The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 210

Harris barely lifted his gaze, taking in Franco, who stood in the doorway, head nearly brushing the frame, boots planted firmly on the floor. Franco’s hair was a little tousled, just enough to look relaxed but not messy. Something about him looked unapologetically satisfied—like he’d taken what he wanted and had no intention of pretending otherwise. His black shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing off lean, pale arms, muscles tense and ready beneath the skin.

That question had been eating at Harris ever since Franco showed up in that helicopter out over the sea. He and Franco went way back, childhood friends who’d always known each other’s moods and habits. Franco was never the type to slack off, and he cared about his own life. Still, when he made up his mind about something, it was set in stone. Nothing could sway him, not unless it killed him.

All this effort to rescue Petty… Harris couldn’t come up with any reason that made sense, except love.

The whole room felt frozen, time stretching thin as Franco’s face grew more and more hard-edged.

A sudden rattling cut through the silence, echoing up from the metal ladder to the second floor. Something sounded like it was rolling or crashing down.

Petty did it on purpose, making a racket to break the tense silence downstairs. She tried to hurry down, but her legs were wobbly and sore, each hurried step clumsy and shaky. She nearly lost her balance on the way, only stopping herself by grabbing the rail. The old ladder was rusted and a bit loose, the whole thing rattling so loud everyone in the house heard it.

Downstairs, the bodyguards and Jay automatically turned toward the noise.

With all eyes on her, Petty ducked her head, hiding how flustered and panicked she felt behind a mask of embarrassment.

Franco’s eyes were locked on her face, catching the way her lashes cast shadows over her cheeks. He shifted, long leg tense, jaw set tight, those dark eyes unreadable.

Petty walked by him, not saying a word, pretending nothing was wrong.

But as she passed, Franco’s mind flashed with the memory of pressing her against the window, both of them watching the storm outside, bodies tangled together. He remembered whispering, asking her if it wouldn’t be easier to just die right there, together. She’d been crying, her voice all rough and broken. She’d only managed one word.

Yes.

Now, hearing that same roughness in her voice, Franco frowned a little.

“Harris, how are you feeling?”

Petty made her way to Harris’s makeshift bed, her steps a little unsteady.

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