Page 8

Damiano

I turn to face him. The fog has dampened his hair, making the white streak more pronounced against the black. His eyes reflect the distant lights from the house, giving them this eerie glow that pisses me off even more.

“What do you want?” I ask, like I don’t already fucking know.

“Same thing I always want.” He steps closer, dropping his gaze to my mouth before raising it again. “Same thing you always want.”

“I told you last night?—”

“That it was the last time. Yeah.” He laughs, harsh and empty. “You’ve been saying that for what, three years now? Three fucking years of ‘never again’ bullshit. And yet here we are.”

“I’m serious this time.”

“Sure you are.” Another step forward eliminates the space between us. “Especially now you’ve got your shiny new project. Poor little rich girl who needs your magic garden fixes.”

I snap, grab the front of his shirt, and slam him back a step. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Instead of pulling away, he smiles. “There’s the real Damiano. Wondered how long it’d take to crack that Zen plant-whisperer bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“It’s all bullshit.” He brings his hands up to grip my wrists, not to remove them but to hold me there. “Just like my cool bartender act. We’re both fake as hell. Difference is, I own it.”

Rage surges through me, familiar and almost welcome. “I’m not doing this again.”

“Doing what? This?” He moves quickly, pressing his body against mine, his mouth hovering just shy of contact. “Or this?” He slides around one hand to grip the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.

I should shove him away. Walk out of this maze, back to people who aren’t toxic waste in human form. Instead, I tighten my grip on his shirt until I hear threads tear.

“I fucking hate you.” The lie is bitter on my tongue.

His smile turns nasty. “Yeah, you said that last night, too. Right before you were on your knees begging for it.”

The memory hits like a physical blow—the storage room at The Vault, bottles of expensive liquor surrounding us, the taste of him, his hands in my hair. The addiction I can’t kick.

“Go to hell,” I mutter, but we both know I’m losing this fight with myself.

“Only if you’re coming with me.” He pulls me closer, his breath hot against my face.

I release his shirt and step back. “This is a mistake.”

“Probably. Not like we’re strangers to bad decisions.”

“This needs to stop,” I say, betrayed by my own hands as I grab his waist.

“It will.” He traces the line of my jaw with his fingers. “Tomorrow, or the next day, when one of us says something unforgivable again. But tonight we’ll pretend we don’t hate each other.”

The inevitable truth of it crashes over me. We’re trapped in this loop, knowing exactly how much damage we do to each other but unable to break free.

“I should be keeping an eye on the party,” I say, a pathetic last stand.

Flint laughs, his mouth hovering near mine. “Always Mr. Responsible. Princess Waters will survive without her guard dog for an hour. Those security meatheads are good for something, at least.”

Somewhere in the distance, music from the party carries through the fog, reminding me I have actual responsibilities.

But as Flint moves his hands with that infuriating familiarity over my body, those concerns fade like they never mattered.

Nothing matters but this destructive attraction between us.

Tomorrow, I’ll hate myself for this. Tomorrow, I’ll remember all the reasons we’re fucking poison. But tonight, in the center of the maze where no one can find us unless they know the way, none of that matters.

Tonight, we’ll pretend this sickness is something worth keeping, something worth the inevitable bloodshed that follows. And tomorrow, when the fog lifts, we’ll go back to pretending we’re strangers who just happen to share an island and too many secrets.

It’s a sick pattern, predictable as the maze itself. Every turn leads back to the same center, no matter how hard I try to find another way out.

I fucking hate that he’s here in my space, acting like he owns it. It’s always like this with Flint, invading places that don’t belong to him, including the parts of me I try to keep locked away.

I slap away his hand hard enough to leave a mark. Anger flashes on his face but morphs into something worse, something hungry that drags me in even as I fight it.

“You think you can show up, and I’ll just roll over for you?”

“Yes,” he says. Zero hesitation. Zero doubt.

I want to break his jaw for that certainty, for how he never backs down. I want to break it even more because he’s right. The air between us crackles with violence and want, and it is dragging me toward him .

