Page 21 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

R ain slams the beach house roof like angry fists. The storm surge chews at the foundation, salt spray clotting the air. I’m pacing—five steps from the mildew-stained sofa to the kitchenette’s chipped enamel sink—when the door crashes open.

Aeron stands in the threshold, water cascading off his oilskin coat. His silver hair’s come loose from its tie, plastered dark against his neck.

“What?” I snap before he can speak.

He steps inside, tracking mud and brine. “Radios are down. Wanted to make sure you?—”

“What part of ‘I left a note for Rowan’ confused you?”

His jaw tightens. “Notes don’t stop rogue waves.”

“And you showing up here does?”

He yanks off his coat, the movement sharp. “You’d rather I left you alone with this?”

“Yes.” The word cracks.

Silence. Thunder growls offshore.

He moves to the hearth, begins stacking driftwood. “You don’t have to weather every disaster alone.”

I freeze. “Fuck you.”

The fire catches, flames twisting. “That what you think I meant?”

My knuckles whiten around the absurd champagne flute I’d swiped from the canceled festival. Warm Prosecco sloshes.

He stands, turning. Water drips from his earlobe, glints in the hollow of his collarbone. “Why’d you run tonight?”

“I’m not one of your damn buoys you need to anchor.”

“Answer the question.”

The glass shatters in the sink. Shards catch the firelight. “Because I hate how you look at me. Like I’m some relic you’ve been preserving since we were nineteen.”

He goes still.

“Those little mementos in your desk?” My laughter’s too sharp. “Photos. That compass. The fucking pressed seaweed from the jetty. You’re hoarding ghosts, Aeron.”

His voice drops, dangerous. “You went through my things?”

“Rowan mentioned it after two whiskeys. She’s worried you’re building a shrine.”

A muscle leaps in his jaw. The scar across his shoulder peeks through his soaked shirt, a pale seam I want to press my thumb against until he bleeds.

“You’ve been here six weeks and suddenly you’re an expert on my life?”

“I’m an expert on runners. And you’re sprinting in place.”

He crowds me against the counter, seawater and pine biting the air between us.

“You want honesty? Fine. That compass still points true. Those photos? Proof I didn’t imagine us.

But you—” His finger grazes my wrist where the camera strap’s left a raw groove.

“You’d rather chase hurricanes than admit you care. ”

Lightning forks. The windows rattle.

“Maybe I don’t want to be your ‘forever’ footnote!” The truth tears out, jagged.

He flinches.

Rain drills the roof. For three breaths, the only sound is wood snapping in the hearth.

He steps back. “Founders’ Day. We were sixteen. You said drifter towns either ossify or drown.” His hand flexes, as if physically restraining words. “You were wrong. There’s a third option.”

“Let me guess—you?”

“No.” His sea-glass eyes hold mine. “Us.”

The furnace groans. Waves hammer the shore.

I dig fingers into the counter’s edge. “There is no us. ”

He smiles, bitter. “Tell your camera that. Whenever I’m in frame, you lower the lens.”

The accusation scalds. I lurch for the door.

He blocks it. “Running again?”

We’re breathing fast, mirrored. Closer. My heel crunches glass.

His thumb swipes my cheekbone. “Say it.”

“...No.”

The kiss isn’t gentle.

His mouth crashes into mine—no sweetness, no hesitation. I bite his lower lip. He growls, hands tearing at my jeans as I claw his shirt up over corded muscle. The fabric snags on his ears.

“Off,” I rasp, yanking harder.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to strip the shirt away. “No more running.”

“Make me.”

He slams me against the wall. My skull meets plaster, but the sting’s obliterated when his palm rubs rough over my clit through damp cotton. I arch, swearing.

“Still hate how I look at you?” His breath scalds my throat.

“Fuck you?—”

“Scheduled maintenance on the Harbinger .” He nips my earlobe. “July ‘09. You wore cutoff shorts. Sprayed me with a hose ‘by accident’.”

