Snow tastes like metal when you’re breathing too fast.
That’s the first thing I notice when I step out onto the frozen asphalt of the abandoned lot the racers use in winter—lungs tight, heartbeat punching ribs, breath fogging like I’m running from a crime scene instead of from a man.
Not just any man.
Him.
Adrian Cross.
Rogue.
The lie I kissed.
The truth that almost got me killed.
The obsession I can’t outrun no matter how fast I shift gears.
I tighten my grip on my helmet, fingers numb from the cold and something worse—something I refuse to name. Something shaped like the night he whispered my name like a confession and a curse.
Zee kicks snow off her boots beside me, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. “You good?”
Right.
I’m the picture of good—bruised pride, healing c
