Chapter 8 #2
Ninety seconds. Two minutes. The crowd is getting louder now, more invested in the outcome, but their voices barely register through the blood pounding in my ears.
We’re locked in a contest that feels much bigger than a charity demonstration.
It’s the continuation of a war that started when we were eighteen and stupid and so convinced we were right that we destroyed everything we might have been to each other.
I need to end this. I need to win.
So I stop pushing.
The sudden absence of resistance throws him off, his body so attuned to countering my force that its disappearance creates a split second of imbalance. I use that split second to step in close, closer than the game requires or allows or makes any kind of tactical sense.
My chest presses against his. My hips against his hips.
I look up at him through my lashes and let my expression shift into something softer, something inviting.
I let my lips part just slightly. Let him think I’m about to do exactly the kind of stupid thing we used to do back when we were young and reckless and utterly incapable of staying away from each other.
His breath catches and his grip loosens on my arms. His mouth opens slightly like he’s about to devour me the way he used to, full of strength and want. His eyes take me in, not as angry as usual. This time they’re tinged with a different kind of aggression. He wants me. Badly.
His weight shifts backward, just a fraction, just enough, and I hook my ankle behind his and shove him with everything I have.
He stumbles out of the circle, catching himself before he falls, and the crowd erupts into cheers and laughter and scattered applause.
Triumph floods through me, hot and bright.
I catch sight of a blonde in a red dress near the front staring at me with an expression of pure scandalized horror, like I’ve committed a felony in front of witnesses.
Worth it. Absolutely worth it.
I walk past Dominic on my way out of the circle, close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm, and lean in just enough to murmur near his ear. “That’s one for me,” I say. “Finally.”
His expression cycles through shock, fury, and something that looks almost like reluctant admiration. I file the image away to enjoy later, then grab my heels from the table and push through the crowd toward the exit.
The adrenaline is already starting to crash, leaving me shaky and too warm, and I need to be anywhere that isn’t within arm’s reach of Dominic Midnight before my brain catches up to what my body just did.
The gymnasium doors swing shut behind me, and the hallway stretches out ahead, dim and quiet compared to the noise of the gala. My footsteps echo on the linoleum as I walk, the familiar squeak of bare feet on waxed floors pulling at memories I’ve tried to keep buried.
“Bennett.” His voice bounces down the hallway, sharp with frustration. “Stop.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” I call back over my shoulder without slowing my pace, then add, unable to resist, “Other than congratulations on the loss. Really impressive performance out there.”
His footsteps are faster than mine, longer, eating up the distance between us, and he catches up in a few strides and moves in front of me, blocking my path.
His chest is heaving under that dress shirt, and there’s a flush across his cheekbones.
The sight of him this undone sends a hot rush of satisfaction through me.
“What the hell was that?” he demands.
“A charity demonstration,” I say, crossing my arms and meeting his glare without flinching. “I won fair and square. You’re welcome for the donation money.”
“That wasn’t winning, that was—“ He stops, and I watch the frustration ripple across his features. “That was dirty tactics from someone who’s never fought fair a single day in her life.”
“I followed every rule you set,” I tell him. “Stayed in the circle. Hands only. No strikes, no throws. It’s not my fault you got distracted and lost your balance.”
“Distracted,” he repeats, laughing. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you prefer I call it?” I ask, tilting my head and letting my voice go sweet and mocking. “Overwhelmed? Flustered?”
“You’re unbelievable,” he says, his eyes flashing dangerously.
“And you’re a sore loser,” I fire back, stepping closer instead of away. “Admit it, Midnight. I beat you fair and square and it’s eating you alive.”
“You didn’t beat me,” he growls, stepping closer too, and now we’re inches apart, close enough that I can see every shade of brown in his eyes, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body through the thin fabric of my dress. “You cheated.”
“Prove it,” I whisper, and I don’t know why I’m whispering, or why my voice has gone breathy when I should be gloating, but his proximity is doing something to my head and I can’t seem to find my way back to solid ground.
We’re standing too close now, and the hallway feels too small to contain everything crackling between us.
His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers there, and I feel it like a physical touch, like the press of his fingers against my lips.
The air goes thick and charged with an energy I remember from late nights in his truck and stolen moments between classes, a chemistry that terrified me at eighteen and apparently still has the power to short-circuit my brain at forty-two.
“I loathe you,” he says, his voice rough, but he doesn’t step back.
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I breathe, but I don’t step back either.
Neither of us moves, not toward each other and not away, just frozen in the space between, caught in the gravity of everything we’ve been to each other and everything we burned to the ground.
His hand twitches at his side like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me, and my lips part without my permission, and I watch his jaw clench hard enough that I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
The door bangs open at the end of the hall.
Voices flood in, laughing and loud, a group of people stumbling toward the bathrooms with the cheerful gracelessness of the thoroughly drunk. I step back with my heart pounding against my ribs.
“I have to go,” I say without looking at him, and I don’t wait for a response.
I turn and walk down the hallway toward the parking lot exit, my heels dangling from one hand and my pulse racing, and I don’t let myself look back to see if he’s watching me leave.
I can feel his eyes on me anyway, the weight of his gaze between my shoulder blades, hot and heavy, following me all the way to the door.
The night air hits my face when I push through to the parking lot, cool and sharp and exactly what I need to clear my head after whatever the hell just happened in that hallway.
I walk to my car on autopilot, slide into the driver’s seat, and sit there for a long moment with my hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing while my brain tries to process the last hour of my life.
My thighs press together involuntarily, trying to ease the ache that’s been building since I felt him against me in that circle. I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes.
Welp. This trip home isn’t going exactly as planned.