Page 49 of No Good Fight

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I shake my head fast. “Don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t handle sorry right now.”

“Then I won’t say it again.”

My breath shudders out, and he watches me fight for the next one.

“Look at me,” Ryder says, his voice low.

I do.

“Give me your hand.”

My fingers tremble when I lift them, but he doesn’t grab. He waits until I put my hand in his. His palm is warm. Solid. He turns my hand over carefully, avoiding the marks on my wrist, and presses two fingers against the center of my palm.

“Here,” he murmurs. “Stay here with me.”

A laugh breaks out of me, thin and messy. “That sounds like something from a terrible self-help podcast.”

His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay on mine. “Is it working?”

“No.”

He raises one brow.

“A little,” I admit.

“Good.”

I hate how badly I want to step into him. I hate how much easier breathing feels with his hand around mine and his body blocking the wind. I hate that Preston was right about one thing: Ryder has always been there in the back of my mind, impossible and warm and dangerous in a completely different way.

Ryder brushes his thumb across my palm once. “I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

“You got there.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Ryder.”

His name comes out rough, and his gaze drops to my mouth before he catches himself.

That tiny slip changes everything.

The rain. The street. The red marks on my wrist. The fear clawing through my ribs. All of it is still there, but now there is Ryder too, standing close enough to touch, watching me like he is one bad decision away from giving me whatever I ask for.

So I ask without words.

I step closer, rise onto my toes, and kiss him.

For half a second, he doesn’t move.

His whole body locks like I’ve shoved him off a ledge.

Then a sound tears out of him, low and wrecked, and he kisses me back.