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DAHLIA I can’t stop looking at Kane’s right hand. The images of those deep-purple bruises and cuts on his wrist still play in my mind in haunting, disturbing strokes. Especially since I already know he has multiple old scars slashing across his back. Ever since I saw those bruises in the hospital, I’ve been watching him closely. I noticed his complexion is paler today, his lips slightly blue, and his eyes are colder. What happened to him between last night’s game and this morning? And why the hell am I so invested when I spent days trying to put a healthy amount of distance between us? Kane’s ordeals should be none of my concern. I lean back against Kane’s car, the metal cool against my spine as the frigid air bites into my skin. Not sure if I should even be touching his expensive-looking car. But when I attempted to stand away from him, Kane dragged me back to his side. Below us, Graystone Ridge stretches out like a map, the town still cloaked in the last traces of night, rooftops and