Page 202 of Rosetti Family New York
Until her.
"I couldn't," I admit, the words like broken glass in my throat.
"Why?"
I step closer, close enough to touch her, but holding back. "Because you matter."
Her eyes widen slightly. "To who?"
"To me," I say, the admission ripping open something I've kept locked away. "I don't know why. I don't know how. But you do."
She studies me, like she's trying to read something written in a language she doesn't quite understand.
"That scares you," she says. Not a question.
I don't deny it. "Yeah."
"Why?"
I turn away, staring out at the city. The skyline blurs as memories surge up—Alisa's terrified face the first time she saw my violent side. My mother's silent tears as she cleaned blood from my father's clothes. The way people look at us, at me, knowing what the Rosetti name means.
"Everyone I care about gets hurt," I say finally. "One way or another."
"I've already been hurt," she reminds me.
"Not by me."
"Is that what you're afraid of?" she asks, stepping closer. "That you'll hurt me?"
I turn to face her. "I know I will."
She reaches up, her fingers gentle against my cheek. I should pull away. Should keep my distance. But I can't make myself move.
"What if I'm not afraid of that?" she whispers.
"Then you're a fucking idiot," I say, but there's no heat in it.
She smiles, and something in my chest cracks open. "We've established that."
I catch her hand in mine, holding it against my face for a moment before lowering it. "Let's get you home."
She doesn't argue as we mount the bike again, her arms slipping around my waist like they belong there. Like she belongs there.
And that's the problem. Because I'm starting to think she does. Starting to think I can't imagine her anywhere else. And that terrifies me more than anything I've ever faced.
Because people like me don't get to keep the things they love. We break them. We lose them. We watch them walk away.
But as I feel her press against my back, her heart beating in time with mine, I know I'll fight like hell to change that. To be different. To be worthy of her.
Even if it kills me.
16
Sloane
Rafe rides like the world is chasing him, never dropping below fifty and not bothering to weave. I hang onto his waist for dear life, leaning against his solid, firm back. It should feel reckless. It feels safe. The Queensboro Bridge arches above, iron and endless, and I squeeze him tight as the lights blur past. My wrists are aching from Ethan's knots, but it's nothing compared to my pride.
Rafe must think I'm a complete idiot. And he'd be right.
