Chapter Sixteen #3
I remember the crack of the bottle. The way it spun through the air, catching the light before it shattered against my face.
The sting hit first. Then the heat. Blood spilling fast, hot, into my lashes until I couldn’t see.
It burned my eyes, but I didn’t cry. Not then.
Not in front of her because I knew it would piss her off even more.
I just stood there, stunned, and dinner was still out of reach.
“Split my skin open,” I finally say. “There was blood everywhere. I remember the floor being red.”
“I figured it wasn’t from something small,” he says, voice low. “But that… fuck.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
A beat passes before he speaks.
“She ever get done for it?” His voice is steady, but there’s something buried under it. The kind of anger that sits in your gut when you hear something you can’t unhear.
“Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “No one ever knew. When people asked, she said I fell off my bike.” I pause, eyes flicking to his face before dragging back up to the sky. “I didn’t even own a fucking bike.”
“Fuck,” he mutters.
“Yeah… You know I used to think if I stayed quiet, kept my head down, it would get better.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Turns out silence just makes it easier for people to pretend nothing’s wrong.”
“Have you ever told anyone?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “What’s the point?” I shift my head and look at him again. “No one wants the broken kid with the scar and the fucked-up story.”
“Maybe they’re just not the right people,” he says.
Zane clears his throat. “I got my first scar stealing a can of ravioli.”
That pulls my gaze back to him.
“You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Owner had this ancient mutt out back. It looked half-dead, all ribs and attitude. Bit my arm straight through my hoodie. Little fucker was faster than I thought.”
“What kind of dog was it?”
“A fucking Hellhound. I swear on it.”
My laugh bursts out before I can stop it. The sound is rough, rusty from disuse, but it’s real. The kind that burns through your chest because you didn’t know how badly you needed it until it was there.
When I glance over at him, he’s smiling.
A real one. Not that cocky half-grin he throws around when he’s being a smartass or trying to charm his way into someone’s pants. This one’s softer. It turns my insides to fucking mush.
It makes him look younger… almost innocent. But there’s nothing innocent about the way I ache just looking at him. He’s so fucking beautiful it hurts, and the worst part is he doesn’t know what that smile does to me.
“What happened after?” I ask. “Did you get the ravioli at least?”
“Course I fucking did,” he says, like it should’ve been obvious. “Bled all over the damn can, but it still tasted like victory.”
“You’re such an idiot.”
His grin widens. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Have you ever thought about going back?” I ask, voice low, almost afraid to break whatever fragile thread holds us together in this moment.
His smile fades. Wiped clean in an instant.
“To where?”
“Wherever you were before the homes.”
Zane shrugs. It’s a move meant to look casual but it’s loaded with things he won’t say out loud.
“There’s no point. I’ve been in enough places to know the only person who gives a shit if I eat or breathe is me.”
I press my lips together. Swallow the sharp edge in my throat.
“I’ve always been a burden. That’s what people saw when they looked at me. A problem to be dealt with. Something they were desperate to shake off.”
His jaw clenches. For a second, I think he’s gonna leave it. But he leans forward.
“You’re strong, Skylar,” he says.
I shake my head, the words landing heavy. “I don’t feel strong.”
His hand moves before I can even think.
He reaches across the space between us and brushes his thumb over the scar above my brow.
The touch is soft, gentle. The pad of his thumb catches against the raised skin, and it wakes up something buried under layers of hurt.
It shouldn’t matter.
It’s just a touch.
But fuck, it matters.
His eyes stay locked on mine. “You don’t get a scar like this from being weak,” he says. “That shit stays because you fucking survived it. That scar says you kept breathing when she wanted to break you.”
I can’t find my voice.
My chest is tight. That memory, the one I shove down every time it gets too close, it’s hovering just under my skin now.
“You really think that’s what it means?”
His hand doesn’t leave me. If anything, it settles firmer against my skin, trailing down to the edge of my jaw.
Heat flares beneath it. My entire body goes still, caught in that place between wanting to move closer and not knowing how.
His eyes never waver. “I know it is. You survived her, Skylar. That’s the whole fucking point. You lived through it. You didn’t let her finish you.”
