Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
DAKOTA
The compound sleeps. Or pretends to, anyway.
The dirt path crunches under my boots as I walk to Julien’s cabin.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders down from where they’ve crept up near my ears. Amelia was asleep when I left, snoring softly, my mother retired early with one of her headaches, and my father… I don’t know, don’t care, as long as he stays wherever the hell he is.
The moon’s bright enough that I don’t need a flashlight, which is good because fumbling with one would announce my presence to anyone awake.
Not that I’m doing anything wrong. We’re just training. That’s all.
Is that what Julien was doing with Amelia? Just sitting at the lake?
I round the back, where the door faces the tree line instead of the open compound, and knock.
Three soft raps.
The door opens so fast he must’ve been standing right there. Julien fills the frame, shirtless, jeans riding low on his hips, hair damp and water beading on his collarbone, catching the lamplight from inside.
My mouth goes dry.
“Hey.” He steps aside, gesturing me inside.
I brush past him, and the smell of soap and aftershave? hits me. He closes the door, turning the lock with a soft click that makes me unusually nervous.
“Sienna mentioned a party?” I say, because apparently I’ve decided to lead with the most awkward topic possible.
“Cameron’s idea.” He moves into the main room, and I follow, watching the muscles in his back shift as he walks. “Social gathering. He was very specific about that terminology.”
“Sounds fun?”
“Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.” He turns to face me, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “But he insisted.”
Say it. Ask him. “How was the lake?”
“Peaceful. That’s what your sister said.”
“That’s good.” My voice sounds tight, higher than normal. “Amelia looked happy when she got back.”
“She wanted to get out of that cabin. Can’t blame her.” He studies me, head tilted. “You want to go tomorrow? Continue our little battle?”
My brain short-circuits between yes please and absolutely not because it sounds dangerously like a date, and we don’t do that.
We do… whatever this is.
“Maybe.” I shrug, trying for casual and probably landing somewhere near manic. “So what’s today’s lesson?”
He walks to the center of the room, dragging the small coffee table aside to create space. Then he begins to circle me like a predator. My pulse kicks up as he completes a full circle, stopping directly in front of me.
“Hit me.”
“What?”
“Hit me.” No smile. No joke. “Hard as you can.”
“Julien, I’m not going to—”
“Why not? We already did something similar the last weeks.”
“I know how to punch.”
“Do you?” One eyebrow arches. “Show me.”
This is stupid. I’m going to look ridiculous. But I raise my fist awkwardly, then tap his chest, the contact barely enough to wrinkle his shirt.
He sighs. “Dakota.”
“I’m not trying to actually hurt you.”
“I know. That’s the problem.” He circles me again, and I turn to keep him in sight. “In a real fight, hesitation gets you killed. Remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. Hit me like you mean it.”
I swing again, putting more force behind it.
He catches my wrist mid-punch, holding it between us. “You’re pulling back. Why?”
“Because hitting people is wrong?”
“So is dying.” He releases my wrist. “Again.”
“Julien—”
“What are you afraid of?” He moves closer, invading my space. “That you’ll hurt me? I’ve been shot, stabbed, blown up. Your fist isn’t going to break me.”
“I just—”
“You just what?” Closer still. “You just want to be the good girl who never causes problems? Never makes anyone uncomfortable? Never fights back?”
Heat surges through me, anger burning bright. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair.” He’s in my face now, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my skin prickle. “Your father proved that. The world ending proved that. So stop being polite and hit me.”
My fist flies before I think about it, almost connecting with his chest before he palms it, stumbling back a step.
“Better.” A smile ghosts across his lips. “Again.”
I do. Each punch lands harder than the last, weeks of frustration pouring out through my knuckles.
“Good.” He catches my next punch, holding my fist against his sternum. “Feel that? That’s real. That’s you fighting back.”
I’m breathing hard, sweat beading along my hairline. My knuckles throb, probably bruised, but I feel… alive. Present. Like I’ve been sleepwalking and just woke up.
“Now back to our routine.” He releases my hand, backing up two steps. “Defend yourself.”
He moves forward, arm extending in a punch toward my face. I throw my hands up, but he goes around them, tapping my cheek with his knuckles.
“Dead,” he says.
“I’m trying—”
“Try harder.” He resets. “Again.”
