Page 70 of Daring You

19

Ben

As closedoff as Astor likes to think she is, I can envision every single scroll of text her mind is typing up behind those round eyes.

Ben is Ryan.

Ryan is Ben.

This is a—

“This is a fucking joke,” she says, but not in her usual, arrogant silky tone. She won’t move from her perch below me.

“I wouldn’t kid around about this.”

I’m breathing heavy, but we’ve only descended two flights of stairs.

“You and my brother, the four of you, have such fucked up hero complexes, you know that?” Astor says. “The fact that you would—the idea that you four would come up with a hare-brained scheme like this, just to keep me safe from the hypothetical risk of drug lords, I can actually believe it.”

The more Astor talks, the more easily I can see each snowflake form in her irises, until there’s nothing but a snow-packed wall remaining.

“There’s no theory behind your risk. It’s pure fact,” I say calmly, despite the thunder clouds inside. “As Chavez showing up at your place, unannounced, proves.”

“I’m his lawyer,” she practically screeches. “I’m on his side!”

“But he wants me, and that’s something you’ve been wrestling with. Chavez doesn’t like internal conflict.”

“You’re not Ryan Delaney,” she spits. “You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No.” Astor throws her hands up to her face, then scours her fingers through her hair. “It’s not possible. I refuse to believe that this whole time, you’ve been standing in front of me, lying about—”

“I had to.” I take the chance and descend until we’re on the same footing. “It’s not lying when I have to do it to protect my livelihood, the lives of my parents—the Donahues—who raised me since I was four. To keep my friends safe. Locke. You. I covered the truth to prevent what happened to my biological parents to happen to anyone else I love.”

“This is too much.” Astor’s voice shakes, and she whirls, hands still tangled in her hair.

“Astor—” I gently cup her waist to try to turn her back.

“Don’t touch me!”

Hands raised, I retreat, but that only seems to incentivize her further, because it gives her an excellent view of the burn scars on my right forearm.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, her eyes filling, her lower lip trembling. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

She backs away, but forgets about the steps behind her. She stumbles and I rear forward, catching her before she falls.

Unbelievably, she holds on to me. Digs her forehead into my neck and shoulder, her nails clawing into my shoulders. And she cries.

“Oh, God. Shit…Astor…” My hand cups the back of her head, and I dip my chin near her cheek.

I let her sob, her too-thin shoulders shake against my chest. Her entire body, so tall, so flawless and tailored, bowing into my skin, and all I want to do is warm her.

“I’m sorry,” I say into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

My words zap into her, because she lets go. Pushes me back. Her watered-down, red-rimmed eyes ram into my soul. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re the one who suffered. You’re the boy whose blood everyone wants.”

“I wanted to tell you from the very beginning…”

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