Chapter Eight
Scott
I’ve welded myself to this deck railing since the torches ignited. The infinity pool spills liquid moonlight toward the black ocean below. Their table perches at the edge—candle flames dancing across Lyla’s bare shoulders, silk dress shifting like water over the skin I still map in my sleep.
Damon’s voice drifts up, low and even. She laughs at something he says. Soft. Polite. Nothing like the wrecked, gasping sound she made yesterday when my mouth was on her throat and her leg locked around me.
My fingers dig into the teak. Wood groans.
Moments that feel like forever pass when they stand from their table. He offers his arm like a gentleman. And she slips her hand through his forearm.
They drift down the path to the beach, sand silvered by the moon. Waves hush against their feet. His shadow bleeds into hers. She tilts her head, listening, her pale lavender hair, a striking contrast from the golden color she had before I left, catches in the breeze.
The image of them close together knives straight through my gut.
Those hips were mine—nails carving half-moons into my shoulders, her whispering against my ear like a prayer only I could answer.
She used to ignite me like that. Now she’s giving polite smiles and taking a stroll with a man she’s just met.
But she isn’t mine. This is a dating show.
This is fucking torture.
“Breaking the wood isn’t going to help,” Bradley mutters, eyeing my white knuckles.
I don’t answer.
“It’s called a date, Bennett,” he adds, smirking. “Some of us let them breathe longer than twenty minutes.”
I lock my jaw. Breathe? She’s walking away with him. And every step is carving into me another reason I should break the rules, cross the sand, and remind her exactly who she still burns for.
Bradley continues, oblivious. “Would it be so terrible if they actually got along?”
I’m two seconds from snapping his neck if he doesn’t shut the fuck up.
Every inch Damon has touched is ground I claimed first. Every polite laugh she gave him tonight is an echo of sounds she made for me—raw, desperate, mine. The thought isn’t logical. It’s territorial. Primal. A low burn in my blood that no amount of discipline can smother.
“I know you care for her,” Bradley says, softer now, “but you’ve got to let her figure this out. You don’t strike me as the guy who’d steamroll her boundaries or her choices.”
He’s right. I’d cut my own hands off before I ever forced her. That doesn’t stop the rage coiling tighter as I watch them disappear into the moonlight.
Until today’s challenge, until Damon popped up like a fucking jack in the box, I believed I had time. Time to chip away at the wall she built against me after I left. Time to earn one civil conversation. Now it feels like we’re back at day one of filming.
He claps my shoulder. “So…what’s the plan, Bennett?”
I don’t answer. My eyes stay locked on the beach path.
They’re returning. Then Lyla pauses, murmurs something to Damon, words too quiet for me to catch against the roaring waves of the ocean. She slips away alone.
Her gaze flicks up. Toward the deck. Toward me. Her expression isn’t filled with guilt; nor is it defiant. But rather unsteady, like she’s caught in the same current I am.
Is she ending the date early? I have to know.
I’m already moving, my steps silent on teak, pulse a steady hammer in my throat. She takes the palm-lined path, torchlight sliding gold over bare shoulders I used to kiss until she trembled. I follow, slowly closing the distance the way I was trained to track the enemy; patient and inevitable.
I head down the stairs, my bare feet quiet on teak, pulse hammering in my throat. She takes the winding path through the palms. I follow. Not rushing. Letting the distance close naturally.
“You look beautiful tonight, little one,” I say, my voice low. Just for her.
She stiffens but doesn’t turn to face me. “Don’t.”
I stay planted. Don’t step closer. “I know you’re on a date, but I had to see you.”
She stops. “Why follow me to the bathroom? Why watch us like that?”
“Because every time you glance back, it looks like you’re waiting for me to stop pretending I’m okay with this.”
She scoffs. “You’re seeing things.”
“I know you, Lyla. I know what disinterest looks like on you. And that”—I gesture to the expression filled with something like apprehension and longing—“that’s not it.”
Her brows knit. “Damon—”
“Is not for you.”
She whirls; her breath hitches, sharp, eyes wide with fury, cheeks flushed. Torchlight hits the rapid rise and fall of her chest, silk pulling tight over peaked nipples. Thighs shift, press together once.
Gorgeous.
“You’re interrupting my date, so I’d appreciate it if you let me get back to the table.”
“Not yet.”
She tries to step past. I catch her forearms, gentle but firm, and turn her to face me, holding her there just long enough for her pulse to hammer under my thumbs. Then I release her, dropping my hands to my sides.
“When are you going to admit he’s not the one you want touching you?” My gaze falls to her mouth, then lower. Slow. Deliberate. “Or tell me you still don’t want this”—I gesture between us—“and to walk away from you for good. Your choice.”
Her lips part in a tiny gasp.
“I chose him tonight,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“Good doesn’t make your breath hitch like that. Doesn’t make you shake when I’m this close.”
She fists her hands. “This is my first date with Damon. You don’t get to—”
“I don’t get to do a lot when it comes to you. But I get to remember every night I lay awake, picturing, thinking, of you. Every night here, watching you fight this. Imagining you furious, aching, still mine.”
Her eyes search mine. Shock slices through the anger. Heat climbs her neck, tangled with questions.
Silence falls between us.
I drag a hand over my jaw with a rough exhale. “Go back to him. Let him try to kiss you goodnight, if that’s what it takes to lie to yourself.”
I lean in just enough for my breath to brush her ear.
“But later, when you’re alone in our bed, sheets twisted around your legs, hand slipping down because the ache won’t let you sleep… It won’t be his name on your mind.”
Her knees buckle a fraction before she catches herself.
I step back. Give her the space she demands.
“Go,” I say quietly. “Before I break every rule I’ve set and carry you upstairs myself.”
She turns. Walks away on unsteady legs, hips swaying like they know my grip.
I melt back into the shadows, watching her return to the table. Damon waits—patient, composed.
Forcing a smile, she sits across from him.
I’m not leaving, little one. Not this time.