Chapter Eleven
Scott
I can still feel her on my lips—not literally, but the ghost of that almost-kiss last night lingers.
My thumb brushing her bottom lip, her breath catching, pupils large before I forced myself to step back.
Vanilla and salt that clung to the air this morning after I left the suite early.
My hands are still unsteady from not taking what she was too stubborn to give.
I’ll make damn sure she knows exactly what she’s walking away from.
The promise from the villa room hammers in my skull as I brace against the exterior wall, forcing my breathing to level before anyone clocks the state she’s left me in.
My cock is rock-hard from the memory of her flush this morning at breakfast—eyes tracking water down my chest as I rose from the pool, that telltale hitch in her breath she tried to hide.
“All contestants to the main deck immediately! Challenge time!”
Perfect fucking timing. Nothing burns off this restless, possessive energy like a challenge.
By the time I hit the main deck, Lyla is already there.
Skin still carrying that faint flush from breakfast, white bikini top cupping her breasts perfectly, denim shorts showcasing her ass in a way that makes me clench my jaw.
She must sense me approaching, because then her whole body tenses—shoulders squaring, chin lifting like armor.
She’s still processing. Still fighting what we both feel.
The other female contestants flank her like bodyguards, but I catch the quick glance she steals—eyes locking on mine for half a heartbeat before darting away.
“Good morning, couples!” Miranda sweeps in wearing a red dress that barely qualifies as clothing. “I hope you’re all feeling...physical today.”
Something about her tone sets my instincts on edge. Cameras repositioned—more of them, tighter angles. Crew buzzing harder than usual. This isn’t another trust exercise.
“Ladies,” she purrs, “today you get to sit back and watch the men compete for your attention. Literally.”
My pulse kicks up. Beside me, Damon straightens—interested, calculating. I see his gaze flick toward Lyla. I clench my hands into fists.
“Gentlemen, you’ll be participating in a tournament. Single elimination, bracket style. Seven men, three rounds, one winner.”
A tournament. Physical. Raw. I coil with anticipation.
“You’ll be competing in a pushing battle.” She gestures as PAs wheel out a bracket board. “Three-minute matches where the men will compete in a pit to push each other out. No strikes or no intentional injury are allowed— This is about strength, strategy, and who wants it more.”
Who wants it more.
I almost laugh. Less than twelve hours ago, I had Lyla backed against the villa doors, thumb on her lips, telling her I’d rather die than walk away again. Now I get to prove it in the sand.
“The prize,” Miranda continues with perfect dramatic timing, “is a private helicopter tour later today. Just the winner and his chosen companion will enjoy a secluded beach, gourmet picnic, and champagne… Complete privacy, with the exception of remote cameras, naturally.”
Secluded beach. No producers. Only a few mounted cameras.
I can work with that.
My blood heats. A few stolen hours alone with Lyla—no group chatter, no Damon hovering, no eyes except that one lens. Enough time to come clean about everything. Enough time to make her remember exactly what she’s trying to deny.
I find her in the crowd. Her eyes widen as understanding seems to dawn— She knows exactly what I’m about to do.
The producers think they’re manufacturing drama. They just handed me the perfect weapon.
Fuck yes!
“Beach in fifteen minutes!” Miranda chirps. “Gentlemen, might want to stretch.”
The group scatters. Damon steps in close, voice low.
“Convenient timing.” He sounds almost amused.
I meet his eyes. “Meaning?”
“I know about your little heart-to-heart with Lyla during our date. I’m not an idiot. Almost feels like the universe is throwing you a bone.” He nods toward the sand circle. “That intense conversation you just had with Lyla. Now this.”
I turn to face him square. “Or maybe it’s giving me the chance to back up what I said.”
“And if you lose?”
In the Corps, that word doesn’t exist, isn’t an option.
“I won’t.”
His smile is thin, sharp. “Careful, Scott. Confidence isn’t a strategy.”
I step into his space just enough to be intimidating. “I made her a promise. This is me keeping it.”
“Fighting for someone isn’t the same as fighting over them.”
I brush past him, my shoulder clipping his lightly. “Good thing I can do both.”
The beach setup is simple but brutal. A fifteen-foot circle etched in sand, rope boundary, cameras circling like vultures. The morning sun climbs toward noon; heat is already thick, pressing.
I strip off my shirt. Lyla tries not to look and fails spectacularly. Her gaze drags down my chest, slow, hungry, before she seems to catch herself, notice I’m staring back, and her cheeks bloom red.
