“You don’t fit in my world?” I taunt, my lips brushing her ear, my breath hot and feral. “Baby girl, you are my world. And I’ll prove it until you never fucking doubt it again.”
Her cry splits into the night as I take her, rough and reckless, her skirt bunched at her waist, my hand locked at her throat, holding her still as I drive the truth into her body the way words never could.
Every thrust is a vow. Every broken sob she gives me is another chain I wrap around her. And when she claws my back and whispers Dean like it’s both a curse and a prayer, I know—this isn’t just cement. This is branding.
By the time I spill inside her, dragging her mouth to mine so the whole alley echoes with the sound of her breaking, she’s mine in every way that matters.
And I’m never letting her go.
The Breaking Point
Ishouldn’t be here. Not after last night. Not after the alley.
I wanted to leave, I wanted to run. I said I wouldn’t fall for him, I promised myself I wouldn’t fall.
I was going to leave, but when Kate texted that her plans fell through and she was crashing at her dad’s for a while—just until I figure things out again, Brook—what was I supposed to say? No? Refuse my best friend? Tell her I can’t because her father already has me bruised from his fingers and raw from his mouth?
So here I am again, walking through the Walker house with Kate at my side, her chatter bright and careless while my stomach knots so tight it hurts.
Dean is in the kitchen when we come in. Of course he is. Sleeves rolled, knife in his hand, chopping with that exact, merciless precision he uses everywhere else. He looks up at the sound of Kate’s voice—softens. Looks at me—hardens.
And my knees almost buckle.
Kate doesn’t notice. She’s dropping her bags in the hall, rolling her eyes at her dad for not hiring help, babbling about the traffic. I try to laugh along, try to breathe normally, but every inhale tastes like the memory of his breath in my ear.
The air is too thick.
I slide onto a stool at the island, pretending to scroll my phone, but I can feel his eyes cutting through me. My thighs press tight together, useless, because my body still remembers what he did to me, how he swore I’d never run again.
“Brooklyn, you okay?” Kate asks, opening a bottle of water and shoving it my way. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
My hand shakes when I take it. Dean doesn’t miss it. His lips twitch, just enough to tell me he knows I’m unravelling.
“Just tired,” I whisper.
Kate shrugs, already moving on, pulling open the fridge. And that’s when it happens—Dean’s hand brushes mine as he passes me a plate. Deliberate. Brief. But enough to send lightning up my arm.
I gasp. Too sharp. Too obvious.
Kate freezes. Turns. “What was that?”
Silence drops like a blade. Dean’s eyes narrow, daring me to open my mouth. My pulse slams against my throat.
“Nothing,” I choke, my smile brittle, my voice too high. “Just—burned my tongue on coffee earlier.”
Kate stares a beat too long, suspicion flickering in her eyes.
And Dean? He smirks as he sets the plate down, like he enjoys watching me balance on this razor’s edge, like this is just another game in his private collection.
Kate twists the cap back onto her water and leans against the counter, eyes narrowing like she’s actually studying me now instead of just filling the silence.
“You sure?” she asks. “You look… weird. And you never burn your tongue. You always say you sip like a grandma.”
My stomach drops. She remembers that.
Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His knife pauses against the cutting board, the blade glinting under the kitchenlight, and I swear the whole room tilts. His gaze slides to me from the corner of his eye—a warning, a threat, a promise.
I force a laugh. Too loud. “Guess even grandmas slip up sometimes.”
