Page 22

The storm brewing inside Tripp is as turbulent as his shifting expressions.

At first, disbelief rules his face, his brow furrowing and his lips parting as though the accusation is too foreign to take root in his mind.

Yet, as his eyes scan the screen, shock settles in, sharp and jagged, cutting through the initial haze of confusion.

His features tighten, his jaw clenching subtly as the weight of the words before him begins to sink in.

There’s a flash of something darker—guilt, perhaps, or anger—not directed outward but inward, as though grappling with the implications of what he’s seeing.

His eyes, once darting frantically across the screen, now fixate on mine with an intensity that feels like a thunderclap, overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

It’s in this moment that his face becomes a battlefield: the vulnerability of someone blindsided by something they cannot yet comprehend, colliding with the simmering tension of someone preparing to defend themselves against a truth they cannot escape.

His lips press into a thin line, trembling ever so slightly, betraying the undercurrent of emotions fighting for dominance within him—shock, confusion, frustration, and the faintest shadow of betrayal.

It’s as if every layer of his being is caught in the swirling winds of a storm he neither invited nor prepared for, leaving him raw, exposed, and utterly human in the face of the accusation laid bare.

“I promise, I don’t know what this is, Remi. I swear to you.”

I growl, low and threatening. “Your promises are for shit. I don’t know you well enough to trust anything that comes out of your mouth.”

The weight of the moment presses down on me, heavy and suffocating, like a tidal wave crashing into the shore.

My chest tightens, the ache sharp and relentless, each beat of my heart reverberating with the sting of his words and the betrayal they carry.

I can’t breathe—I can’t think. Every ounce of strength I have left is being drained by the storm raging inside me, a tempest of hurt, anger, and confusion twisting and turning until all I want is release.

I glance at him, his face a mess of emotions I can't decipher, but I don’t care anymore.

His explanations, his denials —they all blur into meaningless background noise as a single, overwhelming thought takes hold: I need to leave.

I need to escape the weight of this moment, of these words that slice through me like shards of glass.

The room feels too small, the air too thick, and the silence that follows his trembling voice becomes deafening, amplifying every painful thought swirling in my mind.

My pulse races, my legs trembling under me, urging me to move, to flee this battlefield of hurt before it consumes me entirely.

I take a step back and then another, the distance between us growing as if it might somehow lessen the ache clawing at my chest. I don’t even bother to conceal the tears pooling in my eyes—they’re proof of the storm inside me, evidence of a breaking I can’t stop.

“You all do nothing but hurt,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions.

The words spill out before I can stop them, raw and unfiltered, a reflection of the chaos within.

Without waiting for a response, I turn away, my feet carrying me toward the door—toward freedom, toward air, toward anything but this suffocating pain.

The urge to run is all-encompassing now, my need to escape drowning out every other thought. But even as I run, the hurt follows me, clinging to my skin, anchoring itself in the deepest parts of my soul. It will take more than distance to outrun this pain, but for now, running is all I can do.

Before I can make it a handful of steps, I hear the heavy thump of boots eat up the distance behind me.

I feel his hand envelope my wrist, and he pulls me to a stop and jerks me around to face him.

Tripp stands there, staring down at me, warring with something inside his mind.

Before I can figure out what that is, he gives a sharp tug, pulling me against him.

“I’ll show you just how much I want you,” he says, grabbing the back of my head as he slams his lips down onto mine.

His lips press against mine with a hunger that steals the breath from my lungs, the force of his need igniting a fire that burns through the haze of pain and frustration.

The pressure softens, his mouth molding to mine with tender desperation, as though he’s pouring everything he can’t say into this moment.

I feel the tentative brush of his tongue against the seam of my lips, a silent plea for entry that sends a shiver down my spine.

My mind races, a thousand conflicting emotions clashing in the storm within me, but my body betrays me, my lips parting almost involuntarily, granting him the access he seeks.

His tongue sweeps inside, tentative yet insistent, exploring, tasting, and claiming in a way that feels both overwhelming and intoxicating.

The world outside this moment fades into nothingness, leaving only the sensation of him—his lips, his touch, the heat that radiates from every point of contact.

It’s a dance of vulnerability and defiance, of anger and longing, as our mouths move together in a rhythm neither of us can control.

For a fleeting moment, the weight of everything unsaid and unresolved melts away, replaced by the raw, undeniable connection that pulses between us.

His grip on my head intensifies, his fingers threading through my hair with a possessive urgency that sends sparks of sensation cascading across my skin.

