Page 95 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

But the restlessness was finally still.

The next morning, I wore a long-sleeved shirt to hide the bruises on my arms and a pair of black leggings. Only a faint ache remained when I moved, tucked beneath muscle memory, adrenaline, and the lingering satisfaction of beating that overconfident wolf in the ring the night before.

Worth it.

For morning practice I threw on a lightweight jacket over my tank top despite the mild October morning. Nobody questioned it. Everyone was too busy suffering through Coach Miller’s warm-up routine.

Behavioral Analysis was at ten. Jackson took his usual seat beside me and didn’t notice anything. Or if he did, he didn’t say. Sterling lectured for fifty minutes on the architecture of organized versus disorganized offender profiles. I took good notes.

By the time class ended, the hallway outside had filled with students flooding between lectures in loud, restless waves. Jackson walked beside me toward my next class, one hand occasionally brushing the small of my back whenever the crowd thickened.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced down at first like it was something he could ignore. Then he stopped walking completely. It was a video. I caught flashes of movement, canvas, and the unmistakable shape of a ring. The audio was low, but the cheer that rose from the speaker was one I recognized from the night before.

Uh-oh.

Jackson stood dead still in the middle of the hallway as the clip played. His jaw tightened slowly.

I didn’t wait. I turned and started walking faster.

I already knew how he felt about the fighting gym. About the bruises. About anything that involved me getting hurt. It was ridiculous and deeply inconvenient. And frankly I was not emotionally prepared for whatever overprotective wolf meltdown was currently brewing behind those gray eyes.

A few seconds later, I heard footsteps behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. Jackson was cutting through the crowd, his expression making it very clear that a conversation was coming whether I wanted one or not.

“Fuck,” I muttered as I sped up and rounded the corner at the end of the hall. The disabled bathroom was unoccupied, the little slider showing green. I slipped inside, clicked the door shut behind me, and pressed my back against it, holding my breath.

Maybe he’d keep walking. Maybe he’d decide a stupid little sparring match wasn’t worth the chase.

I waited, listening for his footsteps to pass.

I wasn’t hiding from Jackson. I was buying myself a minute. There was a difference.

My cat snorted at the excuse. I ignored her.

Maybe he would walk past. Maybe he hadn’t seen which door I—

The handle moved.

I had a fraction of a second to register that I hadn’t locked it before the door swung inward. I stumbled back to keep my toes from being clipped.

“Shit.”

Jackson filled the doorway the moment he stepped inside, broad shoulders tense beneath his gray shirt, his expression dark enough to make most people reconsider their life choices.

Unfortunately for him, I had very little self-preservation instinct left these days.

Chapter 29: I Can Smell Him On You

I straightened against the counter and folded my arms across my chest.

“You can’t come in here.”

He kicked the door shut behind him without taking his eyes off me.

“You picked the place, not me.”