He reaches for me again, and this time I don’t stop him. He grips my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. It’s like a spark hitting gasoline, and we’re on each other, all violence and teeth and ragged breath.

I slam him against the hedge wall, branches scratching my skin and catching in my clothes. He laughs, that rough sound that makes me want to hurt him. It’s a fight and a dance, and neither of us knows the steps. Or maybe we know them too well to admit it.

His mouth finds mine, hard and demanding, and I bite his lip until I taste copper. He doesn’t pull away, just presses closer, like he’s trying to crawl inside me and tear me apart from within. His hands are everywhere, tearing at my clothes, and I don’t stop him.

I can’t. I never could.

We crash to the ground, gravel biting into my back. He’s on top of me, pinning me down, and it should feel like defeat, but it doesn’t. It feels like the inevitable crash after a free fall.

I fight him, shoving and clawing, leaving welts on his skin, but it’s no use. He knows me too well, knows exactly how to dismantle me piece by piece.

“Is this what you want?” he growls, his breath scalding against my neck.

I don’t answer with words. I answer by yanking him closer, feeling his weight crushing me, his heat burning through me. It’s too much and nowhere near enough.

He lets go of me to tear at his own clothes, and I seize my chance, flipping him onto his back with enough force to knock the breath from him. His eyes flash with surprise, then something darker, and he pulls me down into his gravity.

We roll through dirt and leaves, fighting for dominance then surrendering it in turns. My hands bruise his skin, and his mark me just as savagely. I want to break him, make him feel the same wreckage he leaves in me, but I never can. I’m the one left in pieces, every time, and the bastard knows it.

His cock is hard against me, and I grind down viciously, wanting to drive him as crazy as he’s driving me. There’s nothing sane about this, nothing healthy. It’s desperate and raw, and I hate that it’s exactly what I crave.

I need it like a drug.

He grips my hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, digging in like he thinks I might disappear. I want to tell him that’s my plan, that I’ll vanish and leave him hollow, but we both know I’ll crawl back eventually.

I shove him down harder, and his breath hisses through clenched teeth. He’s offering me that shit-eating grin that makes me want to split his lip and devour his mouth in the same breath.

“Damiano.” He makes my name sound like a prayer and a curse .

His need is plastered across his face, raw and real and matching the hunger tearing through me. It always has. The fight’s just foreplay, always was.

He licks his hand and pumps his cock.

He wants inside me, and as I position myself above him, I snarl, “Fuck you,” the words breaking between harsh breaths.

He’s grinning again, that wild look that feels like being gutted. “Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s the plan.”

Without warning, he thrusts up brutally hard. There’s no gentleness, no mercy, just the violent connecting of bodies. It feels like being punched and kissed simultaneously, and I gasp, choking on dirt and oxygen. He thrusts again, slick heat between us, and I feel myself coming undone.

“Faster,” I demand, knowing he wants it too badly to refuse. He picks up speed, drilling into me with single-minded focus, not stopping until he gets what he wants and forces me to take what I need.

I slam my hips against him mindlessly, desperate for more, for everything. It’s pure chaos. The gravel cutting into my knees should hurt, but it doesn’t. Pain transforms into something sweeter.

“Is this it?” he taunts, lips grazing my ear, words sharp as knives. “This what you need?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss, nearly choking because I’m right on the edge.

Heat builds, impossibly tight, then detonates through me. I grab my cock, coming violently over the dirt beneath us .

Orgasm tears through me like lightning, leaving me shattered. I’m spinning out, unable to hold onto anything, especially not him. He rams into me once more, vicious and deep, cursing as he comes, fingers tangled painfully in my hair.

For a moment, it’s just breath and heartbeats. Then his low, mocking laughter scrapes down my spine, and I know I’ve lost again.

“Fucking bastard,” I say, rolling away from him as my voice breaks between gasps. Leaves and dirt cling to my sweaty back.

He props himself on one elbow. “But you can’t stay away.”

I don’t answer, not with words. I don’t need to.

He knows exactly how his smirk infects me like a disease. Maybe that’s why I can’t quit this toxic cycle, can’t quit him. It’s all teeth and hunger and need, and we’re both starving.