Chapter 10

Kaleena

"This isn't the highway to your penthouse, Blackwood," I say, my hand clamping onto the door handle as our headlights sweep across a towering iron archway. "Why are we pulling into the pier?"

Raiden doesn't answer. He stops the black SUV in front of the locked wrought--iron gates of the lakeside amusement park, shifts into park, and kills the engine.

Through the wet windshield, the entire boardwalk blazes with neon light. Thousands of white bulbs outline the roller coaster tracks, carousel music drifts across the empty asphalt, and at the end of the pier, the massive Ferris wheel spins slowly for no one at all.

"Get out of the truck, Kaleena," Raiden says, pushing his door open.

I climb down onto the wet pavement, pulling his oversized black hoodie tighter around my ribs as I stare through the iron bars. A heavy padlock hangs open on the side turnstile, propped ajar just wide enough for us to slip through.

"We're trespassing," I say, my pulse jumping as I back away a step. "It's past midnight in November. It's closed to the public."

Raiden rounds the hood of the truck, his hands tucked into the pockets of his gray sweatpants, his broad shoulders blocking the wind off the water. "It's closed to the public. Not to me."

I blink up at him, searching his bruised, unreadable face under the amber gate lights. "Did you pay someone to leave the lights on? Why the hell would you bring me here?"

His storm--gray eyes hold mine without a flicker of his usual arrogance. "You said it was your birthday."

The air catches in my throat. Back in his marble foyer, when I was screaming at his chest with tears burning my eyes, I threw my twenty--first birthday in his face like a weapon. I thought he barely registered it. Instead, Raiden Blackwood took a single sentence I screamed at him in anger and built an entire night around it.

"You rented an amusement park because I got kicked out on my birthday?" I whisper, my chest tightening around something warm and terrifying.

"Stop looking at me like I bought you a diamond, Donovan," he mutters, his jaw clenching as he motions toward the open turnstile with his chin. "I owed the owner's family a favor from a charity game last winter, and I wanted a clear perimeter after that video went viral. Walk."

"That's Rule 7, by the way," I shoot back as I slip past him through the gate onto the wooden boardwalk. "You aren't supposed to call me Donovan."

"There's nobody here to hear it," he replies smoothly, though his eyes track every step I take.

Every game booth along the midway glows in pink and gold, rows of stuffed prizes hanging above empty counters. When we pass the open pavilion of the arcade basketball booth, where six mini rubber balls sit lined up on the metal rim, my steps slow.

"I used to beat Elijah at this every fourth of July," I mutter before I can stop myself, the name stinging my tongue like salt.

Raiden stops dead beside the counter. He reaches over the metal bar, flips the power switch on the side of the timer box, and grabs two basketballs, tossing one squarely against my chest.

"Prove it, then," he says, a dark challenge glinting in his eyes. "Sixty seconds on the clock. Loser carries the heavy boxes up to the guest room."

"You're the varsity athlete," I scoff, hugging the ball against his number nineteen logo. "Isn't that rigged?"

"I play with a stick on ice, art girl. And from what I saw of your balance in my foyer, you need a ten--point head start."

Heat rushes into my cheeks----not humiliation this time, just a sharp spark of competition. "Hit the button, Blackwood. I'm going to wipe that smirk right off your face."

He slaps the red starter button, and the digital scoreboard clicks to sixty seconds.

I fire my first shot, banking it cleanly through the net for two points before he even sets his feet. Raiden curses under his breath and starts firing rapid--fire one--handed shots into the neighboring hoop, his broad shoulders shifting smoothly with every release. By the thirty--second mark, we are tied at twenty--eight.

"Your elbow is flaring out," Raiden says, leaning his hip hard into mine to throw off my aim as I go up for a jumper. "That form is tragic, Donovan."

"Hey! Stay in your own lane!" I gasp, shoving my shoulder back into his solid ribs as my shot bounces off the rim. When a basketball rolls down his return ramp, I dart across his front, snatch it right out from under his fingertips, and sink it into my own hoop.

"Did you just steal my ball?" Raiden growls, though there is a rough edge of amusement in his voice that makes my stomach flip.

"The rule list didn't say anything about arcade fouls!" I fire back, sinking another shot as the ten--second warning buzzer ticks down.

He crowds right behind me, his chest pressing against my shoulder blades as he reaches one long arm over my head to block my view of the rim while his other hand sinks two fast baskets. I duck under his bicep, laughing breathlessly as I grab two balls at once and heave them both upward just as the buzzer sounds.

Both drop straight through the net.

The final scoreboard flashes in bright red numbers: 54 ---- 52.

"Yes!" I jump straight into the air, pumping both fists over my head as a bright, breathless laugh bursts out of my throat.

