10. I Should Have Told Him I Hated Him Months Ago
10
I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM I HATED HIM MONTHS AGO
KRUZ
I settle into one of Ezra’s oversized sweaters, the soft fabric brushing against my bare thighs. It smells like him, and I try to ignore how much I love the scent of it, but I can’t help but cover my fist with the sleeve and nonchalantly bring it to my nose and inhale… probably way more often than is acceptable, as if I should be doing that at all.
My wet hair clings to my shoulders, dripping cool beads of water down my back, and I groan at the state of it—an absolute disaster. My curls need way more attention than the basic shampoo and conditioner Ezra grabbed, but I can’t exactly blame him. We were a little preoccupied with not dying when we got here. Given the choice between unruly curls and a coffin, I’ll take the frizz.
It’s not like I have many options as far as clothing goes—he didn’t exactly think to grab me a wardrobe either before whisking me off to this secluded island.
I don’t want to admit to myself how much I actually like wearing his clothes, and I definitely wouldn’t ever admit it to him .
The very few things he brought for me are either filthy or soaked.
Ezra rigged a bucket with a hand-cranked agitator he found in the caretaker’s storage shed, and we hang everything on a line stretched across the living room. The fire roaring in the hearth dries our clothes quicker than the freezing wind outside ever could.
It’s primitive, sure, but it works. Right now, my last pair of leggings and a sweater sway gently on the line, with Ezra’s black hoodie hanging in the middle. The sight of our clothes together does something weird to me—something soft and unsettling.
Like we’re just two people sharing a life, drying laundry on a quiet evening instead of whatever this actually is.
My fingers trail over the sleeve of his hoodie as I step past, I’m assaulted by memories. Ezra peeling off his soaked button-down after we got caught in a storm one night, grumbling about how I had to take the scenic route back. Then, the way his hands gripped my waist when we slipped into the pool at that hotel, our clothes forgotten on the tiles, sticking to our damp skin when we finally stumbled back to bed.
I shake off the thought, turning away from the line. That was another lifetime. And we’re not those people anymore.
He has two styles: sexy librarian in a cable knit sweater or grey sweatpants and hoodies.
I haven’t yet decided which one I like more.
His tattoos peeking out from beneath his collar make anything he wears way too attractive.
Ugh .
Dinner is quiet at first, just the sound of forks scraping plates and the occasional crackle of the fire. Ezra made rice and beans tonight, and even though we’ve had the same meal multiple times because of our lack of options here, it’s surprisingly really good.
We eat together like this every night. There’s not much room here in the cabin for either one of us to stay away from the other. I have a feeling he wouldn’t let me stray too far, regardless.
The cabin feels smaller tonight, more intimate , and I can’t decide if it’s comforting or suffocating.
I’m sure it’s because we nearly fucked, and the thought of it makes my skin heat and my stomach flip.
Ezra sits across from me, the glow from the candles in the middle of the table casting soft shadows over his face, making his features even more pronounced.
Maybe it’s the silence stretching between us. Maybe it’s the way his knee keeps bumping against mine under the table, the way neither of us moves away. The tension that’s been lingering since we got here hasn’t faded. It just sits between us, quiet and impatient, waiting for one of us to give in.
His fingers drum idly against the edge of his plate, and then, without preamble, he looks up at me. “Wanna play truth or dare?” His tone is light, but his gaze is heavy.
I raise an eyebrow. I know how this goes. “What are we, twelve?”
He leans back in his chair, his lips twitching into a smirk. “What, afraid?”
Every time he smirks, I lose IQ points. Pretty soon, I’ll be too stupid to realize how dangerous he is. “Oh, please. I’m not afraid .”
I’m so afraid.
“Then prove it,” he challenges, taunting.
It should be easy to hold on to my anger, to remember the lines he crossed, the life he ripped me away from. But out here, surrounded by nothing but the sea and his secrets spilling faster than sand between my fingers, my reasons for hating him feel like they’re crumbling away.
I can’t control whatever wakes inside me while we’re trapped on this island—lust, love , or the terrifying truth that I’m starting to forget why I think any of the things he’s done are wrong.
I know why he’s doing this. The first night we fell into bed together, we played Truth or Dare. It started as a joke, a way to test each other’s limits, but it turned into something else entirely.
An unraveling. A slow, torturous stripping away of walls until there was nothing left between us. Just skin, breath, and the kind of honesty that only comes when you’ve got nowhere left to hide.
Or so I thought.
Now, he’s using it again. But I don’t know if it’s to tear me down or to pull me closer. Maybe a little of both.
