004

She’s barefoot. Just—running. Sprinting across the lawn like she can outrun the heat still pulsing between her legs. The grass stings, wet and sharp, and she doesn’t care. Her breath’s ragged. The tank top’s stuck to her skin. Her shorts are barely pulled up, twisted at the waistband, everything clinging, everything wrong.

Elena.

Her mom’s name. On his phone. Why the fuck is her mom texting him?

It keeps echoing, loud and awful—Elena. Elena. Elena. Like a fucking fire alarm in her head.

The night’s too heavy, sticky. She can’t breathe right. It smells like jasmine. Like sweat. Like sin.

She trips on the stone path by the guesthouse gate, her hands hitting the iron hard. Palms scrape. She tastes copper. Or maybe it’s just in her throat. She doesn’t go inside. She can’t—not with her lips still swollen from his mouth, not with her thighs still slick from his—

God. Her body’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.

What the hell is wrong with me?

She stumbles again, past the hedge, toward the garage. She doesn’t think. Just moves. Her feet carry her to his car—the big black one. The beast. She’s always hated that thing. Now she needs it.

The door’s unlocked. She slides in, her bare legs sticking to the cold leather, and the second the scent hits her—cedar, salt, him—her stomach flips.

She folds over, fists hitting the dash, once, twice, again. She needs to feel something that isn’t him. That isn’t this hollow ache.

Her chest’s heaving. Everything burns.

Dad’s dead. Mom’s texting him. He had me bent over his goddamn desk.

What the hell kind of story is this?

Her nails dig into her skin, deep. She doesn’t stop till it hurts. She wants to scream. Wants to crawl into his lap and cry. She doesn’t know anymore.

Then the door creaks open. She flinches so hard her shoulder hits the glass.

Adrian slides in like he owns the air, like his presence is just... inevitable. He’s changed—black shirt now, jeans low on his hips, hair all messy. He looks like sin and trouble and comfort all at once. Her traitor heart skips.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is low. Like a warning. Like he’s trying not to break something—her? Himself?

She laughs. Short, sharp, cracked. “Harder? You think this is hard for you?”

Her voice comes out too loud. Unsteady.

“You fucked me, Adrian.” The words are acid. Real. “You made me feel like—like I couldn’t think. Like I wasn’t even me.”

She swipes at her face, tears and sweat smearing her mascara into bruises.

“What the fuck is going on? Why’s my mom—my mom—texting you? And that asshole—Marcus? What does he know about my dad?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares.

And that silence? It’s worse than any lie.

“Say something,” she breathes. It’s barely a whisper now. Her throat’s raw.

“Aria,” he finally says, slow like molasses. “You’re not ready to know.”

“Fuck. That.”

She leans in—close enough to smell the lie on his breath.

“You don’t get to screw me and then go quiet. You don’t get to protect me from whatever this is while still dragging me in. Was it about my dad? Were you involved?” Her voice cracks wide open. Ugly. Too honest.

She’s crying again. Loud, gross sobs that sound like a child’s. She doesn’t care. She can’t stop.

His hand snaps up, grips her jaw—thumb on one cheek, fingers tight on the other. Her breath catches. Not from fear. From how fast her body reacts.

“Don’t,” he growls. But his voice isn’t steady either. It’s frayed. And that—that—makes her dizzy.

“There’s shit you don’t understand,” he mutters. “Shit I can’t let you understand. Not yet.”

“Then fucking explain it!” she screams, shoving him, nails dragging across his wrist—but her hand doesn’t let go. It lingers there. Clutching him like a lifeline.

Her chest’s a minefield. Her head’s all fog.

“You—” she gasps. “You made me feel things I shouldn’t feel. You made me want things I shouldn’t want. I hate you. I hate you so much.”

She doesn’t mean it. Maybe she does. God, she doesn’t even know anymore.

He leans in.

So close his breath ghosts her cheek.

“You really want the truth?” His voice is low. Dangerous. Smooth like broken glass.

“Fine.”

His hand slides to her thigh. Possessive. Heavy. Like a goddamn brand.

“You’re not ready.”

“Try me,” she whispers. Her fingers dig into his shirt, bunching it. “What did you do?”

He doesn’t answer.

He kisses her.

Hard.

Fast.

Violent.

Not soft. Not sweet. Just a crash of teeth and breath and everything that’s been tearing her apart since the moment she walked into his orbit.

She moans. Hates that she does. Hates how she arches into him. Hates how her whole body wants this even while her heart’s screaming.

His hand slips under her shorts. Finds her wet.

She gasps. Hates that too.

“You’re mine,” he says into her mouth, each word a strike.

One finger. Then two. Thrusting deep. Slow. Controlled.

“You think the truth changes what this is?” he growls. “It doesn’t.”

She’s shaking. Her breath’s caught. The car smells like sex and sweat and lies.

“Adrian—” she chokes. “Please—”

She doesn’t even know what she’s begging for.

She’s so close. She’s unraveling.

And then—

The door yanks open.

Light slams into her face.

“What the hell’s going on in here?!”

The voice is rough. Authority. Shock.

A flashlight’s in her eyes. A security guard. Adrian’s security.

He freezes. The radio on his belt crackles. His mouth falls open as he takes in the scene—

Aria’s flushed face.

Her tangled hair.

Her shorts halfway down her thighs.

Adrian’s hand still inside her.

She can’t breathe.

Can’t speak.

Can’t move.

Everything just—stops.