And I don’t have anyone but myself to blame for that.
I wander over to a collection of framed photographs on a side table near the window, desperate for any distraction from the suffocating tension between Mason and Judah. The air feels thick enough to choke on, and I need something—anything—to focus on besides the way they’re staring at each other like the rest of us have ceased to exist.
“These are beautiful,” I say, my voice coming out a little too bright, a little too performative. I pick up a silver-framed photo of what must be a younger Judah on a fishing boat, the ocean stretching endlessly behind him. His arm is slung around Dominic’s shoulders, both of them grinning wide and squinting against the brilliant summer sun. They look happy. Genuinely happy. The kind of carefree that makes my chest ache with something I don’t want to examine too closely.
Mason suddenly materializes at my side, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. His hand reaches for the frame in my hands, and I notice the tremor in his fingers.
“Let me see that,” he says, his voice strangled and tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.
I surrender the photo without protest, watching as he studies it with an intensity that seems wildly disproportionate to what should be a casual vacation snapshot. His gray-blue eyes move over every detail, his jaw working like he’s grinding his teeth.
“I was seventeen when we took this,” Judah says from across the room, his deep voice careful and measured. “First summer Iworked my father’s boat without supervision. Thought I was so grown up, so ready to take on the world.”
Mason’s fingers tighten around the frame until his knuckles go bone white, and I worry the glass might shatter under the pressure. I lean in closer, peering over his shoulder, and that’s when I notice what I missed at first glance—there’s a third person in the photo, partially cut off at the edge as if someone tried to crop them out but couldn’t quite commit to it. Just barely visible is a slim arm draped over Judah’s shoulder from the other side, and on the wrist is a watch I recognize. I’ve seen Mason adjust that same watch a thousand times during our years together.
The air in the room shifts, growing heavier with each passing second. The silence is deafening, broken only by the distant sound of waves and the creak of the old house settling around us.
Mason abruptly sets the photo down with a sharp click against the wooden table, his movements jerky and mechanical, like a marionette with tangled strings.
“I should make sure they have everything you need here,” he announces to no one in particular, still not meeting anyone’s eyes. His gaze is fixed somewhere over Judah’s left shoulder, carefully avoiding direct contact. “We might need to make a grocery run.”
“Mason—” I start, reaching for his arm, but he’s already moving toward the door with quick, purposeful strides.
“I’ll be back.”
The door closes behind him with enough force to make the photographs rattle on the table. Judah stands frozen for a moment, his jaw tight and his ocean-blue eyes dark with something that looks like pain. Then, without a word to either of us, he follows Mason out, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway.
I’m left standing there with Atticus in the suddenly quiet bedroom, the silence pressing down on us like a physical weight.
“What the hell was that about?” I ask, turning to face him, my voice sharper than I intended.
Atticus is already heading for the door, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I should go too. Give you a chance to settle in, get some rest before things get worse.”
“No.” I grab his arm, my fingers wrapping around the soft cashmere of his sleeve, holding him in place with more force than necessary. “Stay. Please.”
Something flickers across his handsome face—hesitation, perhaps, or concern, or maybe something else I can’t quite name.But then I step closer to him, closing the distance between us, and his nostrils flare slightly. His pupils dilate, and I know he can smell it. The heat suppressants are definitely working now, or maybe they’re wearing off—I can never tell which is which anymore. I can feel the warmth spreading through my limbs like honey, slow and thick, making my skin hypersensitive and my head slightly fuzzy around the edges.
“You smell good,” I murmur, moving closer still until there’s barely any space left between us. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, and everything in me wants to press against it.
Atticus takes a deliberate step back, putting careful distance between us. His jaw is tight, and I can see the effort it takes him to maintain control. “That’s the heat talking, firebird.”
“So what if it is?” I challenge, feeling reckless and raw and desperate for answers to questions I didn’t even know I had. “Why were you so eager to pretend to be my boyfriend for the cameras? You ignored me for two entire weeks on set. Wouldn’t even look at me during table reads.”
“I’m not in the habit of forcing myself on women who don’t want me,” he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. There’s something vulnerable in his eyes that I’ve never seenbefore. “You made it pretty clear from day one that you weren’t interested. You barely spoke to me unless we were filming.”
I study his face—those ridiculous green eyes that seem to see too much, the perfect angles of his cheekbones that photographs don’t do justice, lips that shouldn’t be allowed on someone so frustratingly noble.
“You’re not so bad,” I concede, stepping closer again, drawn by some force I don’t want to name. “For an alpha.”
Before he can respond, before he can step away again, I rise on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. For one glorious, heart-stopping moment, he responds. His mouth is warm and surprisingly soft against mine, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. His hands come up to my waist, his touch reverent, and I think he’s going to pull me closer?—
But instead, he pushes me gently away, his touch still careful even in rejection.
“Phoenix,” he says, and his voice is rough, strained. “This isn’t what you want. Not really. Not like this.”
I stare at him, confusion and hurt warring with the heat-induced desire coursing through my veins. My lips are still tingling from the brief contact, and I want to be angry at him for pulling away, but I can see the conflict written clearly across his face.
Without another word, Atticus turns and leaves the room, the door closing behind him with a decisive click that sounds far too final.
