Let it mock me. Let it remind her. I run a hand through my hair and start to pace.
She doesn’t move, still clinging to her bag like it holds salvation. It doesn’t. It never will. There is no fucking salvation for her. Not from me. Never.
“You’ve got no fucking clue what I’m keeping you safe from,” I mutter, voice splintering at the edges.
She lifts her eyes. Brave. Stupid.
“Moore’s men,” she snaps. “Men who want to come and kidnap me, right? Because right now, it looks a hell of a lot like that’s what you’re doing! Yes, some little fuckboys took a photo of me. They’re nothing compared to you. Let them fucking take me—it would be better than spending every day with you!”
The air fractures. Cracks down the centre like glass under pressure. For a second, I forget how to breathe. That’s her gift. Summer doesn’t know when to be quiet. I step even closer. Close enough to make her lean back. But not close enough to give her what she wants. She wants proof. Wants pain. Wants to sayI told you sowhen I finally snap. But I don’t.
And I want her afraid. Not just of me. Of herself. Of the part of her that’s starting to crave me. The part that wants to be bent. Owned. Made into something no one else can have.
I stare. Long. Hard. Until her breath catches, like she knows she’s losing something she never understood to begin with.
And then I walk away. Not because I’m done, but because my control is crumbling. I can’t lose control.
Not yet.
I sit in the kitchen long after the door slams upstairs. My elbows are on the table, my fists pressed against my mouth. The only light in the room is from the stove clock.
1:12 a.m.
The hour where the town sleeps and men like me fester, rot in our own silence. I should be out cold. Buried beneath the weight of another day. But all I see is her—on his lap. Her head tucked near his shoulder. Her hair loose. That fucking smile. Flickering.
Soft. Stupid.His.Not mine.
I gave her everything. Ripped her out of that house. Gave her a roof. A future. I could’ve left her to rot like the rest of them.
Like her mother—too scared to speak. Like her daddy—too selfish and weak to keep her safe. But I didn’t. And she dances for another man like it costs her nothing? No.
That boy doesn’t get to see what I built with my own fucking hands. He doesn’t get to make her feel free. She’snot.She never was.
The floor creaks overhead. Bare feet. Slow. Cautious. She’s trying not to wake the beast.
Too late, sweetheart.
I don’t move when she hits the bottom step. Let her think I’m part of the shadows now. Something half-human, half-curse. She pauses near the tap, thirsty, and I stand, creeping along the darkness. Of course she is. Guilt dries the throat faster than bourbon.
I stand from the dining chair, arms folded. Still. Calm. Like smoke before fire.
“I see everything, you know.”
She freezes. Her spine straightens. And for a second, I swear she considers bolting out the door, like she’s ever had a shot in hell of escaping me. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t turn. So, I twist the knife.
“You think he’d still want you,” I say, voice low and razor-sharp, “if he knew where you came from? If he knew your daddy was being hunted by Jackson Moores’ men? If daddy wasn’t such a fucking pussy, you wouldn’t be here.”
That gets her. A full-body jolt like I struck bone. Good. That’s where it lives—the truth.
“Don’t talk about him like that.”
I push off the table slowly.
“Why not? It’s the truth. He was a coward. Weak. Cared more about his job than his fucking daughter.”
I let it sit. Let it rot in the space between us.
“One word. One smile. That’s all it took to make you mine.” I lean in just enough. “You should be grateful.”
