Chapter 15
CAIDEN
I awoke in the middle of the night, sweating from another bad dream. I quietly crept out of the room, needing some fresh air.
It was past midnight, and everybody was asleep.
What stopped me, though, from walking out the sliding balcony door was the light on in the kitchen.
Curiously, I followed the light and peered in to see Amelia bent over in front of the fridge.
She was barefoot, one palm braced against the open door, posture lazy and loose in a way that made my mind go blank for a full three seconds.
Her shorts were wedged up tight, riding high enough that half her ass was on display. I had to clamp my teeth together to keep from making a fucking noise.
Amelia was oblivious to how feral she looked, how easy it would be to just close the space and take her, right there on the floor.
Sweat prickled under my collar.
I stood frozen in the doorway, every cell in my fucked-up body ready to bolt or to pounce. Impossible to say which.
My fists curled. Something in me broke open, a low hunger grinding through my nerves and settling deep in my lungs.
I remembered the taste of her, the air between our mouths on the ferry, how her body had fit so perfectly under my hands. I remembered the way she’d let go, just for a second, and the noise she’d made when I pressed her to the railing.
That sound replayed, louder and louder, until I ached.
She straightened, arms full of a bottle of water and some snacks, and caught me in the doorway. Her hair was wild, cheeks flushed from the cold, and for a second she just stared, as if she’d been expecting me all along.
“I didn’t think anyone else was up,” she whispered, voice hoarse with sleep.
I shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
The way she stood there—open, unguarded, shivering in nothing but that paper-thin white shirt and pathetic blue shorts—made me want to ruin her.
She was almost see-through, her nipples dark against the cotton, and the curve where her waist met the band of her shorts was a map of every place I’d wanted to touch since I was a kid, since before I knew what it meant to want like this.
I couldn’t even look at her directly; I stared at her feet, the pale milky ankles, the flex in her calf muscle. But I could still see the rest. I could see everything.
She knew it, too. She always knew.
I said nothing for a long time. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the faint, arrhythmic stutter of my pulse.
Amelia didn’t retreat or cover up. For a heartbeat, we were both animals. I was the wolf at the edge of the clearing, and she’s the rabbit who didn’t know if she wanted to run or be taken down.
She waited, the smile slow coming, almost shy. “Want any?” she asked, holding out the water bottle. The gentleness in her voice felt like a razor to the spine.
I took a step forward, just one, and the kitchen shrank to a box, an old familiar trap. She didn’t move away. If anything, she rooted herself more firmly on the floor, as if daring me to close the gap.
I took the bottle, her fingers brushing mine, a hot-cold shock that made my skin flinch. I pressed it to my forehead, pretending to need the chill, but really it was to keep from letting her see my face, the sick need that must have been painted all over it.
“Thanks,” I said, not meeting her eyes.
She shrugged, the motion pulling the shirt tighter across her chest. “You okay?”
I almost laughed. Was I okay? “Yeah,” I said, lying as I always did. Lying to her, to myself, to the gnawing thing behind my ribs. “Couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams.”
The words came out flat, but she didn’t flinch.
“Me too,” she said, her voice even softer. “It’s been every night, lately.”
My body was at war with itself. I dug the blunt ends of my nails into my palm, hard enough to leave marks, but it did nothing to dull the image of her standing there, legs half-bare, the delicate indent at her hip where my hand wanted to rest.
We were two animals circling the same wound, both pretending not to bleed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, voice so careful it hurt.
“Not really,” I said, too fast, too harsh.
She flinched, and I wanted to take it back, but I couldn’t. I never could. She stepped closer.
Every inch of me wanted to run, or to grab her, or both. I stood pinned, my hands on the cheap counter, the sweat under my shirt turning to ice.
The only thing that kept me from breaking was the memory of every time I’d split something beautiful in two just to see if the insides were as soft as the outside.
“You should go back to sleep,” I said, but it came out strangled, not a command but a plea. I couldn’t look at her, not with the hunger crawling up my spine, blotting out whatever light was left in my head.
She edged closer anyway, close enough I could hear the scrape of her breath in her throat.
I counted the seconds, counted the inches between us, waiting for her to flinch, or to laugh, or to do anything that would break the spell.
She just looked up at me, eyes wide and bright, mouth slightly open like she was waiting to be devoured.
