Page 111 of Rogue Riders Duet

I cross my arms, snapping out of my stunned silence. “What the fuck was that with Finn?”

“Nothing.” Luc glances at me, all innocent eyebrows and faux-casual tone. “I just had the urge to punch him.”

I narrow my eyes. “I saw that. Why, though?”

He levels a look at me.

Yeah, right.

“Probably because normally Greer’s glued to your side, but today he’s ignoring the bloody hell out of you… just a guess,” Mason adds unhelpfully.

Luc steps closer, clearly intending to reclaim his rat-child, but before he can, Toulouse disappears into the safety of Mason’s hood.

“Traitor.” Luc’s shoulders slump with exaggerated defeat. “So, are we doing that track walk shit or what?”

I glance at him sideways. “Can you behave yourself?”

Luc snorts. “Well, I fucking have to now that my son’s defected to the enemy. Can you, Payne?”

Mason doesn’t bother to respond, just turns and strides away.

Luc and I follow him without a word, and soon we’re walking down the track next to each other.

Not ten minutes in, my boot slips on a patch of loose dirt, and Mason’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my elbow to steady me. His eyes flick to mine, checking in without a word. I nod, a quick yeah, I’m fine.

He doesn’t release me immediately, which is apparently a problem, because Luc veers closer and bumps Mason’s shoulder. “Must be wild, watching everyone pass you by. First the teams, now the rookies.”

Mason doesn’t even blink, and I’m surprised he even bothers with an answer when he quips, “Says the guy who got beat by said rookie last weekend.”

Luc stops walking and turns, already stepping into Mason’s space with fists clenched and jaw tight. “You’re lucky my child is on you right now.”

I throw an arm out between them. “Officials. Are. Everywhere,” I hiss out. “Can we not get disqualified before we’ve even made it to race day?”

“Haven’t I told you to stop fucking fighting my battles for me?” Mason doesn’t take his eyes off Luc when he’s answering me.

“Right.” Luc grins his shitty little grin. “Let the Pretty Boy fight me. We’ve got years of practice.”

“Guys!” I shove between them harder this time. “If you two want to lose again, go for it. But I’m not. I’m not going to fucking lose to Raine.”

That lands.

Because just ahead, a little farther down the trail, Isaac Raine is squatting near a set of roots, one hand pointing, his line spotter nodding beside him. He’s smiling smugly like he already owns the podium. As if he feels my eyes burning holes in him, he looks our way and smirks.

God, I want to punch him.

And now that Mason has shown me how to actually throw one, I’m one smug smirk away from testing my form on Isaac’s face.

Luc goes silent, and Mason’s mouth sets into a grim line. I can practically feel the shift that just happened. We fall into step again, quieter this time, focused, because for all the shit between us, none of us is willing to hand Raine another win.

We’ve got a mountain to conquer.

And a fucking score to settle.

TWENTY-ONE

The cold shower doesn’t soothe the agony.

It never really does, but I keep hoping the next shower will be the magic one—the miracle rinse that resets my system, eases the ache clawing up my spine, and doesn’t feel like I’m being waterboarded by my own choices.