His eyes flicker with something dangerous. He’s always been like this, turning the simplest things into a game I never know the rules to until it’s too late. And yet, I play anyway.
I huff and cross my arms, pretending like my pulse isn’t racing. “Fine. Truth.”
His smirk fades, and for a second, he looks too serious.
Then he opens his mouth. “Has anyone else ever made you come as hard as I do?”
Of course, he’d go straight for something like that. I don’t even bother fighting the urge to roll my eyes, but when I answer, I decide to be honest.
I have a few questions I’d like to ask him myself, and if I want honesty, I know I need to be honest with him first.
“No,” I admit, my cheeks warming under his unrelenting gaze. “Not even close.”
He nods hesitantly, as if he expected the answer but wasn’t sure I would say it out loud. The look on his face is pure male smugness.
“Your turn,” I snap, desperate to shift the focus, to take back even a sliver of control. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he replies without hesitation.
I pause, weighing my options, considering my question carefully. This is my chance to pry open the cracks, to peek inside the places he keeps locked away. “Why have you never tried to leave the Assembly?”
Ezra’s jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as silence stretches between us. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too hard too soon, that he’s going to shut me out like he always does because I didn’t even bother easing into it. But then—slowly, deliberately—he exhales, the tension in his shoulders deflating just enough to make me realize just how much he’s been carrying.
“It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice rough, edged with something close to regret. “But I am trying now.”
I don’t expect that.
I should let it go. I should move on to another question, something easier, something safer.
But I can’t.
“How are you trying?” I ask softly, even though I’m not sure I want the answer.
He doesn’t speak right away. His gaze flickers to the candlelight between us, watching the slow, flickering dance of the flame like it holds the answer he’s searching for. When he finally exhales, it’s sharp, like forcing out something he’s kept locked up for too long.
If the Assembly is as dangerous as I know it to be, I could lose him altogether.
The thought of a world without Ezra Birkner in it makes my chest hurt.
He looks away, his fingers gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “No follow-up questions,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “But just know that our little vacation here is more than just...” He trails off, his words insinuating so much without even finishing the sentence.
I reach for my glass of water, trying to process everything, trying to piece together the parts of this puzzle that still don’t fit.
“And Quinn?” I ask, hesitation thick in my voice. I have to know, and now is as good a time as any to press for an answer. “You didn’t?—”
“I didn’t hurt her,” he interrupts, his tone firm, unyielding. “I’d never do that. What happened to our family, with Stu... that wasn’t me.”
Our family.
The words land heavily, twisting something inside me.
Ezra’s jaw tightens. “I think—” He pauses, his gaze flickering to mine, like he’s weighing whether or not to keep going. “Stu went off the deep end. Further than I ever expected he would, and I shouldn’t have trusted him with something so important.” His voice drops lower, barely more than a breath. “I will never make a mistake like that again.”
I can almost feel the weight of what he carries in his words.
“And I will never forgive myself for it,” he adds.
Instead, I exhale slowly, my fingers tightening around my glass as I try to make sense of it all.
Ezra’s confession lingers in the air, heavy and unshakable. I could push him for more—I probably should—but something about the way he looks right now stops me. There’s a heaviness in his eyes, something deeper than guilt or regret. He looks... tired. Like he’s spent too long fighting battles no one else can see, and the exhaustion of it is finally starting to show.
I shift in my seat, swallowing against the lump forming in my throat. “What now?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.
His fingers drum lightly against the table, his jaw tightening. “Now?” He exhales, shaking his head. “Now, we survive.”
Something in his tone makes my skin prickle.
It’s not fear—not exactly. It’s the quiet kind of dread that comes with knowing the worst isn’t over yet. Whatever we’re running from hasn’t stopped chasing us.
I should be terrified. Maybe I am. But when he looks at me, something steadies inside me.
I don’t know if I’ve been wrong about him. I’m starting to think I might want to be.
I let the air shift between us. Let it settle.
And then, I will my expression to remain neutral. “Truth or dare?”
His eyes narrow slightly at my change in tone, his expression wary. “I thought it was my turn.”
I shrug, feigning innocence. “Since when have I followed the rules?”
I watch his throat bob as I close the space between us, his gaze flicking to my mouth before locking onto my eyes.
I should keep pushing, demand more answers while he’s in this raw, unguarded state. But I don’t.
Because I see it—the way his shoulders have tensed, the way his fingers tap an uneven rhythm against the table, like he’s bracing for the next inevitable blow. He’s given me as much as he’s willing to tonight, and if I push too hard, I might lose what little ground I’ve gained with him.
And maybe that’s not the only reason.
