Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
DAMIAN
There she is.
I spot her halfway down the boardwalk, walking beside some guy I don’t recognize.
Her hair’s windblown, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
Teary. Like she cried the whole time she was gone.
Who the fuck is that guy? Does she know him?
Or is it someone Clay knows? Did he find us?
I break into a run. If he hurts her… If he touches her…
The guy tilts his head down and looks at her like she owns his heart. I know that look. And it makes me fucking sick.
They stop just outside the bakery. She looks ready to peel off, head back inside. But then his hand catches her wrist. He leans in. Closer. Too close.
Then he goes in for it.
To kiss her.
And all I see is red.
She’s been gone for a few goddamn hours and this is what happens?
This is what happens?
My vision tunnels. My fists clench so tight I feel my own pulse in my palms.
I’m going to rip his fucking head off.
Then I see her move.
She stops him. A clear no. Hand on his chest, voice low but firm. It’s a flicker of warmth in my otherwise frozen veins.
But it’s not enough.
Not nearly fucking enough.
I’m still ripping his head off. Because he’s still touching her.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” I snarl, and the words cut out of me before I even realize I’ve moved.
He turns, startled.
Good.
Let him see me coming.
I’m already on him.
I slam him into the wall of the saltwater taffy store hard enough to rattle the glass window and send a stack of candy boxes toppling inside.
His head snaps back against the wood siding with a sickening thud, and he gasps, stunned, but I’m already hauling him off it and throwing him again—this time to the ground.
Someone walking past lets out a sharp scream.
A couple coming out of the shop stumbles back, eyes wide, then breaks into a run.
He tries to scramble up, one hand raised, stammering something like “I didn’t—” but I don’t care.
I don’t care what he didn’t do.
He looked at her like she was his.
He touched her like I wasn’t still breathing.
I grab the collar of his jacket and throw a punch—square to his jaw. I feel the crack beneath my knuckles, feel the shock shoot up my arm, and it only feeds me.
I want more. I want him to bleed. I want to break something that doesn’t heal right.
I want him to regret ever looking at her.
I want his teeth on the ground. His blood on my shirt.
His fucking name erased from her memory.
I want to tear his face open with my fists until he forgets why he ever thought he could touch her.
I want to leave him twitching, jaw shattered, tongue thick with blood, choking on the taste of his mistake. I want to hear him beg.
And even then, I’m not sure I’ll stop.
Because he looked at her like she was his. He touched what’s mine.
And I don’t forgive that.
Ever.
I feel hands at my shoulders. A voice. I can’t really hear it over the blood in my ears, the roar in my chest.
I’m not stopping.
“Stop, stop!” Marlowe’s voice cuts through the fog like a blade. Sharp. Pleading.
Her hands—cool, shaking—find my face. Fingers against my jaw, pulling me down. Forcing me to look at her.
“Please, Damian,” she cries. Her voice cracks around my name, broken and full of fear. Not fear of him—fear of me. Tears stream down her cheeks, carving bright, wet lines through the flush of her skin.
And just like that, everything inside me breaks.
My fists unfurl, slow and stiff. I release my grip, letting his body drop like dead weight to the ground.
My hands drift up and cover hers, pressing them harder to my face like maybe if I hold her tight enough, I’ll come back to myself. Her palms are damp with tears and something else—maybe blood, maybe sweat, maybe the worst parts of me.
But I don’t let go.
I look into her eyes—those ocean-blue eyes—and I drown. I drown in the ache I see there. In the unspoken weight between us, and the fear I put there. I see it all. Every wound I gave her without touching her. Every word I never said. Every time I made her carry the silence between us alone.
And for the first time since I laid hands on anyone, I feel shame.
She’s still holding my face, like she’s the only thing anchoring me to earth.
And she is. She doesn’t even know it but she is. Because without her hands right now, I don’t know what I’d do. Without her eyes on me, I don’t know who I am.
Bridger appears at my side, breathing hard, eyes sharp with something between disappointment and understanding. He crouches and hauls the guy off the ground with a grunt.
Neve’s already there, her face pale, lips pressed tight as she loops an arm around the guy’s shoulder and helps Bridger walk him away.
I watch them like a predator tracking a wounded animal.
I can still kill him. I’ll find him later and finish what I started. I don’t care if it takes a day or a year. He touched her. He thought he could kiss her. He fucking tried.
“Damian, look at me,” Lo says.
Her voice tugs at the center of my gravity. My eyes snap back to hers, and everything inside me slows. She’s still crying. Her fingers trembling where they rest on my skin.