We do it again. And again. And again. He finds an opening every time, slipping past my defenses like they’re made of paper. My arms ache. My shoulders burn. Frustration builds with every failure until I want to scream. It’s clear that the training wheels are off today.
“This is pointless.” I drop my hands. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Can’t means impossible. Won’t means you’re giving up.” He steps closer, and I’m not sure he’s still talking about fighting. “Which is it?” He swings again, and I miss the block, his palm stopping inches from my ribs. “You run from everything. Even from this.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“For how long?”
He comes at me again, and this time I don’t think. Just react. My forearm shoots up, blocking his punch, my other hand coming around to strike his ribs.
Neither of us moves.
My chest heaves, hair falling loose from its braid. “I did it.”
He drops his hands, stepping back.
“I did it!” A startled laugh escapes me. My arm still tingles where I blocked him, the impact reverberating through bone and muscle. “I actually—holy shit, I blocked you!”
“Don’t get cocky.” But his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “One block doesn’t make you Bruce Lee.”
I blink up at him. “Who?”
“Fuck.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m getting old.”
Another laugh bursts out before I can trap it.
“You think that’s funny?” He advances.
“No.” I back up, laughter still catching in my throat. “Not at all.”
“Liar.”
I spin, making a break for the other side of the couch, but he’s faster. He grabs and lifts me against his chest, and I’m airborne for a split second before we both tumble to the floor, his body taking the impact. He rolls us immediately, pinning me beneath him on the worn rug.
My laughter dies.
His face hovers inches from mine, eyes darker now, playfulness giving way to something more intense.
Hunger.
His hands find mine, fingers threading through, pinning them beside my head.
The position mirrors every late-night fantasy I’ve tried not to have, every moment I’ve lain awake imagining his weight, his heat, his control.
Except those fantasies never included the actual gravity of him—how his chest expands against mine with each ragged breath, the way lamplight carves shadows across his jaw, how his eyes darken to almost black in the amber glow.
“Why do you do that?” His voice drops lower, rougher.
“Do what?”
His gaze pins me as effectively as his hands. “Disappear.”
That’s not—
The denial rushes to my lips, automatic as breathing. Conditioned. I want to say it, want to tell him he’s wrong, that I’m right here, that I don’t know what he means.
But his eyes flick between mine, searching, and I see it.
Every moment, I’ve slipped out before dawn. Every moment, I’ve turned away from a touch that lingered too long. Every moment, I snuggled into his chest and acted like we were strangers the next. Every moment, I chose Amelia over him.
He sees all of it. Every careful retreat. Every calculated distance.
My throat closes. The words I was going to say shrivel and die somewhere between my brain and my mouth because lying to him right now would be like lying to myself, and I’m so fucking tired of doing that.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” His forehead drops to mine, noses almost touching. “Tell me you don’t feel this too, and I’ll back off. I’ll keep training you, keep my hands to myself, pretend every time you leave doesn’t feel like losing… Fuck, Dakota. I need you.”
Three words. That’s all it takes to crack me open.
The heat of his body seeps through my clothes. His pulse hammers against my wrist where he holds me down. I can taste his exhales, feel the tremor in his fingers, see the vulnerability he’s laying bare.
He needs me. And I need him.
“You’re right.” The admission tears out of me, raw and bleeding. “I do.”
“Dak—”
“I don’t want to disappear anymore.”
“Then don’t.” He crashes his mouth to mine like he’s claiming every hidden piece of me, branding me with it.
No gentle exploration. No tentative testing of boundaries. No first-kiss sweetness.
Just heat and hunger and the sharp edge of his teeth catching my lower lip.
His lips move against mine, demanding, devouring, like he’s been starving and I’m the first meal he’s seen in weeks. My body ignites, every nerve ending sparking to life as his tongue traces the seam of my lips.
My lips part on a gasp, and he takes the invitation gladly, tongue sweeping into my mouth with a groan that vibrates through my bones, straight to my throbbing clit.
It unlocks something deep inside of me. Something feral and needy that I’ve kept caged my entire life, but not anymore.
I kiss him back just as hard, just as desperate, fighting against his restraint on my hands, needing to touch, to cling, to surrender everything I’ve held back.
The carpet burns against my shoulders as he presses closer, his body a furnace above mine.