She opens her mouth, then closes it. She simply stares as though she’s seeing me for the first time.
“Today,” I say quietly, just for her. “You and me.”
It’s not a question.
Before she can answer, Damon appears. Sand is embedded deep in his hair. A bruise is already blooming on his forearm.
“Good fight,” he says to me, voice even as he extends his hand. After I accept, his gaze turns to Lyla. “Can we talk?”
The second Lyla nods, she and Damon walk down to the shoreline. As they go, she glances back once. In that glance, I see everything—the war with herself; what she thinks she wants versus what she knows she needs.
Our date can’t come fast enough.
Lyla
My hands are shaking so hard I have to clasp them behind my back.
Scott and Damon circle each other in the pit, chests heaving, sand plastered to sweat. The producers have created a gladiator farce, and now the final round is exactly what everyone secretly wanted: two men fighting like their lives depend on who gets to keep me.
This is horrible, but I can’t stop watching.
Scott moves like he was born for this—controlled violence, eyes scanning for the opening that ends it. Every roll of muscle under his skin reminds me how those same shoulders caged me against the villa wall two nights ago, how his grip turned gentle the second I whimpered his name.
Damon counters with heart and fury, refusing to fold even when he’s clearly spent. There’s something almost noble in it, something that should make me feel safe.
Instead, it just makes the ache between my legs sharper.
They crash together—grunts, flesh slapping flesh, the wet smack of sweat. Scott absorbs Damon’s charge, plants, and twists. For a moment, they stalemate.
Then Damon hooks an arm around Scott’s throat.
The choke sinks in deep. Scott’s face flushes dark, veins standing out in his neck. He doesn’t panic. But he can’t breathe.
“No,” I whisper, the word ripping out before I can stop it.
My vision narrows to Scott’s struggling form. The thought of him going limp—of losing him again, even for a stupid game—hits like a hole punching through my chest.
But then Scott’s elbow drives back, hard and deliberate. The impact breaks Damon’s hold, and they separate, both staggering.
They’re chest to chest now, both shaking, sweat carving clean tracks through the sand on their skin. I can’t hear every word over the crowd and the surf, but Scott’s low growl cuts through anyway.
“She’s not yours.”
Whatever Damon snarls back seems to light a fuse in Scott.
“Fuck you.”
Scott moves—fast, brutal. He hooks Damon’s leg, lifts, and drives him down. The thud of impact rolls through the sand and into my chest. Damon’s breath explodes out of him; Scott doesn’t let up. Then with one final, relentless shove, Damon’s heel drags across the rope boundary.
It’s over.
The crowd erupts around me. But the noise fades to a dull roar in my ears. All I see is Scott standing alone in the center of the pit, chest heaving, blood trickling from his lip, and sand streaking across every carved inch of him like war paint.
His eyes lock on mine.
There’s no smile, no triumphant gloat. Just raw, unfiltered possession. You’re mine.
The words aren’t spoken, but I feel them in my bones.
