Page 52 of The Break Down

Fear makes me shudder.

Not the fear of being caught or seen or judged.

Real fear.

The kind that takes root in your gut and whispers, you’re in too deep, and it might be too late to walk away unscathed.

Because I know myself.

And I know what I feel when he touches me. When he looks at me like I’m the only goddamn thing that matters. I know what it means that I’ve memorized the shape of his smile and the way his jaw ticks when he’s frustrated and how his voice gets low and rough when he’s about to kiss me.

This isn’t a crush.

This isn’t lust.

This is the edge of something terrifying.

And maybe I’m not built for this world—his world.

The crowd shows no sign of thinning out.

They’ve doubled, maybe tripled, all flocking toward the man at the center like he’s the sun and they’re desperate for the warmth.

So I take a step back.

Then another.

I feel like I’m watching him from a thousand miles away.

Then his head snaps up.

Like he senses it.

Like my retreat tripped some primal alarm in him.

His gaze finds mine.

No. It slams into me.

Dark. Intense. Questioning.

And I feel it like a hand to the chest.

Like a leash tugging at my spine.

His glower isn’t angry—it’s wounded. Confused. Possessive.

Like he knows I’m slipping through his fingers.

“One second,” he says to a fan who won’t stop chattering at him, voice a little too sharp.

Then, louder, eyes locked on me:

“Red? What are you doing?”

Panic flares hot in my chest.

“Oh, uh, Carolina’s calling,” I lie, forcing a too-bright smile. I lift my phone to my cheek. “Can’t hear her.”

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