.

“I don’t have time for this,” I say softly.

Weak argument.

Even I hear it.

Russ shifts slightly closer instead of farther away.

“You don’t have time to feel something?”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because I honestly don’t know.

And that terrifies me more than being shot did.

“Look at me.”

The words are quiet.

Not a command.

Worse.

A request.

I hesitate anyway.

Then slowly lift my eyes back to his.