A war blazed through me: walk away, or feed the fire. I knew which hunger would win.
Her hand was on my wrist, so light it might as well have been a memory.
I barely breathed. I let her thumb circle my wrist bone, soft and slow, and I watched her face for any sign of cruelty or pity. There was none. Only a kind of hot, reckless certainty that made the world shrink to the four square feet of kitchen tile we shared.
“Amelia,” I said, and I meant it as a warning, but it came out broken.
She inched closer, until there was nothing left between us but hunger and air. Her hand moved from my wrist to my forearm, her fingertips tracing the old scar just below the elbow.
She looked up at me, and the calculation in her eyes was gone. Replaced by a need that mirrored my own so perfectly, so exactly, that for a moment I could pretend we were the same beast.
The moment I bent down to her, the air between us ignited with a primal tension that made my cock twitch in my goddamn shorts.
Her lips, chapped and raw from sleep, parted like an invitation I couldn’t resist. I kissed her like I was starving, like she was the only thing keeping me alive.
I devoured her, my tongue sliding against hers, claiming every inch of her mouth like I owned it.
And she kissed me back like she wanted me to ruin her, like she craved the chaos I brought with me.
Our bodies crashed together, a mess of fevered limbs and desperate friction. I backed her up against the fridge, my hands slamming hard on either side of her head.
Her fingers clawed at the collar of my shirt, pulling me closer, and her body trembled. Not with fear, but with something hotter, wetter.
Fuck, she was dripping for me, desperate, and I wanted to rip those shorts off with my teeth and bury my face between her legs until she screamed.
There was that old, sick fucking urge: destroy what you love, then cradle the wreckage.
Her legs parted like it was the only thing she knew how to do, and fuck, it was. Her hips rolled into my hands, greedy and wet.
My hands found her waist, my fingers flexing hard enough to bruise. I wanted her to remember this, to carry the marks of me under her clothes for days.
She moaned, a sound so fucking animalistic it made my dick throb, and I lost it. I pinned her with my hips, pressed my face into the hollow of her neck, and tasted the salt of her skin.
She tipped her head back, eyelids heavy, her breath ragged and wild. I licked her collarbone, sucked the soft flesh until she whimpered, then kissed up to her jaw, biting just hard enough to make her shiver.
For one dizzy fucking second I imagined bending her over the cheap kitchen table, shoving her shorts down, and fucking her until the world dissolved around us. I wanted her so much it fucking hurt.
I wanted her so much, I hated her for it.
I’d imagined in a thousand sick moments what it would be like to have her like this, but nothing prepared me for the real heat of her, the way her body arched to meet my hands.
I needed to stop. I should have run.
But I couldn't, because the closer I got, the more I remembered the screaming ache of the years I spent hating her, and the way that hate was just love with a hole punched through it.
The monster in me was bone-deep, marrow-rich, and it wanted her more than it wanted to breathe. I didn't care if I was fucking her or killing her, the line was so thin you could lose it in a hair.
It was the most alive I’d felt in months, and I wasn’t about to stop.
I let myself grind into her, once, rough enough to draw a gasp from her lips. It was all teeth and fucking hunger, the need to claim her, to mark her, to make her mine in a way that would outlast both of us.
“Stop,” she whispered, but her legs locked around me, holding me exactly where I was. “Caiden, I—” She shook, like she was fighting herself, like she was fighting me.
I drew back, just enough to see her face, the moonlight washing in through the window and making her look like a fucking goddess.
Her lips were swollen, her eyes wide, pupils blown into black holes. She looked like she wanted to kill me and kiss me forever, and fuck, I wanted it all.
I rocked against her, again slow and desperate, and she arched back, a flash of teeth as she bit her lip, eyes fluttering.
She said my name against my mouth, just a soft, wet gasp—“Caiden”—and I almost came right then, grinding into her like a fucking animal.
The sound of it, helpless and hungry, burned through every fucking layer of armor I’d spent my life building.
She gasped again, nails digging into my biceps, and I couldn't help myself. I dragged her forward on the counter, pressed our bodies together until the heat might have fused us into one ruined thing.
I was grinding into her, desperate now like a beast, and she met me thrust for thrust, her whole body shaking in my hands. The friction was perfect, sick and sweet. I pressed my mouth to hers, holding her jaw so she couldn’t turn away.