He turns, startled.
Good.
Let him see me coming.
I’m already on him.
I slam him into the wall of the saltwater taffy store hard enough to rattle the glass window and send a stack of candy boxes toppling inside. His head snaps back against the wood siding with a sickening thud, and he gasps, stunned, but I’m already hauling him off it and throwing him again—this time to the ground. Someone walking past lets out a sharp scream. A couple coming out of the shop stumbles back, eyes wide, then breaks into a run.
He tries to scramble up, one hand raised, stammering something like “I didn’t—” but I don’t care.
I don’t care what he didn’t do.
He looked at her like she was his.
He touched her like I wasn’t still breathing.
I grab the collar of his jacket and throw a punch—square to his jaw. I feel the crack beneath my knuckles, feel the shock shoot up my arm, and it only feeds me.
I want more. I want him to bleed. I want to break something that doesn’t heal right. I want him to regret ever looking at her. I want his teeth on the ground. His blood on my shirt. His fucking name erased from her memory. I want to tear his face open with my fists until he forgets why he ever thought he could touchher. I want to leave him twitching, jaw shattered, tongue thick with blood, choking on the taste of his mistake. I want to hear himbeg.
And even then, I’m not sure I’ll stop.
Because he looked at her like she was his. He touched what’smine.
And I don’t forgive that.
Ever.
I feel hands at my shoulders. A voice. I can’t really hear it over the blood in my ears, the roar in my chest.
I’m not stopping.
“Stop, stop!” Marlowe’s voice cuts through the fog like a blade. Sharp. Pleading.
Her hands—cool, shaking—find my face. Fingers against my jaw, pulling me down. Forcing me to look at her.
“Please, Damian,” she cries. Her voice cracks around my name, broken and full of fear. Not fear of him—fearof me. Tears stream down her cheeks, carving bright, wet lines through the flush of her skin.
And just like that, everything inside me breaks.
My fists unfurl, slow and stiff. I release my grip, letting his body drop like dead weight to the ground.
My hands drift up and cover hers, pressing them harder to my face like maybe if I hold her tight enough, I’ll come back to myself. Her palms are damp with tears and something else—maybe blood, maybe sweat, maybe the worst parts of me.
But I don’t let go.
I look into her eyes—those ocean-blue eyes—and I drown. I drown in the ache I see there. In the unspoken weight between us, and the fear I put there. I see it all. Every wound I gave her without touching her. Every word I never said. Every time I made her carry the silence between us alone.
And for the first time since I laid hands on anyone, I feelshame.
She’s still holding my face, like she’s the only thing anchoring me to earth.
And she is. She doesn’t even know it but she is. Because without her hands right now, I don’t know what I’d do. Without her eyes on me, I don’t know who I am.
Bridger appears at my side, breathing hard, eyes sharp with something between disappointment and understanding. He crouches and hauls the guy off the ground with a grunt.
Neve’s already there, her face pale, lips pressed tight as she loops an arm around the guy’s shoulder and helps Bridger walk him away.
