Claiming Serenity(50)

Layla couldn’t think about that right now, would decide later if she should be thankful or insulted by that look. Wanting to defuse the situation, she took his hand, moved a gentle finger over his bloodied knuckles. “My dad will kill you if you can’t catch tomorrow at practice.”

Still, he didn’t speak, even as his hard glare softened, replaced by a look that Layla couldn’t quite define. She had thought at first it was chagrin, but maybe it was amazement. Maybe it was guilt. She couldn’t be sure, but she let Donovan watch her, let him keep silent and focus on her as she examined his knuckles.

They may have stayed there all night, her touching him, him staring at her like she was remarkable, possibly the devil made flesh, but Sayo interrupted them, touched Layla’s back as she spoke low and quiet to keep what she said from being heard by the dispersing crowd. “Get him home, Layla, before the real cops show up.” She nodded to the other players and they hurried the crowd along, moving with an unspoken, understood reaction to keep their squad mate from any real trouble. “Patch him up, make sure he gets home okay.”

The look Sayo gave her was unusual; an unexpected comment on Layla’s role that night, on how she was changing. That look told Layla that Sayo was now alone, that she was now the only uncoupled friend among their group. It was a silent understanding that Layla thought she should deny and she meant to, wanted to. But Sayo kissed her cheek and left one long, close look before she walked away from them.





In the dark, where only quiet keeps them company, Donovan finds who he truly is. With Layla and the easy slide of their skin moving together, there is truth. It is unbridled, the honest strike of his body against hers, the unguarded whimper of her pleasure mingling with his.

He’d thought he didn’t love Layla. He was convinced she’d never love him. Her family was old money, blood deep in Cavanagh’s roots. His family came from nothing, were nothing. Then Sean Mullens befriend Donovan’s father, took him under his wing and told him that the Donley name wasn’t trash. Coach convinced Donovan’s father that he didn’t have to end up like Donovan’s grandfather. He could be more than the poor son of a drunk who liked to beat on his wife and son. Still, the deep pockets his father had worked hard to earn didn’t matter. In this town new money didn’t win you social standing. It didn’t keep those snobby noses out of the air, despite his mother’s fruitless efforts at pretending the Donley name wasn’t a blight on gossipy, flapping tongues. Donovan knew who he was. Now, so did Layla.

But between those sheets dampened by their sweat, their two bodies collided, breaching past any veil of propriety that held them to politeness. No “thank yous”, no “pleases”, just “nows” and “harder” and “this is what I need”. They were not polite.

They were real.

They were raw.

Until this night.

He’d hit that asshole for trying to take her. Donovan had hit Walter because he didn’t like seeing his hands on her. Because that irrational urge to get Walter’s hands off Layla had been a revelation for Donovan. Not because he loved fucking her. Not because there was so much passion and fire between them. Seeing her out on that sidewalk, jerking Walter’s hands off her arm moved a thunder of realization straight through Donovan’s brain. He hated seeing someone else lay claim to her, even in such a pathetic way. He simply couldn’t let it pass. And then, as he beat on Walter, and as Layla held him back from doing more damage, Donovan found himself speechless, overcome with the knowledge that yes, he did love her. He fucking loved Layla right then. Right there, he knew he loved her, and that knowledge scared the hell out of him. He’d promised himself that he’d never let that happen. He swore he’d never let another woman crawl into his thoughts, live there like she belonged.

Especially not Layla. Especially when Donovan knew she’d only reject him. Of course she would. A Donley would never be good enough for a Mullens and he knew, with frightening lucidity, that she’d end up devastating him.

“Here,” she said, pushing back his sleeve to rest his hand in her lap. The room filled with the smell of rubbing alcohol and the metallic scent of blood. His blood; blood he’d spilled for her. “This is gonna sting a little.” In the low light of his room, her thick blonde hair caught and shone, white highlights and gold streaks among the strands that reminded him of spun silk. He noticed her lips moving, knew she was bitching at him for being so reckless, but just as he had on the street, Donovan couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.