Page 22 of Renegade Ruin

So much for not giving in.

His eyes go wide and his mouth parts slightly, like he’s shocked I would say such a thing to him. Clearly, I’m the only one willing to.

“I’m one person. I’m doing the best I can,” I stammer, each word a little bolder than the one before. “Can you say the same?”

Seconds pass like hours as he sits there, silently scrutinizing me until the plane makes a sudden drop. I gasp and dig my nails into the first solid thing they find. Which turns out to be his thigh.

Then he’s there.

My eyes drop and zero in on where his hand tightly wraps around mine, his knuckles white.

When I tilt my head back up, his brown eyes have me in a chokehold. The corner of his mouth twitches, and he doesn’t make any move to let go.

My traitorous mind punishes me with a truly agonizing thought.

This could have been us.

In another world, we could have clung to one another in the face of this tragedy. I’m the villain in his narrative. Not because I am, but because he needs me to be.

Bishop opens his mouth to speak, and closes it, thinking better of whatever it was he was going to say.His gaze drops when I part my lips and close my eyes, unable to stand his uneasy gaze.

“I’m not sure I can do this.” His whispered words come out like a prayer. Or maybe a plea.

Or maybe that’s what I’m hoping for—that this is the moment he asks for help.

In what I can only describe as a moment of weakness, he leans forward and presses his forehead to mine.

“You’re not alone in this,” I breathe.

He huffs a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “How can you say that? I’m literally the lone fucking survivor from our team.”

“There’s still Jackson,” I point out, though I’m not sure it helps because Bishop claps back, “Who is unconscious.”

I give his hand a squeeze and whisper, “You still have me.”

Bishop pulls away slightly, his brows raising a smidge. I hold the breath in my lungs, and I wait to see if he believes me. It's a lifeline. One I might regret giving him.

As if fate is laughing at us, the plane makes a sharp jerk, forcing me to fall in his direction. I press my hands against his chest to break my fall, and when I pull back, his lips are a hair’s breadth away from my own.

His eyes search mine and I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but whatever he needs, I’ll give it to him.

“Fuck, Willow,” he rasps.

“Bishop—”

I’m not entirely positive what I’m going to say, but it doesn’t matter because I’m silenced by Bishop’s lips crashing against mine.

He’s kissing me.

Bishop Lawson is kissing me.

This is not what I meant when I said he still had me, but I’m helpless to force myself away.

It’s not a peck or a chaste brushing of lips. No, what Bishop gives me is desperate, like a star on the verge of being sucked into a black hole.

Everything right and wrong about this floods my mind, the takeaway being I need to do something—anything—to stop this. Need is the operative word because tearing my lips from his is the last thing I want to do.

It’s wrong.

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