Page 131 of Sunrise & Serenity

Gage’s words echo in my head too: Are you defending Wild Ember, McBride, or your girl?

“You almost punched him,” I say.

Holden snorts. “Thought about it.”

Moonlight catches the hard line of his jaw for half a second before it’s shadowed again. “Does that kind of thing happen a lot?”

He glances at me, then focuses on the road again. “Nope. Our families avoid each other most of the time.”

I play with the frayed hem of my shorts. “So what happened this time?”

“He was being an asshole.”

“Hmm, that’s true.”

The corner of his mouth twitches faintly, but his grip tightens around the steering wheel again. As a charged silence settles between us, I imagine how those big hands of his will feel against my skin once we get home.

“What’s going on, Sage?” he asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

His tone is rough, though his words are careful. He’s not talking about the bar anymore. He’s talking about me, the way he did when we were dancing. As if he senses what’s been whirling around my head for the past week. Guilt washes over me, but I smile. “I’m okay.”

The way he eyes me, his brows drawn together, suggests he doesn’t entirely believe me.

Can’t blame him. I’m not sure I believe myself either.

Sitting here beside him now, with the dark road stretching ahead of us and his warmth filling the cab, the idea of Milan seems impossible. Like the shadow of a life I once dreamed of. The thought aches more than it should. As if I’ve lost another little piece of who I used to be.

Milan. Holden. New York. Wild Ember. Everything inside me is tangled up lately.

I should tell him about the residency offer. Explain why I keep getting lost trying to picture a future that’s no longer clear. Maybe ask for his advice.

But I can’t. I can’t fall back into looking to someone else for guidance. I need to figure this out myself, even if I no longer know what I want.

Holden’s knuckles are white, his jaw rigid.

And suddenly I hate this distance between us. Without thinking too hard about it, I rest my hand on his thigh. Taut muscle under rough denim.

He exhales through his nose. “Sweetheart,” he mutters, “you have to stop touching me like that.”

A small smile pulls at my mouth despite myself. “Why?”

He lets out a quiet, tortured laugh. “You know why.”

Yeah, I do. And I like it.

His muscles flex beneath my fingers, tension rippling through him. Every time he looked at me tonight, it seemed like he was dangerously close to losing control. And maybe some reckless part of me is craving that right now. A distraction from all the confusion.

I drag my nails across his thigh, and the truck swerves slightly.

Cursing, he grabs the wheel with his other hand, and his eyes flash my way. Not scolding—hungry.

Desire sizzles through me, and I ease closer, sliding my hand up to his fly. He’s hard, pressing up against my palm.

“Sage…”

I don’t answer, too caught up in knowing exactly what I want. Instead, I work at his belt buckle, then pop the button on his jeans.

“What are you doing?” he rasps.