That’s right, little one. Look at what you’re trying to deny.
“Ball draws. Whoever’s colored ball matches with another person, is assigned as their opponent. Whoever draws a white ball, will sit out of the challenge.” a producer calls.
I match with Sean—a perfect warm-up. Damon draws Nick. Zayne gets Trevor. Bradley is the odd man out and he stands beside the female contestants.
“First match: Scott versus Sean!” Miranda announces.
Sean bounces into the circle, all cocky jitters and misplaced swagger. Behind him, Lyla grips Valerie’s arm—knuckles white, eyes wide.
Is she worried about me? The thought sends a dark, possessive thrill straight through my veins. Good. Let her watch what happens when someone threatens what’s mine.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” Sean taunts, circling with a grin that’s all bravado.
Fuck around and find out, bozo.
I stay silent. In Afghanistan, the loudest guy was usually the first to die.
The whistle shrieks.
He charges—straight line, all power, predictable as hell.
I wait until the last second, feet planted, then pivot hard.
His momentum carries him past; I clamp an arm around his waist and redirect, using his own force to spin him off-balance.
He staggers, catches himself, and spins back with surprising quickness.
“Lucky move,” he growls, wiping sand from his cheek.
We lock up properly this time—chest to chest, forearms braced. His strength is real—gym built, determined. For a second, he gains leverage, shoving me back toward the rope, breath hot against my neck.
Then I catch Lyla leaning forward, lips parted, eyes locked on me like the rest of the world has vanished. Her chest rises and falls faster than it should, thighs press together under those denim shorts.
That’s all I need.
I drop my center low, break his grip with a sharp twist, and explode into a hip throw.
The impact sends sand spraying in a wide arc; he hits hard on his back with a grunt that echoes.
Before he can scramble up, I clamp his arm, roll my weight, and drag him across the line in one controlled, relentless pull.
“Winner: Scott! Fifty-three seconds!”
The crowd erupts—cheers, whistles, a few gasps. I rise, chest heaving, sand clinging to my sweat-slick skin. Lyla still stares, cheeks flushed, fingers digging into Valerie’s arm like she’s anchoring herself. Her lips part on a silent breath.
I don’t smile. I just hold her gaze for one long second—letting her sink into my stare.
The other matches blur past in quick cuts.
Zayne overpowers Trevor with raw, working-man force—grunts and thuds—until Trevor taps out fast. But Damon?
Damon is different. He moves like water.
Patient, precise, every motion economical.
When Nick charges, Damon sidesteps, catches him mid-stride, and drops him with a clean, textbook takedown.
Nothing about this shows energy wasted, much less showboating. Only control.
Our eyes meet across the churned sand. No words need to be said for both of us to know what happens next.
"Semifinals! Zayne, Damon, and Scott will compete for the finals. The last two left standing will advance!"
Moments after the three of us take our positions in the sand, the whistle blows again.
Immediately, chaos erupts. Zayne goes straight for Damon. It’s a smart move. Target the biggest threat first.
They grapple near the center, Zayne’s raw power against Damon’s slippery patience.
I stay back, watching angles, breathing steady, and preserving what energy I have left.
When Zayne overextends minutes later, I strike.
Closing in fast, I drop low, and hook Zayne’s legs from the side while Damon keeps him pinned. Together we shove him over the rope.
“Final round!” Miranda’s voice carries over the crowd. “Scott versus Damon!”
Now it’s just us.
Damon and I circle once—slow, measuring. The sand is hot under my feet, sun beating down on bare skin. Sweat stings my eyes. Every muscle in my body coils, ready.
When the whistle blows, Damon lunges first. Feigning left, he moves right. I’m quick to block, counter, and lock forearms with him. We strain chest to chest. Sand kicking up with every shift of weight.
He’s good. Better than good. He slips a choke attempt; I break it with an elbow, turn in, and drive my shoulder into his ribs.
He grunts but doesn’t fold.
We break apart for a heartbeat before locking again. This time harder, faster, desperate. His arm snakes around my neck, pressure building fast.
Layla’s sharp gasp cuts through the noise, and something primal ignites within me.
No. Not while she’s watching. Not after every promise I made.
Dropping my hips, I move my body upward, and break the hold. I then turn inside his guard. We’re chest to chest again. He looks just as tired as I feel. We’re both shaking with exhaustion, sand caked to sweat.
“She’s not yours,” I growl, low enough that only he hears.
“Not yours either,” he rasps back. “Not anymore.”
“Fuck you.”