9. Even If It Can’t Last
9
EVEN IF IT CAN’T LAST
EZRA
Kruz will not get a second chance from me.
It doesn’t matter that I’m completely gone for the woman and would likely do anything she asked of me.
Not that she knows that.
It’s probably for the best that she doesn’t, at least for now.
Allowing her to potentially put herself in danger is not an option.
It doesn’t matter if I’ve taken her away from the dangers of the Assembly and the chaos I’m certain is unfolding on the mainland, if she acts impulsively here on the island and ends up with cold shock—or worse.
The ocean is wild and unforgiving in more ways than one.
I gave her space because I thought she needed it—because I thought I could trust her to stay put, to keep herself safe. But after seeing her on that damn pier, looking smug and reckless, I know better.
She’s a brat, and in this case, it’s to her own detriment.
My throat tightens at the thought of anything happening to her.
She can argue all she wants. She’s coming with me today.
“Up,” I say, nudging her shoulder early in the morning. She stirs beneath the heavy blanket. I want to be more gentle with her, but I can’t leave any room for her to think she can worm her way out of this.
She groans, dragging the pillow over her head like a child refusing to go to school. “Go away.”
“Not happening,” I reply, grabbing her coat from the chair and tossing it onto the bed. “Get dressed. You’re coming to the lighthouse with me.”
Her head shoots out from under the pillow, her hair a wild mess. “What? Why?”
“Because you can’t be trusted to stay out of trouble,” I say simply, already buttoning my coat. “And I’ve got shit to do.”
Her glare could burn a hole through me, but I don’t waver.
I’m looking down at her, patiently waiting. She sits up and slings her legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
She reaches for her boots, and I think she must be sleepier than I expected because she hasn’t even dressed yet. And then she chucks it at me.
There’s no power behind it, it’s more of a toss, so I catch it easily before it hits me in the chest instead of my head, which I’m sure is where she was aiming.
My kitten is not a morning person.
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Somebody’s a grumpy ass this morning.”
“And you’re a deranged kidnapper with a god complex,” she grumbles, walking like a zombie toward the bathroom to brush her teeth.
Note to self: orgasms only keep her soft for me for approximately sixteen hours.
I guess that just means I’ll have to give them to her more often.
“I’ll be waiting on the porch,” I place her boot back by the bed and turn to leave to give her privacy to dress for the day. “You might want to wear your hair up.”
Her head pokes out of the bathroom to glare at me again.
I don’t bother explaining further. She can hate me all she wants for this and everything else, but I’m not letting her stay behind to tempt fate again.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re trekking across the half-frozen island.
She doesn’t say much, which suits me just fine. Her silence is better than her vitriol.
Maybe I should let her freeze half to death more often, too.
Her footsteps are determined, though, crunching angrily through the icy sand as she keeps up with my pace.
At the lighthouse, I drop my tool bag onto the workbench and start unpacking it.
“What is this place, anyway?” she asks, arms crossed as she glances around.
“It’s a lighthouse,” I say, fighting a grin.
Her eye roll is practically audible. “Obviously. But what do you do here? What’s the point of it?” She looks around skeptically, like she knows it’s not just for lighting the way for passing boats.
“A little of everything. Maintenance, mostly. Making sure the light works, that the systems are running properly. It’s old, so it needs a lot of attention,” I reply, opening a toolbox and pulling out a set of pliers.
“Sounds riveting,” she mutters, leaving out what I know she’s probably thinking—that wasn’t what she was asking.
But neither of us is in the mood for me to show her around the stashes of drugs in the walls.
Just thinking about them makes my stomach churn. The Assembly poisons everything it touches, and this island is no exception. It’s not just the power they hoard or the secrets they bury—it’s the way they sink their claws into every vice, every desperation, every weakness.
The drugs are a reminder of that. A reminder of the filth I’ve been complicit in, regardless of how I felt about it. I tell myself I never had a choice, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach. It doesn’t make it any less sickening to know that, in some way, I’ve had a hand in it.
I want no part of it. I never did. But wanting and reality are two different things, and the reality is that the drugs are here, woven into the very bones of this place. And as much as I want to tear them out and make a bonfire of them, it’s not that simple.
I smirk. “Don’t worry, you’ll get to experience the excitement firsthand. You’re helping me today.”
Before she can protest, I hand her a pair of gloves and a small wrench and gesture for her to follow me.
Her scoff echoes off the walls. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Consider it a lesson in staying busy.” I can think of plenty of other ways to keep her busy, but for now, this will have to suffice.
She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t walk out either, which is as close to a win as I’m going to get.
We work in silence at first, me tinkering with the old generator while she hands me tools with all the enthusiasm of someone forced into community service.
The generator is a pain in the ass, as always. It’s gas-powered, but the fuel lines tend to clog from condensation freezing in the cold, especially if there’s water in the fuel. I need to add a stabilizer to the gas to prevent this, but I’m not exactly in a position to call for supplies to be brought to us. I explain as I work, showing her how to check for ice buildup around the intake and make sure the air filter isn’t blocked.
“If the fuel line clogs, it’s usually from water freezing in the gas,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag before tossing it over my shoulder. “That’s why we should keep the tank full and use a stabilizer. Keeps the water out, prevents buildup, and saves us from having to deal with this in the dead of night when the wind’s howling, and the temperature’s trying to kill us.”
