Page 84 of Game Misconduct
The one that slices through me like a blade and buries deep.
Because I’ve fought to keep her at a distance for weeks—told myself it was about the job, the team, the goddamn clause.
But the truth?
I just wanted to make sure she’d fight back.
The music fades.
But neither of us moves.
Not until someone brushes past us and the moment cracks just enough for her to step away.
Her fingers slip from mine like she’s peeling off a layer of skin.
She gives a tight smile meant for anyone watching.
Then she turns and walks back into the crowd, spine straight, shoulders high, leaving behind only the scent of something sharp and devastating.
And I stand there, fists clenching and unclenching, jaw tight, knowing damn well I’m not going to make it through the night without her.
And I shouldn’t still be watching her.
But I am.
She’s back at her table, calm and composed, sipping champagne like her body wasn’t just pressed against mine, like I didn’t feel her ribs expand under my palm when I whispered in her ear.
I drag a hand through my hair and make my way toward the bar.
Need to cool off.
Need space.
Need a fucking lobotomy if I think I can get through another hour of this without touching her again.
“Lasker.” A voice cuts through the noise behind me.
I turn, jaw tight, already bracing—another donor, another handshake, another conversation I don’t want.
It’s worse.
It’s Griffin.
His jaw’s set, smile professional, but his eyes aren’t friendly.
“You and Sloane have an interesting rhythm.”
I take a slow sip of my bourbon and let the burn settle. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
He leans in slightly, voice low. “She’s important to me. She’s my family. Don’t fuck with her head.”
My jaw flexes.
Not because he’s wrong.
But because he’s right.
“I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” I say evenly. “But she can handle herself.”
