“Nope.” I felt my cheeks warming up. “Was born with it. Will die with it. Most likely because of it, too. Young, probably. Both my parents carry the gene.”

“Millie doesn’t have it.” There it was again. Was he hoping to catch me in a lie? Because if I were a liar, I was pretty sure I would have tried to sell myself as having a superpower or Einstein’s IQ. I snorted out a laugh, because it was attractive and all.

“Well, Millie’s lucky,” I spat out. She was. In more ways than one. “Just because both parents carry the gene doesn’t mean all their kids will get it. Call it nature’s Russian roulette, if you would. And it’s me who got the bullet in the effing neck. There’s your fun fact for the day. Now can I go?”

With any other guy, I would have turned around and left. Simple. But with Dean ‘Ruckus’ Cole, nothing was simple. I wanted to milk every second I had alone with him. I wasn’t even sure why. It felt strange, agonizing, and thrilling to have him around, and then the moment he was gone, I knew I’d hate myself for every single word I’d said, every way I’d acted, and every single breath I took.

“Rosie.”

I lifted my head, and before I knew what was happening, I felt his rough palms on my waist and my body flying into the pool. I didn’t have time to brace myself for the fall. Literally or figuratively. My body hit the water flat, the plunge painful like I smashed right into concrete. I used my arms to swim my way up to get some air. The chill of the water only hit me when I took one, desperate breath. I opened my eyes, my whole body shivering violently, and before my eyes adjusted, there was a huge splash beside me. Dean jumped in, too.

My heart went haywire, jackhammering everywhere. I felt it pounding against my ribcage, dipping down, trying to fight its way outside, through my stomach, through my throat, wanting out, out, out. Dean’s body swam to mine, pinning me to the tranquil-blue wall, and I started throwing fists at him. Frantic, angry punches. They weren’t the kind of banter-slaps a girl gives a boy to flirt or warn him to stay away. No. I clawed at his chest with my fingernails, wishing to draw blood.

Then I started crying.

That, too, was completely out of character for yours truly. I’d never cried in front of people I didn’t know. And for the sake of argument, anyone who wasn’t Millie, Mama, or Daddy was a stranger. Yet there I was, my hot, salty tears mixing with the cold, sweet water.

Life ain’t fair.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I roared, my fists continuing their assault on his chest. He’d taken his jacket off before he’d jumped in, and now the only thing separating our flesh was his tight black and gold tee and my soaked hoodie. His skin was warm despite the water and I needed more of it. He wanted to give it to me. His whole body said it. Sang it. Shouted it from the rooftop of this monstrous mansion. No words were spoken at all, which made our body language so much louder. Dangerous chemistry, it warned. Run away, Rosie.

“Your lungs work fine,” he growled into my face, capturing both my wrists and jamming me to the wall, hard. What was he doing? Vicious could see us. Hell, Millie could, too. If she walked in the gate right now, what would she think? Her boyfriend and sister in the pool together. Body to body. Soul to soul. “You’re fucking fine!” he added, his forehead inches from mine.

Was he trying to convince me, or himself?

And why the hell did he care, anyway?

I forced myself to calm down. I needed to talk some sense into this guy. He had to let me go before we got caught doing whatever it was we were doing.

“Dean,” I said, as coolly as I could, freeing my wrists and placing my palms flat against his chest. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. His lashes dripped water, and everything about him was raw, wet, and delicious. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew that this was monumental. This thing we shared in that moment. I’d never feel it with any other guy again. This slice of life was ours, even if I didn’t want it to be.

“Rosie,” he countered.

“I’m sick,” I repeated.

“Don’t say that. You’re not sick. It’s just a fucking condition.”

I shook my head, water and tears flying back and forth. “It’s not just a condition. I’m going to die really young, Dean. In my thirties, maybe forties…fifties, if I’m lucky.”

“Shut up,” he hissed between clenched teeth. His palm slammed the wall behind me, and I shook with more than just the cold.