His lips twitch, almost a smirk. “It’s a message.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
He sets his drink on the railing with a quiet clink and steps closer. My back hits the metal, the night air cool against my skin, while his body radiates heat in front of me.
“What message?” My voice shakes.
He cages me in, arms braced on either side of the railing. His chest nearly brushes mine, his breath warm against my cheek. “I’m coming for you, Em. This time, you’re not getting away.”
Oh God…
“Luca.” My voice breaks, half a warning, half a moan, all need.
He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet. Instead, he leans in, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, his breath making me shiver. “Let’s see if you still feel that way by the end of the night.”
Then he pulls back, smooth as sin, offering me his arm again like nothing happened.
For the next two hours, he circles me like a predator—close enough that his hand brushes mine when I reach for a glass, his shoulder grazing me in passing, his stare dragging heat across my skin. Far enough to look innocent if anyone else is watching.
And the worst part? I can’t breathe without noticing him.
If I could describe how I feel with colors, I'd use the grays of a stormy day and the deep greens of mystical forests.
My head pounds like my brain’s trying to break free, and my stomach feels strangely tight. The sound of something gliding elegantly across a surface catches my attention—a soft, rhythmic swoosh. When I try to open my eyes, the brightness is too much, and I shut them tight again.
I try once more and manage to catch a glimpse of a white curtain billowing gently in the breeze. Then, the roar of the sea—angry, unsettling—hits my ears.
The party? Am I still at the party?
I sit up in bed, using both arms for support as the room spins for a moment. Deep breaths. Slowly, the world stills, and I get my bearings.
No, I’m not at the party. I’m… oh, crap.
Of course, I’m in Luca’s bedroom. This kind of luxury is way out of my league—except here, where white oak floors stretch beneath me, the windows are basically walls, and the bed is aimed like an arrow straight at the ocean.
I glance left, bracing myself to find Luca lying there. But to my surprise, that side of the bed is untouched—neatly made, not a single wrinkle.
I peel back the sheets and see I’m still wearing the same dress from last night—just crumpled like an accordion across my stomach. I tug it down, trying to look less like a human pretzel.
I move toward the window and peek outside. No sun. The sky is a moody canvas of clouds that perfectly match the chaos inside me.
Stormy. On edge.
The wind outside is nothing like the gentle breeze I felt from bed—it’s wild, forceful. Down at the shore, right where the waves crash with fury, is Luca Walker, arms crossed over his chest, staring down the ocean like it owes him money. His dark clothes whip in the wind, hugging the silhouette of his body.
The palms flanking the house sway at strange angles, their fronds blown hard toward the south.
“This can’t be safe,” I mutter to myself. And right then, lightning splits the sky in two. “He’s insane.”
I spin on my heel and head off to find him. I explore the house like I’m solving a maze, but eventually I find the kitchen.
The sliding door to the beach is shut tight. I have to shove hard to get it open.
“Luca!” I yell, still under the shelter of the roof.
He turns. His face is cold, severe—but when he sees me, it softens. His steps crunch toward me on the sand, and suddenly, he’s not just a man. He’s a storm god, dark and charged, with an ocean tantrum boiling behind him.
