Page 134 of Rogue Riders Duet

Piper huffs out a laugh. “Will do, you love-sick puppy. Now fuck off.”

Dane and I both swivel at the same time, eyes wide, staring at Delacroix.

Love-sick puppy?

Delacroix’s face does this thing, a half-grin, half-scowl, but what he doesn’t do is deny it. Just turns on his heel and stalks off, muttering in French, probably cursing all of us out as he heads toward the podium.

My brain stutters over the information, trying to piece together the picture that just got dropped in my lap.

Does he know? Does Delacroix know who she is?

No. No fucking way. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

But either way, he’s into her.

What the actual fuck.

I’ve got no right to feel the burn of that, no claim or stake, I know that, but it smolders away, so fucking deep I feel like it’s melting something inside me. Delacroix is out here, loud and unashamed, wearing his heart on his sleeve, ready to throw punches, ready to storm through anyone who stands in his way. He’s showing up for her, no questions, no apologies, and I’m standing outside after watching her light up the world, pretending I’m not desperate to be a part of it, and I haven’t wanted to step into that fire since the second she kissed me.

I’m the coward.

I’m the one too afraid to want her out loud.

Delacroix might not even know who she really is, but it doesn’t fucking matter. He’s fighting for her, and I’m standing on the sidelines, smothering my want with worry, and watching someone else take up the space I gave away.

God, it hurts worse than I ever imagined it could.

TWENTY-FOUR

The trophy’s corner digs into my ribs as I shift on my feet in front of the team bus, like it knows I didn’t earn it, and I only got it because Petit asked me to.

Of course, I did it for him. I took the stupid ceremony, the photos, the champagne spray, and let the cameras catch my grin while my chest was still tight with worry. My head is still in that bathroom, in the blood on his legs, in the way I almost broke down the goddamn door trying to get in.

I didn’t want to hurt a legend, didn’t want to punch his cousin, but fuck, I would’ve. If Petit had so much as whispered that he wanted me with him and that asshole hadn’t moved, I would’ve laid him out right there.

It doesn’t even surprise me that I’d throw away every ounce of good PR, every carefully manicured line of charm, and all my good intentions for him. I’m a fucking goner.

Love-sick puppy indeed.

I didn’t even go out after the race. Didn’t want the club, or the girls, or the noise. First time ever.

Instead, I ended up on the treadmill at midnight, burning energy I didn’t have because my brain wouldn’t shut up, and sleep wasn’t an option. It’s like clubbing has been replaced by cardio. Which is cruel because the only cardio I actually want to be doing isn’t mine to touch yet.

Otis is vibrating beside me like a Chihuahua on espresso, a backpack slung over one shoulder, packed to the brim with snacks, water bottles, and enough food to get us through a famine. Knowing Otis, half of it’s probably for Toulouse.

Speaking of, my little guy is curled up, dead asleep in the hood of my hoodie, tiny nose twitching now and then, probably dreaming about cheese or world domination.

I grip the base of the trophy harder, thumb rubbing over the engraved letters of Petit’s name, like I can conjure him. It’s been a full day, and still, no message, no explanation. Just Piper’s quiet “He’s fine” yesterday before she ducked into her hotel room for the night.

But that’s not fucking enough, not when we’re about to sit in a bus for the next eight and a half hours, and I’m supposed to kick back, relax, and pretend everything is good. I hate this part of the season, these stretches of road that feel too long, too empty, even though this time they’re taking me home.

Pulling out my phone, my thumb hovers for a second before I text the only person who can usually stitch me back together when I’m unraveling.

Hey, Maman, I’m home soon.

Her reply comes fast, as always.

Maman