His jaw shifts, like he’s weighing how much to say, how much to keep back. “Enough to know you shouldn’t be anywhere near the arena right now,” he answers.
“That’s not good enough,” I push, stepping closer before I can stop myself. “You’re out there anyway. You rode anyway. So don’t stand here and tell me to stay back without telling me why.”
Something flashes in his eyes at that, something sharper than before, but it’s not anger.
It’s conflict.
“Because if I tell you everything,” he says, low and controlled, “you’re going to leave.”
My chest tightens. “Maybe I should.”
“Maybe you should,” he agrees, and the fact that he doesn’t fight me on it hits harder than if he had.
For a second, neither of us moves.
The space between us feels charged, stretched thin by everything we’re not saying and everything we are.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say finally, the words coming out before I can second guess them. “Not without understanding what’s happening.”
His gaze locks on mine, searching, like he’s trying to decide if I mean that or if it’s just the moment talking.
“I saw the truck,” I add quietly.
That does it.
Something in him shifts, something more decisive.
“Then we need to move,” he says.
Before I can ask anything else, his hand closes around mine, firm and certain, and he pulls me with him. Not back toward the arena, but away from it, cutting through the edge of the grounds toward the line of rigs parked behind the pens.
My pulse kicks up again, but this time it isn’t just fear driving it.
It’s him.
The way he doesn’t hesitate.
The way he doesn’t let go.
We don’t stop until we reach his trailer. The side door is already unlatched. He pulls it open and guides me up the steps, his body close behind mine as we step into the narrow hallway that leads toward the living quarters.
The noise from the rodeo drops to a distant pulse the second the door shuts.
It’s more quiet in here.
Safer in a way that doesn’t quite feel real.
Jace turns to me in the tight space, his hand still wrapped around mine, his other hand finding my waist again like he needs to anchor himself as much as he needs to anchor me.
“You should go home,” he says, softer now.
I shake my head. “Not until you stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you have to protect instead of something you want,” I answer, the truth slipping out before I can filter it.
His grip tightens just slightly, his gaze dropping to my mouth for half a second before coming back to my eyes.
