Chapter 31 Bellamy
BELLAMY
The hallway is cooler than the dining room, or maybe it just feels that way without Gage and Rafe taking up so much space.
The music hits me again, the bass thumping through the floorboards, and for a second it’s almost funny, how the party keeps moving like something Earth-shattering didn’t happen in Coco Calloway’s formal dining room.
Like I didn’t just kiss two of her sons and wanted more.
My mouth tingles. My lips feel swollen in that tender, used way that should make me self-conscious, but instead it makes heat curl low in my stomach, satisfied and restless at the same time.
What the hell just happened?
The thought flitters around my brain, and it takes effort to swallow the giddy laugh that threatens to spill out.
Whatever … entanglement that was, I don’t regret it. In fact, I feel alive.
The space between us was a living, breathing thing. And I can feel the pulse of it in my wrists, my throat, my core.
My skin feels bruised by their gazes, and half of me wants to march back in that room and see what other entanglements the three of us can get into.
I shake that thought off, knowing now isn’t the time to explore that idea.
I slip down the hallway past the archway to the kitchen, dodging a pair of girls in string bikinis arguing over who gets the last cup of sangria.
Outside, the air tastes like salt and chlorine and smoke from the bonfire someone started too close to the palm trees. People are everywhere, laughing too loud, bodies pressed too close, the kind of loose, reckless energy that turns a nice party into a story you only tell in fragments.
I cut toward the corner of the side patio where it’s darker, quieter.
Cruz is there like he’s been waiting—leaned against a pillar with a drink in his hand, shirt unbuttoned. He lifts his glass in greeting, eyes narrowing slightly as they land on my neck.
My hand drifts to the spot he's looking at. The skin there burns slightly under my fingertips, a constellation of tiny abrasions that pulse with my heartbeat. Each rough scratch a reminder of how Gage's jaw had dragged against my neck, catching with delicious friction as he'd pressed closer.
“Well,” he drawls. “You look like you’ve had fun tonight.”
I snort and snatch his drink from his hand.
The glass is cool against my palm, condensation wetting my fingers.
His brows shoot up as I tip my head back, letting the amber liquid slide down my throat.
It burns like fire, scorching a path from my lips to my chest. My eyes water.
My nostrils flare. But I don't stop until the glass is empty, until that liquid heat spreads through my chest and dulls the raw, exposed feeling that Gage and Rafe left behind.
Cruz’s mouth quirks. “Bellamy Hale,” he says slowly, like he’s tasting my name. “So it’s gonna be that kind of night, hm?”
“It’s a party, isn’t it?” I hand the empty glass back and lean my shoulders against the window behind me. I forgot who’s room it is, but I pray it’s not Coco’s. Somehow I just know she’d take one look at me and know what just went down in her dining room.
His laugh rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest. He pushes off the pillar and steps forward, leaving a careful foot of space between us. The warmth radiating from his skin makes goosebumps rise on my arms despite the humidity.
“In that case,” he says, eyes darting past me to where someone shrieks with laughter by the pool. “I'll get us more drinks.”
He starts to turn. My fingers catch his wrist before I can think—five points of heat against his pulse. His eyes drop to where I'm touching him, then rise slowly to meet mine. The moment stretches, elastic. I release him, leaving five pale fingerprints that fade as I watch.
“Bring me something cold,” I say, my voice dry.
Cruz's grin sharpens like a blade catching light. “Yes, ma'am.”
And then he disappears into the crowd. The space he occupied cools instantly.
My shoulders drop half an inch. My lungs expand fully for what feels like the first time in minutes.
Twenty feet away, strangers laugh and splash by the pool, their voices blurring into white noise beneath the music's thump.
My pulse slows in my ears, then suddenly quickens again—a bird realizing it's been left outside its cage.
Three men I don’t recognize drift into my pocket of reprieve like they’ve been pulled by gravity. Tall and broad, the kind of drunk that leans into overconfidence. Two with beers in hand, the third with a bottle of something clear that catches the light when he tilts it.
They fan out in front of me in a way that feels casual if you don’t know what to look for.
But I fucking know.
They’re blocking my view of the yard. Blocking my line back to the house. Blocking the easiest exit without ever touching me.
My spine straightens. My fingers curl around the edge of the towel around my hips. As far as weapons go, it’s fucking terrible. But I’m not entirely defenseless.
One of them smiles. “Hey.”
I give him a flat stare and nothing else.
His friend stares at me with intensity, letting his slimy gaze crawl over me. “You new around here?”
“Not really.” I try to look over their shoulders, beyond them, but it’s hard when they’ve all got at least six inches on me.
The third guy laughs and shuffles forward a step. “That’s not what he meant. I’m Kyle.”
“Not interested, Kyle.” I take a half-step back without meaning to, my shoulder brushing the cool glass of a window behind me.
It’s instinct, space-making. The second it happens, irritation flares hot in my chest.