My laugh fractures into a gasp as his fingers slip under my waistband. “You tripped the sprinklers at my dad’s funeral.”

“You smiled that day.” His thumb circles faster. “Only time you did.”

I fist his hair, dragging his mouth back to mine. Denim hits the floor. He lifts me—effortless bastard—carrying us both down onto the threadbare rug. Firelight licks his cock as he kicks free of his own jeans. Thick, curved, salt-tanged from the storm.

He braces over me, heat radiating.

I hook a leg around his hip. “Show me what I've been missing.”

He sheathes his cock in one brutal thrust. I choke, nails raking his back, as my pussy stretches again.

“Still cynical?” He pistons deeper, hitting a nerve that whites out my vision.

“Still—ah!—delusional?—”

He flips us, my knees grinding into wool fibers. “Take what you need, Evie.”

I ride him hard, reveling in his choked curses. The storm batters the windows. Sweat drips off his collarbone onto my breasts.

“That compass,” he rasps, hands spanning my ribs. “Still points northeast.”

“Compasses lie near cliffs.” I clench around him, wringing a groan.

“Only if you’re afraid of the drop.” He sits up, mouth latching onto my nipple.

We collapse sideways, limbs tangling. His pace turns frenetic, fingers digging into my hips. The air reeks of sex and cedar smoke.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I refuse—until he stills entirely. Bastard.

Our eyes meet. His pupils drown the sea-glass green.

“Could’ve left. Ten years ago. Thirty.” He pushes a sweat-soaked strand off my face. “Waited for the hurricane.”

His hips snap up, that thick cock shearing deeper. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the scream clawing up my throat—taste salt and storm still clinging to his skin.

"You want it rough?" His fingers twist in my hair, forcing my head back. "Or you want me to take my time?"

I rake nails down his chest. "Could you possibly last long enough to?—"

He flips us again, pinning my wrists above my head. "Still talking."

The next thrust steals air from my lungs. I arch, heels digging into the small of his back as he sets a brutal rhythm. Firelight glistens on our sweat-slicked skin, his silver hair curtaining our faces.

"Admit it." He lets go of my wrists to grip my hips, angling himself to hit that spot that makes my vision fracture. "You missed this."

"Missed your— fuck —inflated ego?"

His thumb finds my clit, pressing hard circles. "Missed us."

I buck against him, muscles clenching. "You're?—"

"Liar." He captures my nipple between his teeth, sucking as his pelvis grinds. "Photographing every pier and festival stall for weeks. But never me."

"Too— god —blurry through your thick skull?—"

He slams deeper, sheathing himself to the hilt. My back leaves the rug, driven up by each merciless stroke. The room smells of sex and burning driftwood, the storm's fury muted beneath our panting.

"Come on, Evie." His breath scalds my throat. "Let me see you break."

"Make. Me."

He drags his cock out almost completely, pausing at the tip. Taunting. I glare up through sweat-stung eyes—find his sea-glass gaze locked on mine, pupils blown. My hips jerk, trying to force him back in, but he pins me down with those sailor's hands.

" Say. It. "

I spit a curse. He laughs—low, dark—and plunges back in at a new angle. The world whites out. Distantly, I hear myself begging.

"That's it." He licks into my mouth, fingers returning to my clit. "Need you to come. Now."

The coil snaps. I shatter with a choked cry, back bowing as my pussy clamps down on him. He groans, grip going brutal, thrusts turning erratic.

Our eyes lock. He stills deep, pulsing as he comes with a guttural sound that reverberates through both of us—shipwrecked and survivors.

For a suspended moment, we breathe the same charged air.

Then he collapses beside me, chest heaving. "Still think there's no us?"

I kick his ankle under the tangled blanket. "Still think you're not insufferable?"

His chuckle rumbles against my temple. The storm relents, reduced to a drizzle hissing against hot coals.