Page 163 of Shots & Echoes

The call ended. The phone dropped to the table. A decision made in a single breath.

“I have to go.” Her voice was clipped, rushed. No room for argument. Her hands moved fast, gathering her things, slipping into action before I could process what the hell was happening.

“Who?” I demanded, even though I already fucking knew.

“Team USA reps. Last-minute meeting.”

A slow, sick dread coiled in my gut. Because I’d felt this before—that sensation of something being ripped away before I had the chance to hold on.

I scoffed. “Convenient.”

Her eyes flicked up, narrowing for half a second, but she didn’t bite. Didn’t argue. She disappeared into the bedroom, andI heard the rustling of fabric, the soft drag of a zipper—then she was back.

Wearing that dress.

The one Langley had ruined with his fucking hands earlier. The one I wanted to rip off her again and again and again just to erase the memory of anyone else ever touching her in it.

She stepped toward me, close enough that I could feel her warmth, and then—a kiss.

Soft. Quick. But devastating.

A promise. A warning. A goddamn line in the sand.

I let her pull away, but only just. Because I knew.

This wasn’t just her leaving for a meeting.

This was the calm before the storm, the final breath before the freefall.

And as I stared into those green eyes—those eyes that had been burning through my defenses since day one—I had the sick feeling that we were already past the point of no return.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and unrelenting. Worse than anger. Worse than anything he could’ve yelled.

“You can’t help it, can you?” His voice was low, sharp. A quiet, lethal thing. A blade meant to slice straight through me. “You ruin everything you touch.”

The words landed harder than any punch ever had. A direct hit. And I just stood there, absorbing it, letting it sink into my ribs like shrapnel. Because part of me wondered if he was right.

Maybe I did.

Maybe I was built for destruction.

I clenched my fists at my sides, knuckles aching from the night’s violence. From Chris. From everything.

My father watched me, waiting for a response, waiting for me to fight back. But what the hell was I supposed to say? That I didn’t mean for any of this to happen? That it wasn’t my fault?

It was my fault.

And he knew it.

“Do you even care what happens next?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but somehow worse. Like he was already mourning what I could’ve been.

I didn’t answer.

“You’ve put her in danger.”

The weight of those words hit different. Like a fist straight to the chest. My pulse hammered against my ribs, an erratic, desperate beat. Because this wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about her.

I forced out a breath, jaw tightening. “I’m not putting her in danger.” But even as I said it, it didn’t feel like the truth. Because deep down, I knew—Iris wasn’t safe in my orbit. She was burning too close to something that could ruin her.

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