Chapter Seven #2
Eighteen. Wild. Stupid. The night she’d kissed him first. Him in uniform, sand in his hair, heat in his stare. She’d touched his mouth like it was scripture and he’d let her. No promises. Just fire.
And after that?
Hands under clothes. Nights stolen behind barn doors. That mouth on her skin. That voice in her ear. The way he’d looked at her like she was home—until he’d left and made damn sure she was never going to feel like home to him again.
Now he was here. Older. Harder.
And he kissed her like he never stopped.
Like he was done pretending he could.
And she—
She kissed him back like she was ready to burn.
His tongue swept hers again, deep and devastating, pulling a sound from her throat she couldn’t bite back.
She was dizzy, breathless, her heart racing like it wanted to leap straight into his chest. His kiss was heat and hunger and memory all bound together, rewriting her insides until nothing else existed but Ethan.
Control. Need. The unbearable truth. He never stopped owning my heart.
And in that moment, with his mouth consuming hers, with his tongue claiming every piece of her she thought she’d buried, she couldn’t even pretend otherwise.
She couldn’t stop the sound that broke free—half gasp, half moan. His hand fisted in her hair, tilting her deeper into him, his tongue sweeping hers again, rough, hungry, tasting her like he had ten years of absence to make up for.
Her hands betrayed her. One gripped his shirt, knuckles white in the fabric.
The other slid up over the steel of his chest, the hot line of his throat, until her fingers pressed against his jaw, tracing the scar she used to dream about.
She wanted to push him away, wanted to claw free— God help her, she pulled him closer instead.
He groaned low, guttural, the sound of a man drowning in want. His mouth left hers for a heartbeat, dragging his teeth down her jaw, her throat, open-mouthed heat that made her knees buckle.
She arched against him, and he tightened his grip on her, strong hands anchoring her hips against his arousal like she weighed nothing and he was planning on taking her down right there.
“Ethan,” she breathed, his name torn from her lips before she could stop it. “We can’t—”
He broke away like the kiss had scalded him. Like it took effort to pull his mouth off hers. His breath hit the space between. Chest rising fast. Eyes blown wide, glinting like green fire under his hat brim.
He didn’t step back.
Didn’t look sorry.
“You didn’t think I’d find out,” he said—voice all gravel and command, thick with something darker than want.
The words hit like a slap.
Her breath stuttered. Everything hot and open in her slammed shut. He’d kissed her like she was salvation—and now he was claiming her like territory.
“I know what’s been going on,” he added, low. “You’re not safe. That’s my job now.”
Her reaction was instant. Visceral.
“Hell no.”
All the molten aftermath of the kiss snapped into fire. Rage moved faster than fear, faster than memory. She shoved him hard in the chest.
He staggered back a step, caught off-guard. His hand went to where she’d hit him, mouth twitching—was that surprise? Amusement? Old pride bruising?
For a breath, he looked like the boy she’d loved at eighteen. The one who used to kiss her under the stars and vanish by morning.
But that boy was gone.
“You don’t get to declare jurisdiction over me,” she bit out, stalking forward. “I’m not a fucking mission, Ethan. I’m not something you fix. I’m not yours.”
His mouth curved tight, bitter. “You sure? Because you kissed me like you forgot all that.”
She laughed, sharp, wounded. “Oh, that’s rich. You vanish for a decade and now what? I’m supposed to be grateful you decided to show up and stake a claim?”
“You think I want to be here?” he snapped. “I don’t. But vets I bled with are dying, and your name’s stitched into the seams. You want me gone? Tough. I don’t walk away from this.”
“Not walking this time?” she said, venom in her voice. “How charitable.”
Something flickered in his eyes—soft, just for a second—but it vanished as quick as it came.
“I don’t need permission,” he said. “Not for this.”
And there it was.
The fury. The heartbreak. The history.
She felt all of it rise at once, hot and blinding. The betrayal. The ghost of him. The audacity of the man who had left her standing with her heart in her hand—only to show up ten years later with a warning and a mouthful of orders.
She turned on her heel. Stormed for her truck. Yanked the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
She slammed it behind her. Dropped her forehead to the wheel. Her chest heaved once. Twice.
But she didn’t cry.
Not for him.
Not this time.
Her forehead was pressed to the steering wheel, heat blooming behind her eyes until it spilled over, tears cutting raw through the sweat on her face. They weren’t delicate. They weren’t cinematic.
They were angry, bitter, ugly as every scar she’d ever tried to outwork or outrun.
Her hand shook as she jammed the key forward.
The engine roared. Headlights sliced into the dark.
For one reckless second, she wanted to floor it—peel off and roll right over Ethan Kane’s goddamn chest. Make him feel it. Every sharp, shattered thing he left inside her.
Instead, she gripped the wheel. Steered steady. Peeled out onto the road with gravel spitting in her wake, not because she was calm, but because she refused to lose control.
She took the backroads.
These roads used to feel like freedom. Eighteen years old, riding shotgun with a man who promised her something he shouldn’t have, chasing fireflies and open air.
Later, twenty and married to someone else, these roads felt like a noose—each curve dragging her back to the front porch of a house she hated.
One day that man broke her, just like Ethan had, because mistakes always repeat themselves.
And after she’d crawled home to her parents for good, the roads mocked her. Whispered failure in every bend.
Now? The roads just felt old. Like her.
She’d kissed a boy at eighteen and mistook it for salvation. Married a man at twenty just to have a roof over her head. Took bruises in place of love. And when she’d finally clawed her way out, she’d promised herself she’d never let another man hold the reins again.
She built her own damn walls. Hammered them nail by nail.
And now Ethan Kane had waltzed back into her life and kissed her like none of it mattered. Like time hadn’t passed. Like he still had a right to her mouth, her name, her goddamn story.
She hated him for it.
But worse—she hated how much of her still wanted to believe it.
Because underneath the fire, the fury, the fight—she didn’t want to be ruled.
She wanted to be safe enough so she could stop holding the reins for every goddamn thing.
To want something without it costing her everything.
But trust like that? Love like that?
That was a fantasy.
And Amara James didn’t believe in fairy tales.
Not anymore.