Each strand feels like it’s wrapped in the heat of his touch, grounding and electrifying all at once.

The pressure of his lips deepens, the unrelenting fervor of his kiss consuming me like wildfire.

It’s as if he’s trying to etch his presence into my very being, to make me feel every ounce of the turmoil and passion that surges through him.

The way his fingers tighten, tangling deeper into my hair, holds me captive—not just physically but emotionally, tethering me to the raw intensity of this moment.

His lips move against mine with a purpose that borders on desperate, and I can feel the unspoken words he’s pouring into each stroke, each caress.

There’s a fierce determination in the way he claims me, a silent demand that I understand the depth of his need, his anger, his longing.

I try to pull away, to catch my breath, but he follows, unyielding, his fingers in my hair anchoring me to him.

The world narrows to the searing heat of his touch, the relentless assault of his kiss, and the storm of emotions swirling between us.

Every part of me feels overwhelmed, yet strangely alive, caught in the collision of pain and passion he’s unleashed.

His kiss deepens, pulling me into an intoxicating spiral that leaves no room for hesitation or restraint.

My body, as if guided by some primal instinct, begins to respond in kind.

My hands tremble as they rise, tentatively at first, until they find the solid plane of his chest. The heat of his skin through the fabric sends a jolt up my arms, and I feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my fingertips, a grounding pulse amidst the chaos.

With a slow and deliberate motion, my hands glide upward, tracing the contours of his chest, savoring the strength and vulnerability I find there.

The world outside this moment blurs into nothingness, leaving only the sound of our mingled breaths and the fire crackling between us.

My palms slide over his shoulders, feeling the tension locked beneath his muscles, and then move to his neck.

I let my fingers trail upward, threading through the short strands of his hair as they curl lightly against my skin.

My body burns for more. I feel a connection between us burn brightly as I continue to tangle tongues with him.

He’s completely surrounding me with his scent and caress.

He’s pushing himself on me, but I can’t bring myself to care, let alone move away from him.

For the first time in my life, something feels right.

His lips, his hold, everything about Tripp calls to me on a deeper level.

Finally, he breaks the kiss, his rough breaths caressing my face as we fight to catch our breath. He places his forehead against mine, both of us trying to come back into the moment.

“I promise, Remi. I don’t know what happened last night. I never sent that message,” he says, his lips barely brushing against mine once more. “But I will find out the truth. Don’t give up on us, please.”

My gaze locks onto his for a fleeting moment, searching for something—certainty, sincerity, anything to calm the storm raging within me—but all I find is an ache mirrored in his eyes.

The weight of his words hangs between us like the remnants of a shattered glass, sharp and fragile, impossible to ignore.

I want to believe him, to let the warmth of his promise wrap around me and soothe me, but something in me hesitates.

I take a small step back, the lingering heat of his presence fading as his hand slowly releases its hold on me.

His fingers untangle from my hair, their departure sending a faint ripple of loss across my skin.

The silence stretches, heavy and full, as I let the space between us grow—not out of anger or rejection, but out of self-preservation.

“I refuse to make any promises,” I say, my voice quiet yet firm, carrying the weight of both pain and caution.

My hands drop to my sides, trembling slightly from the intensity of what just transpired, but I refuse to let it show. I shift my gaze downward, unwilling to meet the longing etched across his face, and inhale deeply, steadying myself. My lips still tingle from the press of his.

He doesn’t attempt to stop me or close the distance again, though I can feel his presence lingering as if tethered to me by an invisible thread. The warmth of his breath no longer dances against my lips, yet his essence still clings to the air around us, heavy and intoxicating.

I take another step further, the sound of my breath louder than any word that could be spoken.

“You’ll find out the truth,” I add, my voice soft, almost a whisper.

It’s not an affirmation of trust, nor is it a dismissal—just a statement that leaves the uncertainty hanging between us. When I finally glance back at him, his expression is unreadable, a mixture of resolve and yearning that seems to pierce straight through me.

For the first time, I feel the full weight of the distance I create, and I wonder if it’s enough to protect my fragile heart.

Their absence last night nearly did me in, and I don’t know what to make of it.

I know they’re my scent match mates. How much more am I willing to take?

I can’t lose myself while trying to be with them.

I’ll give him this, though. I’ll wait for him to find out what went wrong, and then, hopefully, they will make it up to me. I want to fight for what I want, but to what avail?

How much more can one person take?