Chapter 13 #2
I lean closer, my words low and rough. “And what is it that you want, Eden? With no messy aftermath?”
She freezes, the tiniest flicker in her gaze betraying a raw, secret edge. Then her jaw tightens, and she looks away. “That’s none of your business.”
She’s vibrating with annoyance, every muscle strung tight, blazing. It’s intoxicating—the rage, the heat rolling off her in waves. Beneath that rage is a wilder, darker pull, and it calls to me like a fucking siren. I lean in, then say hoarsely, “Say it, Trouble. Say what you came here for.”
She shakes her head, angry tears glinting under the lights. “You don’t get to question my motives. You don’t get to crash my date, humiliate me, and act like I’m yours.”
The words slice me open. Because that’s exactly what I want. For Eden to be mine. It’s what I’ve wanted for years. “I’m not—” The lie catches in my throat.
“Yes, you are.” Her tone cuts clean. “You’re acting like the jealous ex, and news flash, Nate: you’re not. You’re not my boyfriend, and you never were. You’re not anything.”
Need and desperation mix in my gut, a live wire sparking out of control.
“You’re right,” I snarl. “I’m not your anything.
Not now. But don’t you dare tell me we were nothing to each other.
” I jerk my chin toward where Daniel vanished.
“That guy? He doesn’t know a damn thing about you.
He doesn’t know your favorite color, your tells, your wants.
And you were about to let him put his hands on you? Be inside you?”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “Yes, Nate, that’s how a good fuck works.
There is penetration. I’m sure you are familiar with the concept.
So spare me the hypocrisy. You were about to be inside that girl that just escaped your lunacy.
” She pauses, taking a deep inhale. “Do you know Camille’s favorite color?
Or perhaps that was on the Q I don’t care. I want to show her what ten years of missing her did to me. I want her yes. I want my name on her lips.
The words tear out of me, raw and reckless. “Maybe I lost the right to be your friend. But if what you want is to blow off steam, if what you need is somebody to take you upstairs and ruin you, then let me be that man.”
The proposal hangs between us. Eden freezes. Her breath hitches, and I know she feels it—the pull between us, the thing that’s been burning me alive since she walked back into my world. But then her eyes shift. A flash. Not of want, but something sharper.
Fear. The punch of it is brutal.
Is she scared of me?
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” I can barely hear her. She’s trembling, clinging to the last shred of control.
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” My tone is raw, almost feral, scraped from somewhere deep and dark.
“I’d do it better than that guy ever could.
I’d give you everything you want. Everything you ask for.
Everything you need.” I shift closer, the last words rasping out—a vow and a curse all at once.
“And if that’s what you’re after, then no strings. No drama.”
She swallows hard, eyes shining—pain, want, anger—and shakes her head. She clutches her bag and pushes to her feet.
“You don’t have a say in who deserves me,” she whispers, her glare cutting through me.
I stand to meet her. “No. But I know who doesn’t.”
For a breath, it’s only us; the air sharp, my pulse loud. She looks at me—want and fear in equal measure—then lifts her chin, slides past me and heads for the door.
I move without thinking. My hand hooks her wrist, and I tug her back. She whirls, eyes bright, and then we’re in the same breath. Her mouth is parted, color high in her cheeks. Every instinct I have says “take.”
“Tell me to let go,” I growl.
She doesn’t. Her fingers catch my shirt. Her throat works. Her gaze holds.
To hell with consequences. To hell with smart.
I yank her the rest of the way into me. She stumbles against my chest with a startled gasp, and before she can change her mind, my mouth crashes onto hers.
It isn’t gentle—it’s brutal, hungry, every ounce of regret and want and ten years of silence poured into this kiss.
My hand fists in her hair, dragging her closer, the other banded tight around her back.
My tongue demands, sliding along the seam of her lips, needing to taste what I’ve been starving for.
And God, those vermilion lips part on a shudder of breath. Not resistance. Surrender. Our tongues tangle, silk and heat and promise, and I nearly lose my mind. She tastes of memory and everything I can’t stop wanting. It’s pure fucking ruin, and I don’t care.
“Come upstairs with me,” I say against her mouth, words ripped raw—defiant, reckless, hungry. “Say yes. Let me show you what you mean to me. Let me prove you’re safe with me.”
Her whole body jolts. She shoves my chest; her breath breaks; her eyes go wide—fury and fear, plain as daylight. Her lips are swollen, her face flushed, her hands shaking. I drop my hands and step back.
For a heartbeat, I think she’ll say it. Hope spikes.
She doesn’t. She tears free and turns—head high, shoulders rigid—leaving me standing there, chest heaving, burned alive in the wreckage of what I just did.
By the time I get back to my place, the whiskey burn’s gone cold, replaced by the gnawing sense I just lit a match in a fireworks warehouse. I shove it down, crash for a few hours, but when I wake, my phone’s buzzing like a pissed-off hornet.
Jessica Novak O’Reilly. My PR manager.
Not good.
I swipe. “Morning, Jess—”
“Don’t ‘morning’ me, Russo. Did you lose your goddamn mind last night?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you were starring in your own reality show at the W Gramercy.”
My stomach drops. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I don’t know…maybe the three separate TikToks of you storming up to a booth, Camille storming out, some guy storming out right after, and you—” she pauses, savoring it, “—kissing a girl like you were auditioning for a fragrance ad called Bad Decisions. And then she stormed out, too. Congrats, you’re trending.
Caption of the week: ‘Hockey Boyfriend Tryouts Escalate Quickly.’”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Christ.”
“Yeah, Christ. If my memory’s right—and it is—that girl’s Eden Carver, Leo Carver’s sister.
Your new PT. The same Leo ‘Lionheart’ Carver who defends his U.S.
heavyweight title in a few weeks. So unless you want him watching this over his morning protein shake, keep your head down and stop giving the internet free soap opera content.
I’m already working on getting it buried. ”
“Thanks, Jess.”
“No thanks necessary. I’ll send you the bill. And Russo, don’t make me clean up after you again.”
She hangs up, and I’m left staring at my phone, pulse pounding. All I can think is: if Leo sees that clip, things are going to get real ugly, real fast.