t's silent for a minute as I take in the stars, but it's hard to enjoy the moment. There's just too much at stake, and if I don't come clean to Tyler before he finds out the truth, he's going to hate me forever.

"Can I ask you something?" I say. He turns on his side until he's facing me properly, but I don't wait for an answer. "My friend said today that sometimes being brave is knowing when to give up. Do you think that's true?"

He's quiet for a moment, and even though I don't turn to look at him, I feel his dark eyes on my profile. "Sometimes," he says, "yeah."

"How are you supposed to know when?" I say. "What are the signs that you should just give up?"

"I don't think there are signs," he says, frowning a little. "I think you just have to trust yourself."

I nod, but that feels like the scariest part about it. What if you can't trust yourself? "I'm not so good at trusting," I say, and even though I'm referring to myself, his eyes darken slightly.

Carefully, he shifts closer until he's propped on one elbow, staring down at me. "You can trust me, sirenita."

Shivers ascend my arms, and maybe it's down to the light breeze in the air, but I can't help but think it's down to him. His words cut straight through me, settling deep in the pit of my chest and burning as brightly as the stars.

My voice is barely a whisper as I say, "I do trust you," and then his lips are finding mine, warm and desperate and sweet.

And just like that, I forget everything else. I'm lost to the moment, to the heat of his hands as he caresses my face before they gently fall to my chest. My back starts to arch, his fingers like fire as he unzips my jacket, exposing my t-shirt underneath. And I'm so consumed by his taste, by the heat between my legs as his hands cup my breasts, that I'm not prepared for what comes next.

He suddenly moves on top of me, his chest hard and heavy as it presses against mine. The yelp in my throat gets caught on my tongue, but the pain on my face is unmistakable.

Tyler freezes, his eyes dark and careful as he takes in my face. Then, slowly, he pulls back and takes hold of the bottom of my t-shirt. I think about protesting, about grabbing his hand and stopping him from seeing what I've tried so hard to hide, but I don't. He starts to lift it up, first exposing the unblemished skin, and then the hideous bruises.

In the seconds that follow, his face goes through a myriad of expressions, none of them good. "I can explain," I say, but he's already pulling away from me to sit back on his knees, where he regards me in a way that makes me nervous.

I take a deep breath, about to force myself to sit up when he moves in closer, helping to get me to my feet. I let out a whimper, because for some reason standing up is much harder than lying down.

"I thought you said you weren't hurt." His voice comes out low, hard, and I know I've messed up big time.

"I know," I say, "but it looks a lot worse than it is."

He shakes his head but still doesn't drop his hand from my waist, as though he thinks I'm about to keel over. He goes to speak but suddenly stops, his jaw forming a hard, narrow line. Whatever he's thinking, it isn't good.

"I get it," he says finally, eyes flitting to mine, but they are no longer warm and familiar. "I get it better than anyone, sirenita, but the tournament isn't worth your health."

"You're right," I say, "I just need a few days to rest. Then I'll be fine to–"

"You won't be fine," he growls. "Those ribs are cracked, Roxy. That's six to eight weeks of healing minimum."

"Tyler–"

"You know what kills drivers?" he suddenly asks. "Recklessness, and you're being reckless." He reaches out, cupping the side of my cheek with his hand. "Winning means nothing if you have to destroy yourself and everything you love in the process."

He drops his hand and turns around like he can't stand to look at me. For a moment or two, he just looks into the distance at the houses on the hills, too angry to speak. I swallow down the lump in my throat and fight back the tears, because there is no way I'm crying right now.

Finally, he turns back around. "Have you seen my dad?" he asks. "He can barely walk two feet because of racing injuries he never let heal." He walks toward me, and gone is the hardness that had filled his eyes before, replaced with what I'm certain is fear. "There is always a price, sirenita. One day you'll wake up and realize you can't walk, or that you can't get through the day without pain killers. You want to know the real truth? The fine print they don't tell you about? It's that racing takes everything and gives nothing back."

My throat feels tight as I take in his face. This isn't just about me, this is about him, too. His family. Racing is what tore his family apart, and it's the reason his Dad can hardly walk. Now it's the reason for my betrayal.

I take a step forward in a desperate bid to hug him, hurt when he takes a step back. "I'm not going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself for a race. If that's your choice, then I'm out."

"Are you saying that as my trainer or as you?" My heart beats harder in the silence that follows, only to be shattered moments later.

"Both." Then, without another word, he makes his way back through the trees to his bike and I'm left to do the same.

❤️