Page 57 of Top Shelf

Kissed me.

Kissed.Me.

Stunned, I stare at the supply closet door as it clicks shut behind him. Even in his absence, the echo of his presence buzzes beneath my skin. I can still feel him on my lips. Taste him on my tongue.

At first, I don’t move. Just stare at that door, not really seeing it as my mind works on overdrive. The scent of him clings to the air. Sticks in my nostrils. Buries itself beneath my skin. Bergamot and burnt spice wrapped around something dangerous enough to ruin me.

Then slowly, my hand lifts to my lips, still tingling from his kiss. His kiss that was the opposite of everything I’d expect. It was fire and passion and heat. It evoked a need in me that I’ve never experienced before.

One that surely wouldn’t be possible if he had been one of my attackers that night.

One that only leaves me more confused than I was before.

Feeling drained and wired all at once, I lean back againstthe shelves, letting the cold press of metal ground me. My pulse still thunders in my ears.

Little Moth.

What did Lucian mean by that?

There was a softness to his words when he called me that. One I didn’t know he was capable of. A kind of reverence, like I was something delicate in his brutal hands. Not weak, but rare. Something precious. Maybe even something worth protecting.

And the way he looked at me the entire time…

Like I wasn’t just some intern he was forced to tolerate.

Not the daughter of the Winslows or a pawn in someone else’s game.

Like I was someone who was upending his entire world, and not in a badshe knows my deep dark secret and could ruin my lifekind ofway. More like, he never knew life could be like this, and now he’s had a taste, he can’t go back.

Which should be terrifying.

Does the fact that it isn’t mean I’m starting to believe they weren’t the ones who hurt me that night?

None of them have come out and simply stated they weren’t. They keep pushing me, instead. Keep asking me to question what I remember.

If it really had been them who attacked me, surely they’d be threatening me to stay quiet, not pressing for me to remember.

I wish I remembered more. I wish I rememberedbetter. That I could trust the scattered fragments of the memories I do have.

The ringing of my cell interrupts my distracted thoughts. Pulling it out, I scrunch my nose as I look at the caller ID.Ugh, what does Mother want now?

I debate answering it for all of five seconds before sending it to voicemail instead. Whatever she wants, she can leave on my voicemail or call me back later.

The sound of life happening outside the supply closet reminds me I’m just standing here, achieving absolutely nothing when I have an extensive to-do list to complete before I can leave: equipment to restock, hydration stations to refill, and sheets to submit to the trainers.

I tick through the list, redirecting my thoughts every time they return to Lucian, Ronan, and Silas. That night. Ronan towering over me. Silas’s hand on my cheek. The heat of Lucian’s lips against mine.

It’s safe to say that my thoughts are a tangled mess of sharp-edged memories and the slow-spreading ache ofwhat if I’m wrong?

By the time I tick off the last item on my list, the rink is in that quiet lull that only occurs between practices. I slip through the locker room doors, assuming the players have cleared out… Only to nearly collide with Isaac Evans.

“Jesus,” I gasp, stumbling back a step. He’s fresh from the showers, steam still clinging to his skin, a towel slung low around his hips. Water drips from the ends of his blond hair, trailing in rivulets down his chest.

He’s not unattractive. Far from it. Broad shoulders, cut abs, that easy, all-American smile he flashes like it’s currency. He’s the kind of guy most girls would stop mid-sentence to stare at. Especially half-naked. He’s handsome in the way hockey players often are—sculpted from repetition, routine, and ego.

And yet…I don’t feel that same flash of heat I experience when Ronan, Silas, or Lucian steps into my personal space.

My heart doesn’t race.