Ryley wanted to pull his hand away.
He should have yanked himself free from that grasp, should have felt the sting of disgust crawling under his skin, should have been furious.
But he wasn't.
Not because he wanted to twist the knife deeper into Mervyn's heart—no, this had nothing to do with him.
His body simply refused to move.
His limbs, so quick to act before, suddenly betrayed him, turning numb, unresponsive, as if they trusted Clyde's touch more than he did.
As if that grip—firm, steady—was the only force in the world capable of both crushing him and keeping him whole.
He hated it.
Hated the way his breath caught in his throat. Hated the way his pulse faltered—not out of fear, not out of rage, but something far more dangerous.
Hated that his body remembered something his heart refused to acknowledge.
But Ryley was nothing if not a master of deception. He locked the unease away, shoving it deep into the darkest parts of his mind.
