Page 11 of Midnight Rebel

I brush my thumb across her knuckles, a silent reassurance. Whatever happens next, at least we had this.

“Who are you?” she whispers, her breath warm against my neck.

“Four...three...two...”

I grip her waist. “You first.”

She takes a deep breath. So do I.

“One!”

If only I could take her far away from here, where we can keep this fantasy going. But I can’t. We each have reasons for being here tonight. And those reasons are about to collide in a very real way.

The room erupts in cheers. In one synchronized motion, masks are lifted. Faces revealed.

A profound stillness gathers in the space between us, anticipation curling tight and anxious in my chest. I tighten my grip on her hip, the heat of her skin scorching me from beneath the layers of fabric.

I reach up, slowly removing my mask. No more mystery. No more hiding.

She’s already pulled off her mask. Blonde hair spills from her mask’s edges like honey, and the faint flush gracing her highcheekbones deepens under my gaze. And those eyes—stormy and fierce as they widen in recognition.

“You’re Colt?” she asks, her voice high and tight. “This is unexpected.”

A crater-sized hole opens up in my chest. “And you’re Autumn Clarke. The reporter.”

She’s the journalist digging into my family. And I’ve spent the night dancing with her.

Her features pinch, the mask dropping, no longer hiding her tension, now on full display. “You knew who I was?” She frowns. “Is that why you approached me in the garden?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, yes, I suspected something. But that’s not why I—” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “I didn’t recognize you with the mask. I felt drawn to you.”

Her expression softens slightly. “I felt it too. That connection.”

Hope flares in my chest, but I tamp it down. This is so much more complicated than I realized. I’m supposed to be protecting her, keeping her out of trouble.

But now? Now, I’m not sure if I can trust her. If I should trust her.

I open my mouth, unsure of what comes next. An apology? An accusation? A confession? But before I can force a single word out, a hand claps down on my shoulder. A bright, cheerful voice interrupts the fragile moment.

“Colton!”

I turn a fraction before realizing who it is—my mother, radiating joy, a glass of champagne in hand, completely unaware of the tension threatening to tear through us.

She beams at Autumn. “Who is this lovely young woman?”

Autumn stays silent, her eyes darting toward me, no doubt wondering what I’m going to say.

Wondering if I’ll keep her cover or out her right here. I’m wondering the same thing.

My stomach twists as the weight of the situation sinks in. No matter what happens from here, I’m royally screwed.

But under all that dread, there’s still that same pull. If anything, it’s stronger now that I know who she is.

It’s maddening. Infuriating. I want to push her away and pull her closer all at once.

Autumn takes steps away, ready to bolt. “I should go.”

“Wait,” I say, reaching for her hand. She hesitates, conflict clear on her face. “Please. We should talk.”

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