Page 67 of Pack Frenzy
“Ferris wheel,” he says, mouth quirked. “Before Eli eats the whole fair.”
“I’ve eaten less than half the fair,” Eli protests from not far behind, powdered sugar turning his black shirt into accidental galaxy print. “But I’m willing to make it a goal.”
“I’ll take her up,” Rowan says to Cassian, and respect layered with stubbornness hums along the edges like two notes that shouldn’t harmonize but do.
Cassian nods, flicks his gaze to me. “I’ll meet you after the ride?”
“Deal,” I say, and it tastes like three things at once: permission, promise, and problem. Because I should be keeping my distance. I should be protecting myself. Instead, I’m leaning in.
Rowan’s palm slides against mine without looking, warm callus at the base of my thumb. He doesn’t tug so much as assume I’ll follow, and he’s right. My fingers curl around his like they’ve been waiting for permission. It’s terrifying what he does to me with something so simple. What they all do.
We climb inside a yellow car, and the Ferris wheel groans as it lifts us skyward. The city shrinks below us; the sea goes out forever. A draft lifts the tiny hairs at my nape and slips cool under my collar.
Down below, the fair is a carnival of sound—screams, laughter, the bark of attendants, bells, the distant thud of a game starting. Up here, it’s quiet enough to hear the small things: my own breath, the creak of the seat.
Rowan doesn’t talk at first. He looks out where the water bruises purple toward the horizon. His scent breaks through salt and burnt-sugar haze—sandalwood and rain on warm stone, clean and steady, a low note that settles something anxious in my chest without asking.
I focus on the lights. How they pulse, how they smear into comet tails when the cars pick up speed.
“You look like you belong here,” he says finally, voice soft enough that I have to turn my head to catch it.
“Windblown and sticky?” I offer, trying for lightness even though my pulse is hammering. Because if I don’t deflect, I’ll do something reckless. Kiss him again. Tell him things I’m not ready to say.
But he doesn’t laugh.
“Free,” he says instead.
The word punches through something I keep locked. Lands in the place I don’t poke because that’s how I survive. My airway constricts. The ticket strip crinkles under my thumb—I’m picking at it, pulling threads, doing something with my hands so they don’t reach for him and reveal how desperately I want to believe he’s right.
“Like you stopped bracing,” he adds, quieter now.
He’s right. I have stopped, at least a little. I didn’t even notice. My shoulders aren’t up around my ears. My jaw isn’t locked. I’ve been breathing full breaths without checking the exits or cataloging who’s too close.
When did that happen? When did I start feelingsafe?
“Maybe I forgot to.” My voice comes out softer than I meant. More honest.
The Ferris wheel creaks. Someone below us screams on the Tilt-A-Whirl, bright and fearless. I want that. The fearless part. The bright part. The part where I stop waiting for the bottom to drop out.
“I could remind you how,” he offers, “or say nothing and let you figure it out. I’m capable of both.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “You, saying nothing. Bold claim.”
“I’ve been practicing with Eli,” he says, deadpan. “He narrates enough for three people.”
A bead of condensation runs down the metal strut. Rowan tracks it with his eyes like he’s trying not to look at my mouth. The air between us feels heavy, expectant. Cool air threads under my collar, but I don’t shiver. His warmth is too close, too tempting.
Kiss him. Just lean in and?—
My pulse spikes. Palms damp. I press them against my jeans instead.
The wheel lurches, and the chance snaps before I can make the mistake.
We ride twice more—neither of us suggesting we stop, neither of us ready to break whatever spell this is—then we meet Eli at the food booths, where he’s declaring funnel cake the winner “by a margin too large to be statistically respectable.”
He pinches off a piece and offers it to me, eyebrows raised. Powdered sweetness dusts my lower lip; he wipes it away with his thumb like it’s no big deal and then looks, briefly, like maybe it is.
My chest does a weird clench-and-release thing. These men are going to ruin me, and the worst part is, I think I might let them.
