Page 192 of Rogue Riders Duet

And yeah, my cock notices.

What’s more concerning, though, is this sickening, fluttering pull in my chest. Mon Dieu, he looks so fucking good in my hoodie—drenched, scowling, fierce, and somehow still the most heartbreakingly beautiful bastard I’ve ever seen.

I want to take his hurt away.

Just like I do for Petite.

His lips part with heavy breaths, like he’s trying to breathe through the weight of the whole world.

And still, he doesn’t pull away. He’s breaking, right here in front of me, and I think I want, no, need to hold the pieces together.

And he wants me to hold them, too, even if he hasn’t realized it.

He releases my gaze, dropping his chin to his chest, but I keep holding on. He said that the world turned on him, and he’s still standing. Alone. Barely. The guilt of all the cruel shit I said in the van, the names I called him, the judgment I shot his way, nearly takes me out as I look at the last year in a completely different way.

He was just trying to survive.

Still is.

I squeeze his arms, trying to ground both of us. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look up, so I slide my hands to his back, almost into a hug.

“You can stay,” I say, quieter now. “We can talk. Okay? You’re not alone, Mason.”

With aching slowness, he lifts his head, his cheek brushing my chin. Our gazes clash again, and for the first time, it isn’t competitive or hostile. It’s common ground, a tentative trust.

My eyes flick to his lips again, and his breath hitches, but then there’s a screech of tires and Mason jerks, stepping away from me, just as a small, battered yellow car halts with a dramatic lurch in front of the hospital.

I blink, and my arms slowly fall to my sides.

No.

It can’t be.

The door swings open like the damn thing has been kicked, and out climbs Maman, heels clicking against wet pavement, scarf flying like she’s some stylish superhero.

I glance at Mason a second before my mother barrels into me like I’m still eight years old and fell off my bike, wrapping me in a fierce hug that smells of Chanel and home.

“Mon Dieu, Luc!” She gasps, gripping my face between her hands. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Maman, what are you doing here?”

She raises her eyebrows at me like I’m the crazy one. “I saw your man crash, and I needed to see whether he’s okay.”

My heart stutters, and warmth blooms in my chest, caught somewhere between affection and complete shock. She saw Petite crash and didn’t hesitate. She just came, because she knew he—she—mattered to me.

“I saw your run, too, Mason. You did so well.” Maman smiles at him, and he blinks. Actually blinks, like he doesn’t even know how to process maternal approval.

There’s a lot more where that just came from, mon ami.

“Uh, thanks?” he mutters, almost making me laugh.

“What does he have?” Maman asks, glancing toward the hospital doors.

“Some broken fingers and a concussion.”

And apparently a chatte and not a bite.