Page 4

It's not a request.

My brain is already forming a response—something sharp, something dismissive—but my body betrays me. My feet move. I follow.

We weave through the crowd, past the glowing lanterns and the last few drunken couples swaying lazily on the dance floor. The vineyard stretches out ahead of us, dark and sprawling, the grapevines silhouetted beneath a sliver of moonlight.

Liam doesn't stop until we're tucked into the shadows, hidden from view. Only then does he release me, exhaling like he's been holding something back all night.

I huff out a breath, looking up at him, at the sharp line of his jaw, at the barely restrained frustration in his ocean-blue eyes. "What do you want from me, Liam?"

"I want you to stop letting your brothers decide your life for you." His voice is quiet. "I want you to stop pretending you don't hate it."

I flinch. Because of course, he's right.

And I do hate it. The constant meddling, the way my brothers—whom I love—still see me as something fragile, something to be handled rather than respected.

But it's easier to let them believe they know what's best for me than to fight them on it. Because fighting means proving I can stand on my own, and proving means risking failure.

So I do what I always do—I deflect.

"Thanks for the unsolicited life advice," I say breezily. "Now, if we're done with the emotionally enlightening portion of the evening, I'd like to get back to my?—"

"You drive me crazy."

My breath catches. "Excuse me?"

Liam exhales harshly, dragging a hand down his face. "Every damn time I see you, Ava. You drive me crazy."

What in the sinful, slow-burn hell is this?

I should say something. Should make a joke. Should step back. But I don't.

Because Liam is still looking at me like that, like he knows me. Like he sees me.

And then, before I can second-guess it, before I can even breathe, he kisses me.

It's not tentative. It's not careful.

It's desperate.

Liam's hands slide into my hair, fingers tangling as he tilts my head and takes. His mouth is hot and demanding, all raw heat and tension.

I gasp against him, my hands fisting in the fabric of his suit jacket, and God, he tastes like whiskey and something richer, something darker. The kind of thing I could get drunk on.

The vineyard fades. The wedding. My brothers.

It's just us.

Just this.

And I don't want him to stop.

Not now. Not ever.

But then, Liam does stop.

Abruptly, like the kiss burned him.

He pulls back, chest rising and falling, eyes stormy and conflicted.