Maybe I don’t want to sit in this suffocating tension any longer, drowning in truths that make my head spin. Maybe I need to take back a little control, tilt the scales in my favor before I start feeling too much—before I let myself believe too much.
So I shift the game.
The energy.
Us.
Ezra leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Dare.”
The way he says it tells me he’s done talking and way too excited about what comes next.
Like he knows .
I am, too.
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. “Kiss me,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he’s going to refuse.
As if he ever would.
But then he stands, crossing the small space between us in two strides.
He towers over me, cupping my face with one hand, the other resting on the back of my chair as he leans down. His lips brush mine with a softness that takes my breath away.
A softness I’ve yet to experience from him—or anyone else—before this moment.
The world outside ceases to exist, and for the first time since we arrived on this island, I feel something other than fear or anger.
I feel alive.
He threads his arm under mine and bands his forearm across my upper back, lifting me from my seat like I weigh nothing at all to him.
The way he manhandles me has always really done it for me, and honestly, I’m tired of fighting the way I want him.
Who knows what will happen? What will come of the situation we’re in?
I don’t know the full details of what’s going on, but I know what happened to my best friend last year, and I know he didn’t bring me here for no reason.
There’s a good possibility neither of us makes it back to the mainland and stays alive if I take into account the few things he’s shared with me.
Why shouldn’t I make the best of the situation while I still can?
If nothing else, I’ll at least be warm for a few minutes.
I wrap my legs around his waist and he walks me over to the counter, perching my ass on the edge.
He kisses me more furiously than he ever has in the past, like he’s punishing me.
Like he loves me and he’s mad about it.
And I kiss him back just as chaotically, because fucking same .
His big hand slides up my thigh, and under the hem of his shirt I’m wearing.
He grabs a handful of my ass and pauses, pulling back from me and resting his forehead against mine, his breath hot against my face. “ Baby .” God, the way heat pools in my stomach when he calls me that. He’s called me a lot of things in the time we’ve known each other, but never that. It almost feels too soft to be coming from his mouth. “No panties?” he asks, kissing me slowly again as he scoots me closer to the edge, grinding his big cock against my core.
“You know good and damn well you didn’t bring any,” I reply between heated kisses.
He grins against my mouth, and I want to bottle the feeling it elicits so I can come back to it when we inevitably drift apart again. “Yeah,” he says, kissing me again, long and slow. “I know.”
He really drives the point home by squeezing my ass a little too hard.
He shifts his hand over the top of my thigh, running his thumb and forefinger along the crease up it before slipping his thumb between my legs.
He dips it inside me, before running it along my seam and circling my clit, groaning into my mouth as he does. My hips buck, and no part of me is ashamed of how needy I am for this man.
“You may hate me, morte mea,” he thrusts his thumb in and out. “But your pussy loves when I’m inside her.”
“Ever heard of hate sex?” I ask, greedily freeing his cock from his pants and pumping him once.
He shoves his way more thoroughly between my legs and notches himself at my entrance.
“Sure,” he grunts as he shoves into me, hard . “Keep fucking telling yourself that’s what this is.”
If I thought he kissed me like he was mad, it’s nothing compared to how he fucks me.
Like he’s trying to prove if I think this is hate sex, he’ll show me exactly what that feels like.
And goddamn have I been missing out.
I should have told him I hated him months ago.
His fingers dig into my hips, squeezing so hard it feels like he may be adding to all the other bruises still littering my body.
He fucks me so furiously the shelves on the wall behind me shake, and the dishes stacked on top of them rattle against one another, some of them teetering dangerously to the edge.
He’s chasing his release, and it’s only an afterthought when I say, “E-ezra. You have to pull out.” The words come out stuttered. Half-hearted.
His thumb moves back to my clit, circling in just the right way. My body and mind are overwhelmed by him.
“I need you full of me. Always. So full you can’t think about anything else.”
His words tip me over the edge, and god dammit if I don’t want that too. Any other protests I may have had die on my lips when I nearly black out from how hard he makes me come.
I used to think he was good at sex, but sometime after the first few weeks with him I came to the unfortunate realization that it’s so fucking good just because it’s him .
That truth remains, even now.
My head tips back, and his free hand slides up my back, gripping my neck at the base as his lips move clumsily across my exposed throat.
He shoves into me one last time, his pelvis going flush with mine. It’s almost painful being completely full of him.
“ Fuck .” His body is wracked by tremors, and I revel in the fact that I do this to him. “This pussy was made for my cock. Don’t you ever fucking try to keep it from me again.”
All I can do is nod, agree, and kiss him.
Because as much as my brain wants to fight him every step of the way, my body and heart will never belong to anyone else.