I turn and meet his eyes. Dark now—shadow and hunger. He thinks he’s dangerous. Thinks he’s my match. Cute.
“Women,” I say, dragging a finger down his chest, “are complicated. Which is why you’ll never fully get me.”
It’s a dare. It lands like one. His pupils flare. For a second I think he’ll shove me against the railing and prove something with brute force.
Instead, he smiles like a wolf. Patience tastes better than desperation.
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’ll spend a long time trying.”
The porch creaks as he shifts me, backing me into a wooden post. He cages me in, breath heady with whiskey. My face stays impassive, but my nerves prickle like static.
This isn’t romance. This isn’t love. It’s two predators circling the same carcass, deciding who gets the choicest bite. Blake doesn’t run from my darkness. That makes him useful. Useful is not love.
I know what I am—empty where others are full, sharp where others are soft. Blake leans into the void like he belongs there.
His mouth grazes my cheek, dangerously close to my lips. My body hums—not with affection, with triumph. He wants me. He’s always wanted me. Every time he proves it, I win.
That’s the real climax. Power.
The wine softens edges I usually keep razor-sharp. For one reckless second, I imagine what it might be like to belong to someone. To be seen—not as a project, not as a case study, but as a human worth the risk.
The fantasy sickens me. I smother it with a smirk.
“Do you ever think this—” I gesture vaguely at the porch, the night, his hands on me “—isn’t about passion? That it’s just… not wanting to be alone?”
Blake pulls back, searching my face. “That’s cynical.”
“It’s true.” My laugh is bitter. “Marriages, friendships, hookups in creaky convents—just noise to drown out the silence.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “Then maybe I like the noise.”
For a flicker, I almost believe him. Almost. But the reality is sharper: people like me don’t love. Not the way Hallmark movies and therapists sell it. I can mimic it. Perform it. Inside, it’s wires and static.
Still, the warmth of him scratches something primal—an itch I didn’t know I had. It’s been so long. I decide then to let him take me. Let him think he’s special. He lifts my skirt, fingers teasing, then angles me over the railing and slowly slides inside. I groan at the slow stretch, the intrusion. His hands cover me—claim me. He bites my neck, then sucks, then bites again. My eyes flutter with animal pleasure, and for one stupid second I let myself think:Maybe. Maybe this one could be forever.
Later, when the porch goes quiet and the stars sharpen overhead, Blake sags against me, spent. His head drops to my shoulder, breath rough. I can feel him trying to turn it into something—trying to cross an invisible line into intimacy. Bringing him to his knees, hearing his groans, watching his walls crack—trophies. Not tenderness.
“You make me sleepy and happy,” he murmurs. “We should take this to the bedroom.” He shifts, sliding out of me slowly.
I let him bask in the illusion for one beat, then slice through it.
“I sleep better alone,” I say softly, steel underneath.
His head jerks up. “What?”
“You heard me. Don’t get clingy.”
The confusion—the flicker of hurt—thrills me. Power again. Always power. I think of my dad locking me in a closet for hours. Dean leaving me for a younger, prettier version of me. Bishop getting under my skin in Chicago. Isaac using me and discarding me in Carmel. And Taylor—poor Taylor—collateral damage.
Men always leave. Not one of them stayed. It’s always been me. Just me.
I watch Blake for a long beat and imagine, briefly, what it would look like to make him permanent. To flip the narrative. A dark thought flits through my mind that I could take his life and keep a piece of him in a locket and call it devotion.
Instead, I turn away, dismissing him.
“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move.
I smile sweetly. “That’s what they all say.”
