I don’t even know if we’re exclusive. I’ve never asked. We’ve never defined it. Never said the words that keep trying to build at the back of my throat when he pulls me close or whispers my name like a promise.
He’s never said them either.
I tell myself that’s fine. That I don’t need them.
But thinking about him touching someone else the way he touches me—his mouth on her neck, his hands gripping her waist, the low sound he makes when he’s too far gone?—
Something inside me aches. A raw, breath-stealing kind of ache that curls deep in my chest and won’t let go.
Is that love? Or is it just jealousy?
I press my palm flat against my stomach like I can quiet the twisting inside. Like I can will it all away if I sit still enough.
Damian shifts slightly in his sleep, his breath catching before it settles again. I glance over my shoulder at him. His face is soft in the morning light, shadows painting his jaw, lashes dark against his skin. He looks younger like this. Untroubled. Like whatever he’s carrying hasn’t followed him into his dreams. And I hate that there are parts of him I know nothing about.
I stand slowly, careful not to stir the bed, and move toward the door. I need space. Not because I don’t want him. But because I do. And if this is going to hurt, I need to prepare myself for it.
The hallway is quiet as I step into it, every breath stretched tight in my ribs. I just need air. And maybe, for a minute, I need to remember who I am without him. Who I was before he made me forget.
Chapter Four
DAMIAN
The club isn’t loud enough to drown out my thoughts, but it tries. The music rolls through the floor like a steady pulse, low and rhythmic. Lights flash across the room in deep reds and violets, slicing through shadows but never fully clearing them.
Cody leans back into the booth like he’s on vacation, his drink already half gone, his eyes locked on the redhead in front of us. She moves with exact precision, each shift of her body deliberate, designed to hold his eyes and make him think he’s the only one in the club she’s dancing for. He doesn’t even blink. His smile is crooked in that way that always gets him into trouble.
Bridger sits to my left, arms crossed, his eyes on the floor just to the left of the redhead. He’s not uncomfortable here. None of us are. We’ve spent enough nights in places like this, waiting on people who only crawl out from the dark when the world looks the other way. He turns toward me slightly. “Marlowe’s going to kill you when she finds out you sent her off to a spa just to get her out of the way.”
I keep my eyes forward. “She’s not going to find out.”
“She’s not stupid,” Bridger says. “She’ll know something’s off.”
“That’s why no one is going to tell her what’s happening. Then she won’t know something is off.”
He falls quiet again. Not because he agrees, but because he knows it’s not his call to make.
Cody laughs low in his throat as the dancer straddles his lap, her knees braced on either side of him, the wooden chair creaking beneath their weight. The bass rolls through the room like a heartbeat, thick and slow, pulsing with each sway of her hips. She leans forward, chest brushing his as she moves against him, deliberate and unhurried, her body perfectly timed to the rhythm. Cody tips his head back and says something under his breath that makes her laugh, and her fingers trace the edge of his jaw before sliding down his chest. His hands go up, locked behind his head like he’s surrendering to it. She grinds into his thighs with a practiced rhythm. He pulls a folded bill from his pocket and tucks it into the band of her top without breaking eye contact, his grin wide and lazy. He doesn’t try to hide how much he’s enjoying himself.
She continues the lap dance then glides between me and Bridger. She pauses in front of me, her eyes lined with glitter and her mouth painted deep red. She tilts her head, waiting for a signal.
I shake mine. “I’m good, thanks.”
She turns to Bridger. He gives her the same answer. She shrugs and saunters off, already moving on to the next table.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I slip it out and keep it low under the table:
He’s got to be arming up. Got something out of a lockbox this morning. Word is he knows you guys are out east somewhere. He’s been asking around about Marlowe. Not by name. By description. Hair. Height. Definitely knows Joel and Zero are gone.
I slip my phone away, a lead weight knotting in my gut. I glance toward the back of the room. The hallway behind us is empty, the door marked "Private" still closed. He’s late.
Bridger sips his drink and doesn’t look at me when he says, “You know this is going to backfire.”
I don’t answer. Not because Bridger’s wrong, but because I don’t know what to do about it. The plan is solid. The pieces are in place. I’m not worried about that. It’s Marlowe I can’t stop thinking about—not just what she might figure out, but how she’ll look at me if she does. The weight of her silence, the shift in her body when something doesn’t sit right—it’s already happening. She feels it. She just hasn’t said it out loud yet.
This thing with her—it’s starting to eat at me.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she sounds when she’s falling apart in my arms. The way she opens under me, holds on like I’m the only thing she wants to feel. It’s not just that fucking her feels good, but when I’m inside her, everything else quiets. I don’t think. I don’t hurt. I just want. And that’s the problem. Because I’ve never wanted anything this badly and still had to lie to it.
