Page 21 of Wrecked By Rev

“Niall was here.” His voice goes flat. Dangerous. “What did he do?”

“Rev—”

“Angel. What did he do?”

I don’t want to show him. But I know he’s not going to let this go, so I hold out my arm.

The bruises are already forming—four distinct marks where his fingers dug in.

Rev stares at them. His whole body changes. The warmth drains out of his face, replaced by something cold and terrifying. His jaw is tight. His hands curl into fists on the table.

“I should have waited inside,” I say quickly. “I know I should have. I just—I was feeling good after the clubhouse, and I thought?—”

“Stop.”

“It’s my fault. If I’d just?—”

“Angel.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand—gentle, so gentle, even though I can see the rage vibrating through him. “This is not your fault. You understand me? You didn’t do anything wrong. He put his hands on you. That’s on him.”

“But if I’d waited?—”

“Then he would have tried something else. Tomorrow, or next week, or whenever he caught you alone.” His grip tightens slightly. “This isn’t about what you did or didn’t do. This is about a man who won’t take no for an answer.”

My eyes sting. “I just keep thinking?—”

“I know.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “Believe me, I know. I spent months after Wheels died wondering if I could have done something different. If I’d checked his bike one more time, if I’d noticed something, if I’d just—” He stops. Takes a breath. “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But I tortured myself anyway.”

I stare at him. He’s never talked about this before—not really. The guilt he carries, the what-ifs that must haunt him.

“If I’d gotten here ten minutes earlier,” he says quietly, “I could have been with you when you walked out. He never would have approached. But I wasn’t here. And I’ve been playing that same game in my head—the ‘if only’ game—for years. It doesn’t change anything. It just eats you alive.”

“Rev...”

“Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t let him make you think any of this is your fault.” He lifts my hand to his mouth, presses his lips to my knuckles. “The only person responsible for what he did is him.”

Something breaks loose in my chest. The tears I’ve been holding back spill over, and I’m crying—ugly crying, the kind I haven’t let myself do in months. Rev slides out of his side of the booth and into mine, pulling me against his chest, holding me while I fall apart.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

I don’t know how long we stay like that. Long enough for the tears to slow. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for the fear and the anger and the exhaustion to transform into something else entirely.

Need.

I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, intense, still simmering with barely-contained rage. But underneath that, I see something else. The same thing I’m feeling.

“I need you,” I whisper.

His jaw tightens. “Angel?—”

“Please.” I press my palm against his chest, feel his heart pounding under my hand. “I need to feel something other than this. I need to feel you.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

Something shifts in his expression. The restraint he’s been holding onto cracks.

“Get up,” he says. Low. Commanding.