If there’s even a sliver of a chance I can move forward, build something clean and uncomplicated—something that doesn’t carve me open every time—I have to take it. If saying yes to Damon creates distance from the gravitational pull Scott still exerts—yanking me back every damn time—then I need that distance.
Love can grow. With time. With deliberate choice.
I inhale, trying to steady myself.
“Yes,” I whisper.
The word lands solid in my chest, anchoring me.
Scott’s laugh is low, sharp, humorless, as if it were a blade wrapped in velvet. Every hair on my arms rises.
Then he moves. Not fast but deliberate. Inevitable.
He closes the gap until I can feel the heat radiating off him, until I can smell the faint salt of his skin and the dark edge of his musk. His hand captures my wrist—firm, unyielding, unmistakably possessive. The deck around us goes eerily quiet, like the world is holding its breath for this moment.
He doesn’t look at Damon. Only me.
His voice drops to gravel and smoke, pitched for my ears only. “Don’t forget you were in my arms five minutes ago, little one.”
His grip tightens around my wrist. Not enough to cause pain but to certainly get the message across that he isn’t exactly thrilled. My skin flushes hot, traitorous heat pooling low in my belly. For one unguarded heartbeat, something feral flashes in his eyes—raw hunger, sharp dislike, almost jealousy, and a flicker of pain—before he schools his expression. His jaw flexes. Every muscle coils like he’s two seconds from dragging me against him and claiming what he thinks is still his.
He holds my stare another punishing second before letting go. “Enjoy your date.” His voice is smooth, almost polite.
But his eyes are anything but. They’re black fire, locked on me, promising. And that promise trails down my spine, a shiver I can’t suppress.
For one moment, the air turns syrup thick, suffocating.
Then—
“Hey, Lyla.”
Emily’s voice cuts through, artificially bright, like we’re debating drink orders instead of witnessing this detonation.
“Can you come help me with sunscreen?”
The tension fractures just enough for me to feel like I can breathe again.
I nod, grateful, and let her loop her arm through mine, already pulling me down the stairs, toward the pool deck below.
Behind us, the tension doesn’t disappear. It coils tighter. Waiting. And deep in my gut, I know with bone-deep certainty this isn’t close to finished.
Scott
The second Lyla breathes yes to Damon’s invitation, something in my chest doesn’t crack. It fucking detonates.
She’s going on a date with him.
After the way she melted against me—lips parting, body arching, that soft, greedy sound she makes when she’s already half-gone.
I turn and stalk away before the instinct to drag her back into my arms overrides every shred of sense. Before I give the cameras something explosive—and irreversible.
The gym is blessedly empty.
Perfect.
I can’t touch her right now. Can’t fix this mess with my hands or my mouth the way every screaming cell in my body demands. So I wrap my knuckles, the tape biting into skin, and channel it all into the heavy bag.
I start slow. Controlled.
