Chapter Eleven #2
I hook his leg, lift with everything I have left, and slam him down. The impact rattles through us both. Sand explodes outward as he hits the ground hard. I’m quick to recover, clamp his shoulders, and shove him across the boundary with one final, relentless surge.
His heel crosses the rope, and that’s all I need.
“Winner: Scott Bennett!”
I drop to my knees in the sand, chest heaving, ears ringing. The crowd roars, but all I hear is my pulse.
When I look up, Lyla’s at the circle’s edge, her eyes wide, lips parted. Something between fear and raw hunger flickers across her face.
I stand slowly, walking toward her. Tower over her as she looks up at me, breath shallow.
“I told you I’d fight for us.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. She simply stares as though she’s seeing me for the first time.
“Today,” I say quietly, just for her. “You and me.”
It’s not a question.
Before she can answer, Damon appears. Sand is embedded deep in his hair. A bruise is already blooming on his forearm.
“Good fight,” he says to me, voice even as he extends his hand. After I accept, his gaze turns to Lyla. “Can we talk?”
The second Lyla nods, she and Damon walk down to the shoreline. As they go, she glances back once. In that glance, I see everything—the war with herself; what she thinks she wants versus what she knows she needs.
Our date can’t come fast enough.
Lyla
My hands are shaking so hard I have to clasp them behind my back.
Scott and Damon circle each other in the pit, chests heaving, sand plastered to sweat. The producers have created a gladiator farce, and now the final round is exactly what everyone secretly wanted: two men fighting like their lives depend on who gets to keep me.
This is horrible, but I can’t stop watching.
Scott moves like he was born for this—controlled violence, eyes scanning for the opening that ends it. Every roll of muscle under his skin reminds me how those same shoulders caged me against the villa wall two nights ago, how his grip turned gentle the second I whimpered his name.
Damon counters with heart and fury, refusing to fold even when he’s clearly spent. There’s something almost noble in it, something that should make me feel safe.
Instead, it just makes the ache between my legs sharper.
They crash together—grunts, flesh slapping flesh, the wet smack of sweat. Scott absorbs Damon’s charge, plants, and twists. For a moment, they stalemate.
Then Damon hooks an arm around Scott’s throat.
The choke sinks in deep. Scott’s face flushes dark, veins standing out in his neck. He doesn’t panic. But he can’t breathe.
“No,” I whisper, the word ripping out before I can stop it.
My vision narrows to Scott’s struggling form. The thought of him going limp—of losing him again, even for a stupid game—hits like a hole punching through my chest.
But then Scott’s elbow drives back, hard and deliberate. The impact breaks Damon’s hold, and they separate, both staggering.
They’re chest to chest now, both shaking, sweat carving clean tracks through the sand on their skin. I can’t hear every word over the crowd and the surf, but Scott’s low growl cuts through anyway.
“She’s not yours.”
Whatever Damon snarls back seems to light a fuse in Scott.
“Fuck you.”
Scott moves—fast, brutal. He hooks Damon’s leg, lifts, and drives him down. The thud of impact rolls through the sand and into my chest. Damon’s breath explodes out of him; Scott doesn’t let up. Then with one final, relentless shove, Damon’s heel drags across the rope boundary.
It’s over.
The crowd erupts around me. But the noise fades to a dull roar in my ears. All I see is Scott standing alone in the center of the pit, chest heaving, blood trickling from his lip, and sand streaking across every carved inch of him like war paint.
His eyes lock on mine.
There’s no smile, no triumphant gloat. Just raw, unfiltered possession. You’re mine.
The words aren’t spoken, but I feel them in my bones.
I should be furious. This is barbaric. Objectifying. Everything I told myself I’d never let myself want again. Instead, I’m burning, rooted in place, pulse throbbing where it has no business throbbing. Heat surges low and insistent. My nipples pebble against the thin fabric of my bikini top.
“Damn, girl,” Kylie mutters beside me, elbow nudging my ribs. “Your face is screaming take me right here.”
I swallow hard. My mouth is dry while the rest of me is anything but.
Scott wipes the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His eyes never leave mine. Then he starts walking toward me like no one else exists.
I’m so screwed.
Miranda’s voice slices through the chaos. “Winner: Scott Bennett!”
The crowd surges, cheering and pressing in, but Scott moves through them like smoke. He walks straight for me, still breathing hard, sand and sweat streaking his torso in filthy, mesmerizing patterns. Each deliberate step eats the distance between us, purposeful, predatory.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he stops inches away. This close, I can see the exhaustion and relief in his eyes, smell the heady mix of exertion and raw male musk rolling off his skin. It’s intoxicating. Overwhelming.
“Today,” he says, voice gravel-rough from the fight, loud enough for every contestant, every camera, every microphone to catch. “Helicopter tour. You and me.”
It’s not a question. The absolute certainty in his tone sends a sharp, involuntary clench low in my belly, heat pooling between my thighs despite everything.
Before I can scrape together words, Damon steps up to my elbow. Sand dusts his hair; a fresh bruise is forming along his forearm. His composure is still mostly intact, but there’s a tighness around his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Good fight,” he tells Scott. The words are clipped. Then his gaze shifts to me, softer but no less intense. “Lyla, can we talk?”
The air between the two men crackles—pure testosterone, barely leashed. Scott’s jaw ticks once, hard; his stance goes rigid like he’s physically holding himself back from dragging Damon into the pit and finishing what the rope stopped.
I nod, throat tight, and follow Damon toward the shoreline. Every step feels weighted. I don’t need to look to know Scott’s eyes are burning holes into my back—possessive, patient, promising.
“He’s confident,” Damon says once the crowd noise fades behind us. “Almost like he already knows the outcome.”
“Nobody’s won anything.”
He stops, turning to face me fully. His eyes are steady, assessing. “Maybe not yet. But that man just fought through three guys for you, and the way you looked at him in that pit… You weren’t exactly rooting for the underdog.”
Heat surges into my cheeks, instant and guilty. “I didn’t—”
“Lyla.” His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge of knowing underneath. “I’m not blind. There’s history between you two that runs deeper than anything we’ve just started here. And right now, your body is screaming louder than your head.”
I wrap my arms around myself as if that could shield me from the truth. “It’s complicated.”
“I know.” He steps closer. “But here’s what I see: a woman who’s terrified to admit what she wants because it scares her. A woman who’s drawn to the chaos.”
“That’s not—” I start, but the denial dies on my tongue. Because part of me hears the truth in it, even if it’s only half the picture.
“I’m not giving up,” he says, his tone shifting to calm determination. Certainty. “He may have won the challenge, but he hasn’t won you. Real relationships aren’t built on who can slam the other guy hardest. They’re built on showing up every day, without needing to prove something.”
I glance back toward the crowd of contestants and producers. Scott is exactly where we left him—pacing like a caged panther, eyes locked on us, every muscle coiled with barely leashed restraint.
Damon follows my gaze. A small, wry smile touches his mouth. “You’re still here talking to me. He’s over there, yet you chose to walk away with me. That tells me something.”
I swallow hard. “I should get back.”
“While you’re on that helicopter…” He holds my eyes, unflinching. “Ask yourself one thing. Does he see you as a partner or as a prize to be fought for and claimed? Because from where I’m standing, he’s trying to win you back the same way he won today: through sheer, unrelenting force.”
The words sink deep, sharp and undeniable.
As we walk back, Scott’s stare never leaves us. It prickles across my skin: hot, heavy, promising.
Partner or prize?
The question burrows in my mind and refuses to let go.