“Don’t be a bitch,” the first says, shifting to put his arm on the glass by my head, as if we’re sharing a secret. “We’re being nice to you.”
“Yeah, we want to welcome you to Hollow Beach. You know, the proper way.” His smile is all condescending bullshit, like he’s doing me a favor.
Something about all their drunk, smug faces lights a dangerous fire inside of me.
I tip my chin up, letting my gaze trail over all three of them. “How about you all go fuck yourselves?”
The third guy lunges for me, grabbing my arm and getting in my face. “Now that’s not very nice.”
The glass behind me vibrates with a knock. My shoulders jerk at the sound—tap, tap, tap—precise as a metronome. The men's faces remain unbothered. One swivels his head, beer sloshing over his knuckles, and snorts at whatever is on the other side of the window.
“Oh shit,” he says, lifting his beer toward the glass like he’s greeting a buddy. “Is that a new gun or something? I don’t get it, man, but congrats.”
The other two follow his gaze, drunk enough to think everything is amusing.
But not me. I slide to the left, craning my neck to see where the hell Cruz is. I hate to play the Calloway card, because I’m not a fucking damsel in distress type, but I’m close to laying all my cards down just to get these assholes away from me.
The first guy turns back to me, too close now. “C’mon, sweetheart.” His hand reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of my towel at my hip like he’s testing what he’s allowed to touch. “Let’s leave Rafe to his new toy and go somewhere more private.”
My skin goes cold, and I catch his wrist. I fling it off of me and paste on my most lethal smile. “Get fucked. And don’t ever touch me again.”
A blur of movement—the guy's sneering face jerks backward, his beer arcing through the air in slow motion, amber droplets catching the party lights.
His shirt collar strains against his throat as knuckles whiten around the fabric, dragging him away from me with enough force that his feet stumble to keep up.
Bishop Calloway stands there like some kind of avenging angel.
His face is carved from ice, eyes flat and merciless. He doesn’t say a word as he twists the fabric in his fist.
I take it back. He’s a fallen angel.
The man sputters, twisting. “What the fuck—”
Bishop’s fist connects with his jaw. A clean hit, fast and controlled.
The sound is ugly—bone on bone, a sharp crack that cuts through the music for one brief heartbeat. The guy drops like someone unplugged him, landing on his ass with his hands scrambling uselessly.
A fissure of dark excitement splits through me, heady and immediate.
And I hate how relieved I feel.
Bishop leans toward him, hissing, “She said no, motherfucker. You know the fucking rules. You gonna disrespect me in my own house?”
The two other guys lunge toward Bishop, outrage twisting their expressions.
“Bishop,” I yell, stepping forward without thinking.
“Bellamy.” He says my name in exasperation, leveling me with a look I shouldn’t find so fucking alluring.
Then Bishop pivots. His fist connects with a nose, and the second guy staggers backward, blood spraying from his nose in a fine mist that catches the patio lights.
The third swings wild, knuckles grazing Bishop's cheek.
Bishop doesn't flinch. Just grabs the guy's shirt, twists, and drives him down onto one knee with methodical precision.
When he straightens, all three lie sprawled on the concrete, red pooling beneath chins and split lips, while Bishop stands over them, not even breathing hard.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper.
My mouth goes dry. Desire pools low in my belly, and I press my thighs together without meaning to, trying to quell the sudden, shameful flutter between them. My pulse throbs in places it shouldn't while men bleed at my feet.
“Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind about letting you leave,” Bishop rumbles. The threat hangs around their throats.
The second guy hauls his friends upright, murmuring apologies that sound more like self-preservation than remorse.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs to Bishop. “We were just—”
“Now,” Bishop snaps.
They scramble together and leave.
Bishop doesn’t watch them though. His attention flicks to the edge of my towel where that first man’s fingers touched. And his mouth tightens, his fingers curling into his fists.
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the house as quickly as he appeared. If the people closest to me weren’t sliding looks in my direction, I might think I made the whole thing up.
Cruz appears beside me, condensation dripping from two plastic cups clutched in his hands. His gaze flicks to the wet smears of red on the concrete, then to my white-knuckled grip on my towel. One eyebrow arches.
“What did I miss?”
I take the drink, ice cubes clinking as my hand trembles slightly. The liquor burns down my throat, washing away the metallic taste of adrenaline. “Just some drunk idiot who couldn't handle his beer. Your brother kicked them out.”
Cruz’s gaze holds mine for a beat, like he knows there’s more to the story. When I don’t offer anything else, he dips his head in a couple of nods.
“Good. We’ve got rules for a reason.”
I arch a brow, feeling a grin tug up the corner of my mouth. “So weird because I could’ve sworn you used to say ‘rules were meant to be broken.’”
He tosses an arm over my shoulder with a laugh and pulls me into him for a side-hug. “C’mon, Bells, the night is still young. Let’s see what other shit we can get into.”