“You’re mine,” I growl, low and harsh. “I don’t care who you were walking with, what you were thinking—you’re mine. You hear me?”
She swallows hard, lips parting, but doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She’s here. That’s enough for now.
I step back, jaw clenched, blood roaring in my ears. “Get upstairs.”
She flinches but doesn’t move. Her eyes flash, wild and wet. “No,” she breathes.
“Now,” I snarl. “I’m not asking.”
“Yeah? And I’m not listening.” She plants her feet like she’s ready for a fight.
A small crowd’s gathered, just a few people, wide-eyed and murmuring. One of them steps closer, a woman clutching her phone. “Do you need us to call someone? The cops?”
Marlowe doesn’t look away from me, doesn’t even blink. “No,” she says sharply.
I echo her a second later, voice low and cold. “No.”
There’s a pause. A beat of discomfort, of curiosity, of everyone frozen, unsure what the fuck to do with us. Then they start to drift off, one by one, glancing back like they’re leaving the site of a car crash, fascinated, shaken, not entirely sure it’s safe.
Then I hear Neve’s voice cutting through the tension, low and harsh. “Nathan’s fine, Marlowe. Don’t worry about him.”
“Nathan?” I grind the name between my teeth like it’s something rotten. “Your ex?” I spit, turning toward her. “That was your fucking ex?”
Before I can say more, Bridger steps in. He places a firm hand on my shoulder, a silent warning that only pisses me off more. My body tenses, and it takes all my strength to stop myself from knocking his teeth out for touching me.
“Hey,” he says low, leaning in. “Let’s go upstairs. People are watching. Someone’s going to call the cops.”
I don’t care. Let them.
Marlowe straightens, chin lifted, voice low and tight. “No. I’m going upstairs.” She points at me, sharp and unblinking. “You go cool off somewhere else.” It’s not a suggestion. She turns and walks toward the apartment without looking back, her hair whipping in the wind.
And all I can do is stand there, fists clenched, jaw locked, watching her walk away from me. Again.
Bridger waits until she’s out of sight. Then he steps in front of me, eyes blazing.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snaps.
“You’re spiraling.” His voice isn’t raised, but it’s hard and cutting.
His jaw is tight. I can see the line twitch under his cheek.
He’s one second from punching me just to get me under control.
I don’t know how to answer him. I don’t know what to say that would make it make sense.
Not the noise in my head. Not the way her eyes looked when she said no to me.
Not the way she walked away and made it feel like I didn’t even have the right to stop her.
I can’t explain what it feels like to be drowning in your own skin, to want something so much it makes you violent.
Bridger shakes his head, like I’m already too far gone. “Get your shit together,” he mutters. “You’re not just spiraling, D. You’re self-destructing.”
“Just walk away, Bridger,” I grind out.
“Uh, no,” he snaps. “I can’t figure out what you’re doing. Are you thinking if you push her hard enough, she’ll walk away and save you the heartbreak? You know that’s not protecting her, right? That’s just sabotage.”
I turn away.
Bridger presses in. “You did it with Laura. You shut down, and when she finally left, you let yourself believe she was never really in it. You—”
“You don’t know anything about what happened with Laura, so shut your fucking mouth.”
His expression shifts—creases at the brow, mouth parting just slightly. He heard something in my words he wasn’t expecting. “What do you mean?” he asks, slow, careful.
I whip my gaze from him, rage flaring hard and fast in my chest. “It’s not about Laura.” My voice is sharp enough to cut. “Drop it. This isn’t about her.”
Bridger just stares at me, stunned. Then he exhales hard, mutters something under his breath, and shakes his head. “Okay, this has nothing to do with Laura. But, Damian, you are—”
“No. I’m not,” I grunt out.
“You know what?” he says, stepping back. “I give up. I’m done trying to reason with your brand of stupid. Just do me a favor. Give Lo a few minutes. Then go inside and listen to her. Listen with your ears, Damian. Not your triggers.”
Something in me snaps. “Stop talking like you’re some goddamn therapist!” I roar, the words ripped straight from my chest.
He stops, but I don’t give him time to respond. I shoulder past him, hard enough to make him stumble a step to the side. I’m done being dissected. Done being talked at like I’m a fucking case study. All I can see now is red.
Nathan’s face. His hands on her waist. That look in his eyes like he thought he had a chance. Like she was his. My jaw grinds. My fists clench. He touched her. And now I need to get my hands on her too. She needs to feel who she belongs to.