His brow ticks upward. The corner of his mouth crooks, but it isn’t a real smile.
“I was hoping,” he says, voice dropping into a low hum that almost sounds like a growl, “this could be our first time out where you don’t look at me like I’m the devil.” He chuckles under his breath—dark, a vibration more than a sound. “Guess I was wrong.”
The depth of his voice snakes through me, making my thighs press together beneath the table. Heat coils there—unwanted, treacherous—whirring to life like a machine I can’t shut off. Maybe it’s because he is the devil, and because I’m starting to crave the hell he unleashes on me.
Heat floods my cheeks, betraying me before I can school my face. His expression shifts—subtle, satisfied—as if he’s catalogued the exact effect his voice has on me, filing it away like ammunition he’ll use again later.
The waitress approaches—her braid neat, cheeks touched pink, her smile trained into perfection. She offers it to both of us, but Jacob doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay fixed, pinning me to my seat.
“What can I get you tonight?” she asks, sweet and practiced.
I lift my chin, letting my fingertip trail across the wine list. “Short rib with truffle mash, glazed carrots, and a glass of the Californian Cabernet Sauvignon.”
Jacob exhales through his nose, rattling the saltshaker between us. “Jesus. You always eat like that when someone else’s paying?”
My lips twitch into a grin. “You said I could have anything.”
He finally turns his gaze toward the waitress, dismissive and brief. “Same for me. And leave the bottle.”
When she drifts away, the silence folds back around us, heavier now. The candle leans toward me, its flame quivering like it’s straining to overhear. Jacob settles back, one arm stretched along the booth’s top. His eyes—dark, unyielding—fix on me, burning hotter than the gold light could ever soften.
“I haven’t done this in years,” he says.
“Dinner?”
“Dates.”
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs. “So why now?”
The waitress approaches with a bottle of wine. She uncorks it in front of us, then slips one hand neatly behind her back while tilting the bottle, pouring a modest splash into Jacob’s glass.
“Would you like to try first, Sheriff?” she asks, her voice soft, cheeks flushed pink. She’s got the hots for him—it’s obvious in the way her eyes linger on his face, and she flutters her lashes. Heat prickles under my skin, an unfamiliar streak of jealousy coiling tight inside me before I can shove it down.
“No. It’s fine.” He cuts her off with a huff, snatching the bottle out of her hand without sparing her more than a glance. His gaze stays locked on me, deep and unrelenting, as if daring me to look away.
The poor girl’s smile falters. She knows she’s intruding, her expression faltering with the awkward weight of stepping into a conversation she was never meant to touch.
His thumb traces lazy circles against the curve of his glass, the red wine burning a deep shade of red.
“Why? Because last night you gave part of yourself to me that Inever thought I’d get,” he says at last. His gaze pins me harder. “And because… you’d have let me take more.”
My stomach clenches so tight I taste metal.
“And I almost took it,” he adds, rough as gravel, “because for the first time, I believed you weren’t pretending.”
He leans forward, breath warm with earth and smoke. Candlelight flickers across his stubbled cheek, sharpening him into something carved out of shadow and flame.
“I want you, Summer. Not as some conquest,” he snarls, teeth bared in restraint, “not as a prize I pat myself on the back for earning.”
The room stills, the air itself tightening, as if even the walls know better than to interrupt him.
“I want you wrecked for anyone else.” He leans in, eyes burning through me, voice dropping to a rasp meant for me alone. “I want you tochoosethat ruin. To walk into it with your eyes open. To give me everything and know you’ll never get it back.”
For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. Not because of his words, but because of what they ignite in me—an ache so fierce it makes the thought of anyone else feel impossible. I want to scoff, to roll my eyes, but the truth is already branded across my skin.
I’m his.
I lift my glass, sipping slow, letting the burn steady the tremor in my fingers.
