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Her eyes flicker, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to say something, but then she stops, her breath catching in her throat. She’s on the brink, teetering between fear and desire, between running and surrendering.
And then, finally, she does.
Her shoulders slump, a small, defeated movement that sends a wave of triumph crashing through me. She’s given up. She’s given in. She’s mine.
I don’t hesitate. I capture her lips in a rough, possessive kiss, my hands tangling in her raven hair as I pull her closer, claiming her in the way I’ve been dreaming of for so long. She’s soft and warm against me, and for a moment, I lose myself in the sensation, realizing that this is finally happening.
She doesn’t resist. She melts into me, her body molding against mine as if she was made to fit there, like this is where she belongs. And maybe it is. Maybe this is what we were always meant to be—two dark, twisted souls, lost and broken but perfect together in our shared destruction.
When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together, the air between us crackling with the tension that’s been building for so long.
“You are fucking mine, Tatum,” I whisper, my voice rough and raw, filled with the dark, possessive need that’s been driving me for years.
She nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it’s enough. It’s all I need. She’s mine now. Completely, utterly, irrevocably mine.
3
The Archers - The Hills
The next morning…
The house feels emptier than it did last night, even with the morning light streaming through the windows. It’s cold, too cold for August, but maybe that’s just me. Maybe it’s the emptiness inside that makes everything feel colder and quieter like the world is holding its breath. Or maybe it’s what happened last night. What I let happen.
I can still feel him—Caius—his presence lingering in every room, like a shadow that won’t leave. I don’t know how to shake it off, how to make sense of what happened. It’s all tangled up inside me, a mess of grief and guilt and something darker that I don’t want to name. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror.
I’m too scared of what I’ll see.
Caius said it doesn’t matter. That nothing matters but us. But how can he say that? How can he act like this is okay like what we did isn’t…wrong? We’re step-siblings, for God’s sake. We’re supposed to be grieving our parents, not…not whatever the hell that was last night. My cheeks burn at the memory, my body reacting in ways I wish it wouldn’t. Even now, with him upstairs, probably still asleep, I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.
It feels like I’m betraying them—my mom, his dad—by feeling this way. By wanting him. But I do. God help me, I do. And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Deep down, I know this isn’t just about grief or loneliness or trying to fill some void. This is about Caius. It’s always been about Caius.
He’s always been there, watching me with those dark eyes, like he’s waiting for something. For me to fall apart, maybe. Or for me to let him in. Last night, I did both. And now…I don’t know how to go back.
I don’t even know if I want to.
After all, he was right about one thing. He is all I have left. It’s just us, and despite how fucking wrong I know everything that happened is, it somehow made me forget. He made me forget. It’s like he’s a narcotic, and I’m an addict. Last night was my first hit, and he numbed all the pain that’s been wreaking havoc on me since that phone call. He made me forget, even if only temporarily. But the problem is, even I know he isn’t good for me.
Ironic, isn’t it. How the one thing that seems to offer me relief is also the same thing that’s spent years causing me pain.
The creak of the stairs pulls me out of my thoughts, and I tense. My pulse increases as I hear him coming down. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my back to the stairs, my hands wrapped around a mug of freshly brewed coffee, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to face him after last night.
But he doesn’t seem to have that problem.
“Morning,” he says, his voice low and rough, like he just woke up. Or maybe he’s still drunk. I wouldn’t be surprised. By the way he smelled last night, I could tell he drank more than a shot or two. He was fucking hammered. I’m amazed he could even stand long enough to get himself home, let alone…do what he did.
I nod, my throat too tight to respond. I hear him moving around, the sound of cabinets opening and closing, the clink of a glass being set down on the counter. It’s all so normal, so mundane, but there’s nothing normal about this. About us.
He sits down across from me, his presence too big for the small kitchen, too overwhelming. I stare into my coffee, willing myself to speak, to say something that will make this all go away. But I don’t know what that is. I don’t think there is anything.
“Tatum,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me look up despite myself. He’s shirtless, toned chest covered in tattoos along with his muscular arms. Our parents, especially his dad, hated the tattoos. How he seemed to always have a new one until, eventually his entire body was covered with them. I think that’s why he kept adding to them. Knowing they hated it so much made him want to add more and more until he ran out of skin. My eyes rake across his body. Following the lines of ink until they reach the small cross below his right eye. His eyes are on me, dark and unreadable, but there’s something else there, too. Something that sends an uncontrollable shiver down my spine.
“What?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“Stop thinking so much,” he says, leaning forward, his gaze never leaving mine. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
“How can I not?” I ask, my voice cracking. Is he for real? “How can you just…act like everything’s fine? Like what happened last night doesn’t change everything?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me, his eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to figure out the best way to get through to me. It makes me want to run, to hide from whatever he’s going to say next. But I can’t move. I’m trapped here, in this kitchen, in this life, with him.
