Miranda steps forward, white linen practically glowing against the emerald palm trees behind her, smile sharp enough to cut glass.
“Today’s challenge will be all about collaboration and communication,” she announces, voice bright as fresh-cut pineapple and twice as dangerous. “But there’s a twist. You won’t be paired with your current…couplings.” She pauses for the cameras to zoom. “Gentleman, you’ll draw names at random from this velvet bag.”
My stomach drops like a stone. I lock my expression into neutral, eyes fixed on the bag as if it’s wired to detonate. Damon reaches in first. His fingers disappear, then reappear with a slip of paper. That easy, sun-bleached grin spreads across his face.
“Lyla.”
I can’t help it— I glance at Scott.
His jaw flexes once, sharp and controlled, but his eyes… God, his eyes. They darken to storm-cloud blue, raw possessiveness flashing hot enough to scorch me from ten feet away—the exact same look he wore last night right before he had me pinned, breathless, whispering filthy promises against my mouth. My thighs clench on instinct.
Traitor.
I force my legs to move anyway. Damon’s hand settles lightly at the small of my back as I step up beside him—steady, polite, nothing like the way Scott’s grip had branded me last night.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Damon murmurs, warm breath brushing my ear. “How are you feeling, really?”
Forget the bag. His loaded question might as well be a live grenade.
I force a smile. “It went great.”
If you call a devastating confession from your ex followed by mind-blowing sex great.
I turn away from him before he can dig deeper. The last thing I need is this conversation going anywhere near last night.
Scott draws next. He doesn’t even look at the slip. His gaze cuts straight across the circle—steady, deliberate, scorching—locking onto mine like he’s already claiming me. Then his voice drops, low and rough.
“Valerie.”
Valerie steps forward with a delighted little laugh that floats over the group like she’s already won the whole damn show. Hips swaying, golden skin glowing under the sun, every inch the confident woman who knows exactly how to get a man. Something hot and ugly twists low in my stomach. I shove it down hard, trying not to think about it. Not to let it consume me. At least for now.
When every pair is locked in, Miranda claps, all sunshine and shark teeth.
“Rules are simple. You’re tied at the waist with a three-foot rope. Cross the course together without letting it go taut. No pulling. No extra touching. First pair through without penalties wins a private terrace dinner tonight—and the lucky lady wins an advantage at tomorrow’s coupling ceremony. And that is once she chooses the man she wants to couple up with, her choice can’t be stolen or vetoed. Not even by the man himself. Let’s see who can actually move as one.”
The course is a relay style race with seven rows, highlighted in white chalk from one side of the field to the other about the length of half a football field. A few beams are spread throughout, enough to hold two people at once, but barely.
Damon and I get clipped together. The rope sits too low on my hips. Intimate in the worst way, the rough hemp brushing the bare skin just above my shorts. His fingers graze my waist while he adjusts the knot, gentle, almost apologetic. “We’ve got this,” he murmurs, voice light and easy. “Just stay with me.”
We don’t.
His directions come quick but loose. “Slow down—wait, match my step—” We lurch forward, competent enough to stay upright, but every sync feels off by a fatal half-second. The rope snaps tight again and again, jerking us to a stop, yanking my body into his. Each tug feels like a punishment. Like the universe is laughing at how wrong this fit is.
Miranda’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip.
“Damon and Lyla’s rope went taut—back to the start!”
We’re sent to the starting line twice more before we even clear a third of the field. My skin prickles with the wrongness of it all—Damon’s steady hand at my back, his easy laugh when we stumble. Safe. Kind. Nothing like the man whose voice I can already hear slicing through the noise, calm and lethal.
Scott.
“Valerie, left foot first. Match my pace exactly. Breathe with me. Good. Now step—higher on the beam. Trust the rope. I’ve got you.”
His commands are quiet, precise, wrapped in that same velvet-steel authority that made my knees buckle last night when he had me pinned under him. I know that tone. Know exactly how it feels when it’s aimed at me—controlled, intentional, impossible to ignore. My pulse stutters. My thighs clench around the memory of his growl against my throat.
Valerie’s replies come breathy and eager, like she’s melting under every syllable. “Like this?”
The seed of jealousy that started as a flicker now coils tight and vicious in my belly, sharp enough to draw blood. I hate it. I hate her. I hate how perfectly they move together.