I remove the spark plug, turning it between my fingers before holding it up to the light. A thin layer of soot darkens the tip, and I scrape at it with my thumb. “If it starts misfiring, check these first. Ice buildup in the cold can foul the plugs, and they’ll need to be cleaned before they completely crap out on us. If they’re really bad, we’ll have to replace them.” I grab a tool and carefully scrape the residue off, showing her how to do it. “It’s finicky, but better than letting the damn thing break down when we need it most.”
She watches me, arms crossed, her expression a mix of irritation and curiosity. Like she doesn’t want to care, but can’t help herself. She doesn’t say much at first, just listens, her lips pressing into that stubborn line I know too well.
But after a while, the questions come. Genuine ones.
“How often do you have to do this?”
“What happens if the power goes out completely?”
“Is there a backup?”
I explain how the generator powers the light and the systems that keep it running when the solar panels can’t do much, like when the weather turns, and the sky is nothing but a solid stretch of grey. I tell her how everything out here relies on maintenance, on knowing the ins and outs of the equipment before something goes wrong.
She absorbs the information, filing it away.
I talk her through the Assembly’s use of the lighthouse as a stopover for their shipments, though she doesn’t like that part.
The wiring inside the control panel gives me trouble, corroded from years of salt air and neglect. The brittle insulation crumbles between my fingers as I work, exposing the tarnished copper beneath. She watches for a moment before stepping in to help, her deft fingers stripping the old wires with practiced precision.
I don’t have to guide her much—she picks up on the process quickly, catching small details I haven’t even pointed out yet. A frayed connection here, a loose terminal there. It’s impressive how fast she catches on.
When I lead her to the lantern room, the air shifts—cooler, crisper, carrying the faint scent of the sea through the aging structure. I gesture toward the massive Fresnel lens, its intricate rings of glass catching the dim light. “This magnifies and focuses the beam,” I say, running a hand along the base. “If it’s dirty or misaligned, it won’t project properly.” I grab a clean cloth and hand it to her. “It needs to be spotless.”
She huffs but takes the cloth, setting straight to work with a focus I wouldn’t have expected. She moves methodically, wiping away smudges and condensation, tilting her head to examine the glass from different angles.
I make adjustments to the light’s alignment while she mutters under her breath, complaining about the tediousness of the task but still refusing to do anything less than a perfect job. And somewhere between her frustrated grumbling, her stubborn insistence that I’m handling something wrong, and the quiet determination in her movements, I get the sense that maybe she doesn’t mind being here.
With me.
“Not bad,” I tell her after she manages to replace a rusted bolt without stripping it.
“Gee, thanks,” she shoots back, but her lips twitch into a smile.
That smile hits me harder every time she gives it to me.
By the time we climb to the top of the lighthouse to inspect the light, the tension between us has thawed into something… easier. The sting of our earlier arguments has faded, softened by quiet cooperation and the salt-laden air pressing around us.
She leans against the railing, her fingers curling around the weathered metal as she stares out at the endless horizon. The ocean stretches before us, its surface rippling beneath the glow of the fading sun.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice soft, distant—like she’s seeing it for the first time.
I’m not looking at the ocean.
“It is,” I agree, though my gaze never leaves her.
The wind tugs at her hair, teasing strands free, sending them whipping across her face. She doesn’t seem to notice, too caught up in whatever thoughts are running through her head. The way she stands—relaxed but alert, like she’s caught between staying and running—the way she looks—calm, curious, alive—it’s almost enough to make me forget the dangers waiting for us beyond this island.
Almost.
Then she turns, catching me staring before I can look away.
“What?” she asks, her tone cautious but lacking its usual sharpness.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “Just glad you’re here.” Glad you’re not in the mess I’ve created on the mainland , I don’t say.
I expect her to snap back, to remind me that she didn’t exactly have a choice in coming here. It would be easier if she did. If she threw up her walls, gave me a reason to step back.
But she doesn’t.
She just watches me for a long moment before turning back to the water, letting the silence settle between us like a fragile truce.
I don’t deserve this—her, this moment—but as the sun dips lower in the sky, I let myself pretend I do.
Even if it can’t last, I’ll take the peace while I can.
8 months prior
She’s in my bed again.
It’s way too fucking late, but neither of us has moved. She’s lying on her stomach, head turned toward me, her hair spilling across the pillow in wild curls.
I could twist it around my fist.
I could kiss her awake.
I don’t.
Instead, I just watch her.
Kruz doesn’t sleep softly. She’s restless, even now, her fingers twitching against the sheets like she’s still halfway in a dream.
I wonder if she dreams of me.
Of us.
I shouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t care about a lot of things when it comes to her.
I shouldn’t care about the way she laughs at her own jokes before she finishes them. I shouldn’t care that she always steals the covers, that she never finishes her coffee, that she always smells like citrus and something bright. I shouldn’t find it charming that she’s superstitious, that she knocks on wood and mutters little warnings under her breath as if the universe is listening.
I shouldn’t love her.
But I do.
And she has no idea.
Because if she did, she’d ask me for something I can’t give her.
So I keep it to myself. I keep her at arm’s length, even when she’s in my bed, even when my hands know the shape of her body better than they know anything else.
It’s the only way I know how to protect her.
And maybe—maybe if I don’t say it, if I don’t let myself hope—then she won’t notice the way I fall apart when she finally leaves.
Because I can feel it coming.
She’s slipping through my fingers.
And I don’t know how to stop it.