The sound echoes across the empty wooden pavilion, startling me so badly I almost stumble in my damp sneakers. I haven't heard myself laugh like that in months.

Spinning around on my heel to gloat right in his face, I point a finger at the glowing numbers. "Fifty--four to fifty--two! You owe me box duty, Black----"

The words die on my tongue.

Raiden isn't looking at the scoreboard, and he isn't smirking. He is leaning back against the wooden counter with his hands bracing the edge on either side of his hips, staring at me with every single wall down. His storm--gray eyes are dark and unguarded, tracking the flush on my cheeks and the lingering curve of my mouth like he has never seen anything like it in his life.

My heart stutters against my ribs, the sudden chemistry between us thickening the cold air until I can barely swallow.

"What?" I ask, my hand coming up to brush my damp cheek. "Do I have something on my face?"

Raiden blinks once. The iron shutter slams back down over his expression so fast I almost wonder if I imagined the crack in his armor. He pushes off the counter and turns toward the lakefront path, his jaw set hard.

"No," he says, his voice rougher than it was ten seconds ago. "Let's keep moving."

We walk in silence down the ramp to the lower promenade, where the black water of the lake laps against the stone seawall under the glow of the spinning Ferris wheel. Now that the adrenaline of the game is fading, the reality of the night presses in from all sides.

I stop beside a painted wooden bench overlooking the water. My legs suddenly feel like lead.

Four hours ago, I walked up my apartment stairs holding a salted caramel cupcake with a pink candle, ready to give my heart to a boy I trusted for fifteen years. Now my mother's locket is crusted with mud in Raiden Blackwood's truck, my canvases are sitting in a hallway labeled trash, and an anonymous account is calling my name in the dark.

My knees give out first. I sink onto the cold wooden slats of the bench, press both palms over my face, and the grief arrives all at once.

A ragged sob rips out of my chest before I can bite it back. My shoulders shake violently inside Raiden's oversized hoodie as hot tears spill through my fingers. I curl in on myself, waiting for him to tell me to stop being pathetic.

Instead, the bench creaks beside me.

Raiden sits down, slides one heavy, warm arm around my trembling shoulders, and pulls me sideways until my face is buried squarely against the hard muscle of his chest. He doesn't try to fix it with cheap platitudes. He just wraps his other arm around my waist, shielding me from the wind off the lake with his entire body, and rests his chin against the top of my hair.

"I've got you," Raiden murmurs, his deep voice vibrating right through my breastbone. "Let it out, Kaleena. I've got you."

My fingers twist into the front of his t--shirt, clutching the fabric like a lifeline as I cry against his collarbone until my throat is raw. His hand moves in slow, steady strokes along my spine, warm and unyielding.

Gradually, my ragged breathing slows into quiet shivers against his skin.

As my analytical mind surfaces through the exhaustion, I realize two things at once. First, there is no camera pointed at us here by the seawall, and no threat on the path. Even when we passed the park's lone security guard inside the gatehouse earlier, his phone was locked in a wall box----Raiden told the staff no phones before we ever arrived. He thought of everything.

Second, we are completely alone, which means staying curled in his arms with my cheek pressed over his heartbeat is a direct violation of Rule 2: In private, we're not.

I notice that I am breaking Rule 2. And I don't move an inch.

Instead, I tilt my chin up just enough to look at the sharp line of his throat and his clenched jaw in the silver light off the water.

"Raiden?" I whisper, my voice hoarse.

His hand stills against my waist, though he doesn't let me go. "Yeah."

"Why are you really doing this?" I ask softly, my fingers still tangled in the cotton over his heart. "You didn't rent an entire park at midnight or pay two grand to delete my stolen diary pages just to ruin Elijah's stats. It can't just be hockey. Tell me the truth."

Above me, Raiden goes completely rigid. His breath catches, and I watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his storm--gray eyes dropping down to mine. For three agonizing seconds, his lips part, his gaze burning with a fierce, terrifying devotion that looks like it has been eating him alive for years. He is one breath away from saying it.

Then he tears his gaze away, sets me firmly back onto the bench, and stands up in one abrupt motion.

"Don't start reading romance into a business deal," Raiden says, turning his back to me. "You're a winning move, Donovan. Nothing more."

On the word more, his voice cracks straight down the center.

He doesn't look back. He walks off up the boardwalk toward the gatehouse with his hands jammed deep in his sweatpants pockets, his knuckles visibly shaking against the fabric.

Alone on the bench by the lake, my phone buzzes inside my pocket.

With a frown, I pull it out and tap the text notification from an unknown number.

My breath freezes in my throat as the preview thumbnail loads on the screen. It is a clear photo of my face pressed against Raiden's chest on this exact bench, taken from outside the park's perimeter fence less than a minute ago.

Right below the picture sits a four--word message:

Nice night for a walk.