“I told you,” I murmur, voice low, frayed, raw enough to taste blood in the back of my throat. “You don’t belong here.”
She lifts her chin. “Maybe you’re just afraid of why I’m here.”
Fuck.That does it.
Something in me cracks—clean, sharp, inevitable.
My hand moves before my brain can grab it, before the collar at my throat can choke out the instinct. I reach for her wrist—slow, deliberate, giving her the chance to pull away like a sane woman would.
She doesn’t.
So my grip tightens.Just enough to pin the lie between us.
“You’re lying to me,” I breathe.
Her pulse flutters beneath my fingers—a frantic, trapped-bird flutter she’s trying to hide.
“And worse…” I lean in, my voice brushing her cheek the way my mouth shouldn’t, “you’re enjoying it.”
Her lips part. “Santino—”
I don’t let her finish.
I break.
It’s not a choice. It’s the collapse of every wall I built, every vow I weaponized, every lie I told myself about the difference between restraint and redemption.
I close the distance and kiss her.
It hits like a dam shattering — violent,starved,blinding.
Her mouth opens under mine with a small, involuntary gasp, and that sound tears straight through my chest like gasoline dragged across an open flame. Her free hand fists in my shirt, yanking me closer. Her body bows—soft, needy—for a breath, for a heartbeat.
For that single moment, she melts.
And it wrecks me.
Then she jerks back, breath uneven, eyes wide and blown and bright as stained glass soaking in moonlight.
“You… kissed me,” she whispers, voice trembling like she’s admitting something dangerous.
I shake my head, tightening my grip around her wrist. My other hand rises—unforgivable, instinctual—to her jaw.
“No,” I murmur, trembling with a truth that tastes like sin. “I didn’t kiss you. I sinned because of you.”
Her lashes tremble. My thumb drags over her bottom lip—the lip I bruised seconds ago. She shivers as if the touch scorches.
I lower my forehead to hers.Our breaths tangle.Our hearts slam.My restraint disintegrates molecule by molecule.
Her hands rise to my chest—hovering, uncertain. Not pushing me away. Not pulling me in. Touching like she’s afraid whatever decision she makes will destroy us both.
“Santino…” she whispers.
I should step back.Let go.Pray.Bury this under a mountain of discipline and shame.
But I stay exactly where I am.Locked.Ruined.Wanting.
And she feels it.
