Page 58 of Bitter When He Begs

The space Sage left feels bigger than it should. The moment the door clicked behind him, something hollowed out in my chest. I don’t regret it, though. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t fuck something up just because it felt good in the moment.

I didn’t chase the high.

Didn’t take.

Didn’t fall.

I’m still riding the come-down, the echo of his voice in my head, the taste of him still on my lips. He kissed me back like he meant it, and I let myself feel it—every goddamn second of it—before I stopped. Before it could become something reckless.

Because if I’d let it keep going, I wouldn’t have stopped. That’s the truth. My hands would’ve ended up under his shirt, then inside his jeans. He would’ve moaned my name, gone breathless, melted for me like he always does, and I would’ve let it happen because I want him. God, I fucking want him.

But wanting him doesn’t mean I’m ready. It doesn’t mean it’s safe.

And Sage… fuck, he looked at me like I was something worth worrying about. Like I wasn’t just the asshole who made his life a living hell for months. Like maybe I was more than the addict trying to stay clean in a house full of temptation.

I did the right thing. I have to keep reminding myself of that. I did the right fucking thing.

I lean forward, forearms braced on my knees, hands tangled in my hair as I exhale, slow and steady. Tonight I proved to myself that I could say no, and not just to the old shit that used to eat me alive, but also to the new thing clawing its way under my skin.

Him. That stubborn, brilliant, maddening boy with wide eyes and a sharper tongue. Sage fucking Blackwell.

There’s a knock at the door, but I don’t answer. I just glare at it like maybe that’ll make whoever’s on the other side walk away. But the knock comes again, this time accompanied by a familiar voice.

“You locking yourself in to avoid the party or avoid the aftermath?”

Damon.

I should’ve known. He’s one of the only people in the house who knows when I start spiraling before I do.

“Go away,” I mutter.

The door doesn’t open yet—Damon respects boundaries, even though he still has my spare key—but I hear the shift in his weight as he leans against the doorframe. “You okay?”

I groan. “I’m fine. Jesus. You done playing therapist?”

“You done pretending you don’t need someone to check on you?”

I should say something snarky to that. Should tell him to mind his own business. But all I can manage is a tired, “Not tonight.”

There’s a pause, and then I hear the lock click from the outside. The door creaks open, and I look up just in time to see him step in, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets.

“Before you start,” I warn, “I don’t need a goddamn lecture.”

“Not here to give one.”

“Then what? You gonna hold my hand? Read me bedtime stories?”

Damon rolls his eyes and walks over, sitting down heavily on the chair across from the bed. “No. I’m here to make sure you’re not beating the shit out of yourself for something that didn’t go wrong.”

I blink. “…What?”

“I saw him leave,” he says. “And I saw you didn’t follow.”

I look away.

“You didn’t chase the high,” he says. “Didn’t take what you wanted just because it was there. That’s fucking progress, Luca.”

I can feel him waiting for me to talk, to say something that gives him a better idea of what the hell is going on in my head. Normally, I’d tell him to fuck off. But not tonight.