I whip my gaze from him, rage flaring hard and fast in my chest. “It’s not about Laura.” My voice is sharp enough to cut. “Drop it. This isn’t about her.”
Bridger just stares at me, stunned. Then he exhales hard, mutters something under his breath, and shakes his head. “Okay, this has nothing to do with Laura. But, Damian, you are?—”
“No. I’m not,” I grunt out.
“You know what?” he says, stepping back. “I give up. I’m done trying to reason with your brand of stupid. Just do me a favor. Give Lo a few minutes. Then go inside and listen to her. Listen with your ears, Damian. Not your triggers.”
Something in me snaps. “Stop talking like you’re some goddamn therapist!” I roar, the words ripped straight from my chest.
He stops, but I don’t give him time to respond. I shoulder past him, hard enough to make him stumble a step to the side. I’m done being dissected. Done being talked at like I’m a fucking case study. All I can see now is red.
Nathan’s face. His hands on her waist. That look in his eyes like he thought he had a chance. Like she was his. My jaw grinds. My fists clench. He touched her. And now I need to get my hands on her too. She needs to feel who she belongs to.
Chapter Eleven
MARLOWE
Islam the apartment door behind Neve and me, its echo rattling through the apartment. My hands won’t stop shaking. My lungs work overtime, pulling in too much air, too fast. I’m furious—at Damian, at the way he exploded so fast, at the scene he caused, at the way he threw Nathan against the wall like he was nothing. But underneath all that rage, there’s something worse curling inside me.
I’m terrified.
Not just of what I saw—but of what I felt. Because when I watched him lose control, when I saw that violence take over his body, when I saw the look in his eyes right before he struck... a part of me wanted it. A part of me liked knowing I could make someone lose their mind like that. And I don’t know what that says about me. About how broken I must be to find comfort in something so destructive. About how deeply fucked up I’ve become if that kind of possessiveness doesn’t make me run—but ache.
My heartbeat’s still racing by the time I reach the kitchen. I take one step in and freeze. It looks like a bomb went off.My stomach drops, hard and fast, like I’m still on the Ferris wheel. My throat tightens, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
My dishes are all shattered. Glass glitters across the floor, sharp and jagged. My favorite bowl lies cracked in half near the fridge, one side split clean, the other splintered at the rim. The wall is smeared with something dark, probably soy sauce. Jesus, no—that looks like blood. A takeout container is slumped sideways on the countertop, cold lo mein trailing out of it like intestines.
The trash is overflowing, crumpled cartons and shattered ceramic spilling out like a confession. I stand there, stunned. Damian did this while I was gone? He destroyed my kitchen. He destroyedmykitchen.
Neve steps in front of me, blocking my view, her eyes feverish. “We didn’t finish cleaning it up yet,” she says quickly. “Don’t look at it. Go take a hot shower or something.Please.”
I look past her at the wreckage. At the mess I didn’t make. At the quiet, physical proof of someone else’s chaos leaking into my life. My throat is so dry and tight, I can’t speak.
He did this because I left. And I don’t know if I’m more angry at him for destroying my things… Or at myself for wanting to understand why. This kind ofcarnage—shattered dishes, torn-up kitchen, the stink of wasted food and fury—is what Damian leaves in place of words. This is how he talks when his mouth can’t carry the weight of what he feels. And I think, just for a second, what it would sound like if hecouldspeak it. If he could put his pain into language instead of violence.
The idea makes me shudder, full-body and sharp, hot claws dragging down my spine. Because if he ever said out loud what drives him to destroy like this, I think it would wreck me. Tear me open in ways that fists never could. And what’s worse—so much worse—is it makes heat gather low and heavy between my thighs.
Because I want it. I wanthim. All of him. The rage. The ruin. The brutal kind of love I should know better than to want. It’sthe way my body still responds to him like he's something it belongs to. What does that say about me?
I leave Neve in the kitchen and walk down the hallway. I step into my bedroom and stop for a beat. The bed is still unmade. Sheets kicked down, the blankets twisted, the imprint of our bodies still stamped into the mattress. The sight of it makes my chest tighten. I lower myself onto the edge, and close my eyes. Then the scent hits me.
Him. Damian. That mix of clean sweat and soap and something darker I’ve never been able to name. It wraps around me like a memory, and before I can stop it, butterflies burst low in my belly. I shoot up off the bed like it burns. No. A cold shower. That’s what I need.
I fumble with my clothes, tugging my shirt over my head, already reaching for the zipper on my jeans. And then the door slams open in front of me. I jump, heart launching into my throat.
Damian stands in the doorway. Broad. Wild-eyed. Breathing like he just ran through fire to get to me.
His eyes drop to my lace bra and his jaw ticks. He steps inside the room and kicks the door closed. His gaze drags over me slowly, from my bare shoulders to the waistband of my jeans. There’s nothing soft in the way he looks at me. Heat floods low in my belly. I feel it immediately—pressure building between my legs, sharp and electric. My thong is instantly soaked, and I hate how fast it happens. Hate how easily my body betrays me. It doesn’t seem to care how angry I am, or how much I should be walking away.
He stalks forward, all tension and purpose. He reaches me in two strides and grabs me by the throat, his fingers wrapping around the sides of my neck with just enough pressure to make me gasp. It’s not painful. Not threatening. It’s a claim. My pulse races beneath his fingers. His other hand fists in my hair,dragging my head back so I’m forced to look up at him. My scalp burns where he grips me, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. I’m too far gone for that.
He leans in. His mouth is close enough that I feel his breath. Then his tongue slides over my cheek and licks the tears from my skin, like they belong to him. The heat of it sears through me.
I suck in air too fast, and it catches in my throat. My whole body tenses. The throaty sound I make isn't one I recognize—half gasp, half something darker, needier. I should hate this. I should tell him to stop. But need coils in my core, deep and aching, and I don’t do a damn thing to stop him.
He tightens his grip on my throat. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make my head feel light. My pulse pounds harder against his palm, and I know he can feel it.
Something achy and sharp pulses, pulses, pulses between my legs. The heat spreads like wildfire through my pussy, blooming fast and hungry, and I hate how much I need it. How much I needhim.
