The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,274

as defenseless as he is. “Now, tell me who you’re hiding from.”

His eyes widen just enough for me to know I hit that nail on its head before he narrows them angrily. “No one,” he insists.

“You can trust me,” I coax softly. Instead of the reassurance I hoped to inspire, his bottom lip trembles and his throat moves convulsively. I reach across the counter, my palm open in invitation.

He stares at my hand with wide, wary eyes before he lifts his gaze to my face. The bleak, haunted look in his eyes makes my breath hitch.

“I won’t let them hurt you again.”

“You can’t do anything,” he snarls then turns to make a run for the door.

I sprint to get ahead of him, stop short, and pivot with my arms open to catch him. He may be small, but he packs the punch of a freight train and his momentum sends us crashing to the floor.

I roll over and wrap him in a bear hug. The press of his too-prominent rib cage against my arms and the thud of his sprinting heart and against my torso firms my resolve to find out what happened to him.

“Let me go,” he screeches and bucks against me. His head flails between my breasts and I crane my neck to move my face out of harm’s way.

My wildly beating heart is lodged in my throat and my arms ache but I hold on tight.

He’s scared and so alone that he’s managed to find his way here on a school night without triggering an Amber Alert.

“You’re safe with me.” I whisper.

“Please, please let me go.” His voice is still colored by anger, but it breaks at the end of his sentence and he starts to cry. His hot tears dampen the front of my shirt.

I rest my cheek atop his head. The touch seems to startle him and instantly, but for his heaving chest, he goes completely still. After a few seconds of this, I risk loosening my hold and move my hand to caress circles in the center of his back. He stiffens and then our embrace changes.

His fisted hands were trapped between us. Now, they slide around my ribcage, his small hands press into my back. He holds me so tightly it’s uncomfortable and cries like his entire heart is broken.

I recognize the grief that’s pouring out of him. It’s the keening, festering kind that comes knowing that with losing something you’ll never get back. Whoever said you can’t miss what you’ve never had was selling a pipe dream.

My father died before I was old enough to have a single memory of him. But I’ve felt his absence so keenly at times, I was sure my grief would swallow me whole.

What always saved me from those emotional hurricanes was having a safe place – usually my grandfather’s arms – to see the storm through. He didn’t insult me with platitudes and promises he couldn’t keep. He’d let me get it out, chuck me under the chin, and send me on my way.

“Whatever you’ve lost, is gone. But you’re still here, and you deserve to be happy.” I repeat one of my favorite meditations in a soothing cadence. He’s just a kid, but so was I the first time I heard it.

His sobs soften. But his hold on me, doesn’t. Pity squeezes my heart. My family isn’t perfect, but I’ve never not had a place to go when I was this low.

We lay there silent, the buzz and hum of the appliances and overhead lights mingling with our breaths and heartbeats.

After a few minutes, his arms slacken and a half sigh, half snore confirms that he’s fallen asleep.

I press a kiss to the top of his head and close my eyes as the familiar scent of Johnson’s baby shampoo assails me. Oh God, he’s so young.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I remember Weston.

Shit. I stifle a groan and chew the inside of my lip while I consider the child asleep in my arms. I need to figure out who he is and how to get him back to school.

The time I’d set aside to get some of my work done ahead of Weston’s arrival is gone. I may be brazen enough to sneak him in here, but I’m not crazy. This work has to get done and on time, too.

I reach for my phone, moving gingerly to not wake him and read Weston’s text.

“OMW”

I make a snap decision and type back a response.

“Not