Page 75 of Left-Hand Larceny
“Don’t worry. I got this.”
“Wait—what are you going to do?” Sadie whispers as we hustle toward the doors.
Spags grins. “I’m charming and unpredictable. I’ll come up with something.”
He winks. “You didn’t see me.”
And just like that—we disappear.
The door closes behind us with a heavy thunk, sealing off the noise, the lights, the eyes. I should feel relieved, but all I feel is hollow.
My heels click across the concrete of the loading bay like they’re echoing off my bones. My dress feels too tight, my skin too thin. The cold air hits my arms and I wrap them around myself, more out of habit than anything. I can’t stop replaying it. Christian’s smirk, his voice like syrup, turned sour, the way he leaned in like he still had the right.
He didn’t touch me.
Not really.
Not the way that counts. I’m overreacting. Making a scene. Again. God, I’m such a mess.
Ragnar’s car beeps as he unlocks it. He opens the passenger door for me and waits, patient and solid and entirely too kind. I hesitate. If he were smart, he’d leave me here. Let me spiral on my own. I don’t even know what I am right now, clingy, broken, too much.
But he doesn’t.
He holds the door with steady patience, eyes soft on my face.
I slide in, and he crouches beside me.
Not hovering.
Not saying anything. Then he reaches for the seatbelt. His fingers brush the side of my ribs and I flinch, just slightly—out of reflex. His hands still immediately. He meets my eyes, a silent question in his.
I nod.
He finishes buckling me in with such care, like I’m made of something precious instead of the jagged, pathetic pieces rattling around my chest.
I can’t look at him. Not really. I’m too ashamed. Too aware of how much I must be repelling him. I’m the girl who fell apart in public because her ex whispered something slimy near a fucking ficus.
He shuts my door, walks around to the driver’s side, and gets in.
I brace for awkwardness. For a soft, well-meaning, ‘let’s talk about it.’ For him to ask if I’m okay or if I want to explain or if I realize I made a scene in front of some of the most important people in my life.
Instead, he just takes my hand in his. Ragnar’s palm is warm and wide and calloused. Solid. Grounding. The fate of the team rests in these hands. This is the hand that steals goals right out from under the opposition. Well, the other one is, he’s holding my hand with his right one.
I wait for a squeeze, for his thumb to brush over the top of my knuckles. Then he brings my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss—slow, deliberate—to the center of my palm.
It knocks the breath out of me.
Not because it’s dramatic, because it’s not. It’s reverent. Like I’m something, someone, to be cherished, not pitied.I stare at our hands as he rests them gently on the curve of his thigh. Now his thumb traces slow circles on my skin.
He kissed me once tonight already. On my shoulder. I needed someone to tether me back to my own body, and he was there. I’m not even sure if he knows he did it.
And now this.
A kiss on my hand, like I’m someone worth calming. Someone worth staying for. I shouldn’t want more, but I do. I want his kiss on my mouth. I want to taste him. I want him to ruin me. Hungry, soft, I want a kiss that says you’re safe and you’re wanted and you’re not too much all at once.
Ragnar starts the car, and the engine hums to life like the moment never broke.
We drive in silence, our fingers still tangled. He doesn’t let go. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t push. And for once, I don’t feel like I have to fill the quiet.
