Page 72 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
Theo’s eyes flick to Dane, the kind of glance that holds a whole conversation in a heartbeat. Dane moves before I can puzzle it out, crossing the room to pour a glass from the canteen. His movements are deliberate, steady—everything about him screamingsafeeven as I sense the way his body is coiled to move if I stumble.
When he hands me the glass, his fingers almost brush mine. Almost. The warmth in his eyes is so steady I have to look away.
Jamie shifts in his seat, wincing when he moves his leg. Theo fusses with the blanket again, muttering something under his breath.
“Since when are you the nurturing one?” Jamie teases, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Theo rolls his eyes. “Since you decided to get yourself half-crushed in a ruin, maybe.”
Their banter makes something in my chest loosen, the sharp edge of my awareness smoothing out just enough to let me breathe.
But then a wave of warmth rolls through me, sudden and stronger than before. I curl my fingers around the glass, grounding myself in the cool bite of the water as I drink.
They notice. I can see it in the way Dane’s jaw tightens slightly, in the way Theo’s teasing fades for a fraction of a second. Jamie’s eyes soften, his smirk dimming into something quieter.
No one says it out loud, but the air feels like a silent pact settling around us.
Protect her. Keep her safe.
Chapter fifty-one
Jamie
Ihate being useless.
The others don’t say it—hell, they go out of their way to make itnota thing—but every time Theo hauls me up so I can hobble to the other side of the room, or Dane disappears outside to check the perimeter without me, it grates under my skin. I’m supposed to be in the thick of it, not sitting here while my leg throbs like a damn drumbeat.
The safehouse is warm, maybe a little too warm. A small fire crackles in the stone hearth, giving the whole place a faint scent of woodsmoke that seeps into my clothes. Shadows dance along the rough-planked walls. The air is heavy with the smell of old timber, damp wool from our coats, and something else—something softer, sweeter—Cam.
She’s curled in the nest Theo made earlier, knees drawn up, hair loose and shadowing her face. The blankets around her are thick, rumpled in a way that makes them look inviting even from across the room. She looks about how I feel—off-balance, restless, trying to keep it together while her body’s workingagainst her. She’s kept the door open, meaning she doesn’t want to be alone.
“You look like you’re plotting a prison break,” I say finally. My voice comes out rough, but the corner of my mouth pulls up into something resembling a grin.
She tilts her head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been staring at the door like you think you can glare it into bringing you your freedom, or miraculously heal you.”
I chuckle, but it’s hollow. “Might work. Haven’t given up yet.”
Her eyes soften, and for a second it’s just the two of us, trading glances that sayyeah, this suckswithout either of us having to put it into words. I can see the sheen on her skin, the way her breaths are coming slower, heavier.
Dane passes through, quiet as always, but I notice the way his gaze lingers on her before he heads back toward the door. Protective. Hyperaware. The same thing I feel clawing at my own gut.
Theo’s sitting nearby, pretending to read an old, dog-eared book we found on a shelf, but I know better. He’s watchingeverything. The firelight catches on the faint crease between his brows every time Cam shifts.
She pulls the blanket tighter, and I swear her scent thickens, like warm honey with a sharp twist of citrus. She’s trying to hide it, but there’s no hiding from the three of us. My body responds before my brain can tell it to settle down.
Theo glances my way, catching the tension in my shoulders. Neither of us says it, but I know we’re both thinking the same thing—she’s close. She won’t be able to shed this heat by herself.
I shift in my chair, wincing as my leg reminds me why I’m not up and pacing. I rub at my aching thigh just to have something to do with my hands.
Theo gets up after a while, pours me some water from the dented kettle, and sets it on the table beside me. “Drink. You’re turning into a grumpy old man.”
“Grumpy, maybe. Not old.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He sits again, drumming his fingers against his knee.
“Stop that,” I mutter.
“Stop what?”
