I stop near a tall window overlooking the snow-covered grounds. Moonlight washes everything silver and quiet, a sharp contrast to the heat still buzzing under my skin. I turn to face him, close enough now that I have to tilt my head slightly to meet those ridiculous blue eyes.
He studies me with open curiosity, something darker threaded through it now. Anticipation, maybe. Or restraint. I’m not sure which I like more.
“This feels like a bad idea,” he mutters.
“You don’t sound convinced. And you don’t look convinced, wearing that smile.”
“I rarely am,” he admits. “But I’m usually right.”
“Don’t get predictable on me now.” I take a half step closer, invading his space just enough to test it.
He doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t advance either. He just watches, alert, like he’s choosing his next move carefully. He considers me for a long moment. “Tell me why you came back.”
I shrug. “I like unfinished conversations.”
“I prefer to finish them.”
I lay my hands on his chest. “And how do you want to finish this one?”
He leans in close, smelling like leather. When he slants his mouth over mine, electricity zips through my core.
Revenge never tasted so sweet.
4
DAMIAN
I stop pretendingthis is a mistake the moment our lips meet.
The hallway outside fades—music muffled, voices distant, the house resettling itself around whatever rules it prefers to enforce. Up here, the Baylock estate feels different. Less ceremonial. More honest. Like it remembers things it doesn’t advertise.
She breaks the kiss and walks ahead of me without looking back, red silk catching the light, posture loose and sure. That’s the part that’s gotten under my skin. Anyone can flirt. Fewer people know how to pace a moment so it bends toward them. “This way,” she says, casual, like she’s been upstairs before.
I’m not sure how she knows where she’s going, if she’s never been here before. Or maybe she picked a room at random, but she’s making it seem intentional. I can’t tell, and I don’t care.
We stop in front of a door I recognize before my hand touches the knob. Jason’s old room. Of all the rooms in this house—studies and guest suites and carefully curated spaces meantto impress—this one still smells faintly of cedar and teenage rebellion.
I haven’t been in here in years. I should turn us around. I should choose anywhere else.
I don’t.
The door opens on a room frozen in time—bed neatly made, shelves lined with trophies that stopped meaning anything the moment adulthood began, a window overlooking the snow-bright grounds. The quiet is thick, expectant.
She steps inside and turns, studying the space with open curiosity. “This feels…personal.”
“It is,” I say. “Or it was.”
She meets my gaze, something knowing in her eyes. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“It should,” I answer honestly.
She smiles. “But it doesn’t.”
No. It doesn’t.
The recklessness of it hums through me, a relief as much as a risk. I’ve spent too long weighing consequences, anticipating fallout, managing the gravity of a life built on responsibility. Tonight, I want the opposite. I want the freedom of not caring what this looks like tomorrow. The freedom of not caring who might object to the impropriety.
She closes the distance between us, slow and deliberate. I feel it before she touches me—the shift in air, the narrowing of focus. Her hands settle at my chest, fingers splayed against my tux like she’s testing my heartbeat. “Still thinking?” she asks softly.
