Page 109 of No Good Fight

“Motherfucker.”

Ryder looks like my pain is amusing to him. He’s already dressed in jeans and a dark shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, his phone in one hand and guilt all over his face. I glare up at him from the floor with one leg trapped, my borrowed shirt twisted around my waist, and enough panic rushing through me to power a small city.

“You should have woken me up.”

“I tried.” He shrugs slightly.

“You touched my shoulder.” I yank at the leggings, only managing to tighten the fabric around my ankle. “That is not waking me up. That is politely introducing the concept of consciousness to a woman who needs coffee and space before putting up with society.”

A car door shuts outside.

My soul tries to leave my body through my kneecaps.

Ryder looks toward the stairs, then back at me, and I see the moment he decides not to offer help unless I ask. Good. Great. Growth is beautiful and inconvenient when I’m on the floor fighting pants.

“How long ago did Josh say he was coming?” I demand.

Ryder bends, picks up my sweatshirt from the chair, and sets it on the end of the bed where I can reach it. “Last night.”

I stop moving. “Last night.”

“You were asleep.”

“That’s not a defense.” I finally rip my foot free, shove it into the correct side, and scramble upright with all the dignity of a raccoon caught in a trash can. “That’s a confession.”

Downstairs, the front door opens.

Not knocks. Opens.

My head snaps toward Ryder. “Why are they in your house?”

His eyes close for half a second. “Josh has my emergency key.”

“Why?”

“He used to water my fern when I was on forty-eight-hour shifts.”

“You don’t have a fern, Ryder.”

He doesn’t answer, because another voice carries up from the foyer, bright and female and absolutely not related to me by blood.

“Shoes off, Joshua. We are not tracking wet leaves through the house of the man you plan to interrogate and possibly try to murder before pancakes.”

Nia.

I love her. I really do. I would love her more if she had chosen to be sassy somewhere other than the base of Ryder’s stairs while I’m bare-legged and sex-haired in the bedroom of my brother’s best friend.

Ryder reaches for the door. I grab the back of his shirt before he can leave, and he stops immediately. Not because I could hold him there if he chose to move, but because I touched him and he always listens with his whole body when I do.

“You are not going down there first.”

He turns enough to look at me. “Alex⁠—”

“No.” I shove both arms through my sweatshirt, which is actually his, and drag it over my head, wincing when the fabric catches one of the bruises near my upper arm. Ryder’s gaze drops to the movement, then lifts before he can stare too long. “You don’t get to stand between me and my family to try and protect me. They will devour your bones for breakfast and eat your soul for dinner, and you damn well know it.”

His mouth tightens, but he nods.

Downstairs, paper bags crinkle. Cabinets open. My mother’s voice floats up the stairs, strained and determined. “Does Ryder own plates, or does he eat directly off the counter like a raccoon?”