The world quiets.
It’s just the two of us, suspended in something that is too big to name.
His fingers drag along the curve of my jaw, as if he’s memorizing every line of me.
My breath stutters again. This time, it has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with him. With the way he looks at me like I matter. That I’m not broken in the ways I thought I was.
He leans in. The look in his eyes says he’s already made up his mind.
He’s going to kiss me. And I’m going to let him.
I feel his mouth getting closer to mine, his breath catching the edge of my lips.
And I let him come the rest of the way.
His mouth brushes mine.
A tease at first, barely there. But it lights a fuse under my skin and makes every nerve stand at attention.
I go still, breath caught in my throat, my heart hammering. The taste of him sinks into me before I realise I’ve closed the distance. His hand fists in my hair, dragging a gasp out of me as his lips slam into mine, all heat and fury and want.
He doesn’t kiss soft or sweet.
He kisses like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that’s ever satisfied him.
Tongue, teeth, the scrape of his stubble against my chin. There’s no pretending anymore. His kiss is brutal, filled with everything he’s never said out loud.
He kisses the way I’ve imagined he fucks.
Deep.
Dirty.
Possessive.
The kind of kiss that ruins you for anyone else. The kind you never come back from.
He cages me in with his body, chest brushing mine with every desperate breath, as if he needs every inch of me.
His other hand moves fast, sliding down onto my hip, gripping tight, fingers digging in through the fabric.
He yanks me closer until there’s no space left between us.
Every inch of him presses against every inch of me and still it’s not enough.
I want more.
I want him.
His teeth catch my bottom lip and he pulls, hard enough to sting, just enough to make my body shake.
I moan into his mouth, a needy sound that I couldn’t fucking stop if I tried.
Then I feel it.
His cock.
Hard. Thick.
Straining against his jeans. Pressed right into the heat between my legs.
A sound breaks in my throat, one I’ve never made before. It’s need and ache fusing together in something I have never let myself feel before.
He grinds against me, slow at first, then rougher.
His name stumbles out of me, broken and breathless.
There’s no coming back from this. No pretending I don’t want him, fucking crave him… not after this.
His mouth finds the edge of my jaw, heat trailing heat across my skin. Down to my neck. His tongue flicks over the spot below my ear before he sucks, hard enough to leave a mark. My hands are in his hair now, tugging, anchoring myself as his hips roll again, dragging a broken sound from my chest.
His hand slips beneath the hem of my skirt, fingers dragging up my thigh, taking his time.
My breath hitches. Every nerve is buzzing, my blood pounding so hard in my ears I can’t hear a damn thing except the rush of want crashing through me.
He doesn’t rush, just keeps going, one inch at a time. Fingers brushing bare skin, teasing the edge of my panties. His fingertips find the seam and glide along it, right over where I’m soaked and aching.
My hips jerk without permission, and a helpless moan spills out of me.
“Fuck,” he growls, eyes locked on mine. “You’re dripping for me, baby.” His finger presses harder, rubbing slow circles over the soaked fabric. “All that attitude and this pussy’s been begging for me the whole fucking time, hasn’t it?”
I can barely breathe. My legs are shaking.
His mouth curls into a smirk, dangerous and hungry, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing,
“You walk around all tough, talking shit, but under this skirt? You’re just a needy little thing, fuckin’ soaked and waiting to be ruined.”
He leans in, lips brushing my jaw as his fingers slide under the fabric. His fingers graze my slit. Then his middle finger finds me, slick and throbbing, and he groans against my throat.
“Fuck, you’re perfect.”
I gasp, grabbing his wrist without thinking.
My voice comes out broken. “I need to tell you something.”
His eyes flash to mine, but his fingers don’t stop.
“Tell me, baby.”
“I’ve never…” I swallow hard. “I’m a virgin.”
He stills.
But it’s enough.
Enough to feel everything shift.
The heat.
The hunger.
The way his hand tightens on my thigh as if he’s anchoring himself, holding back a storm that was raging only seconds ago.
And in that pause, I know everything’s about to change.