Page 1 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

"I just gave my virginity to my brother’s best friend." The murmured confession floats around my face like embers still smoldering from last night’s bonfire. Hot and reckless and too bright to look at for long.

A giggle bubbles free, and I press my fingertips to my lips to cut off the sound.

It slips through anyway. Soft and startled, like the sound belongs to someone else entirely.

Which is fitting, because I feel like someone else.

Like the boldest parts of me came to life last night.

I keep waiting for the clock to chime and the spell to wear off, but it hasn't.

Maybe it won't.

The bathroom mirror doesn’t help. My reflection is flushed and glowing, hair tangled from his fingers, lips swollen from his mouth. I look . . . giddy. Wrecked in the best way. My friends all said your first time is awkward and painful. Something to just get through.

But they don’t know Mason, and thank God for that. Because I’m just jealous enough to end a friendship over someone sleeping with my future husband.

Another laugh slips out, soft and disbelieving. There were no declarations of love. Not out loud, anyway. But Mason and I have been circling each other for years. Always just a moment too late. Always one heartbeat shy of something real.

Until now.

I twist the tap and let the water run cold.

Find a half-empty tube of toothpaste in the cabinet, smear some on my finger, and scrub at my tongue until the sour taste of nerves fades.

I close the mirror and let my gaze roam over my face, trying to find any differences.

I feel changed. Like something inside me shifted.

In all the years I wasted on my ex-boyfriend, Jake, he never could satisfy me or make me come. And he wonders why we never had sex.

But Mason? He made me come twice . Once before we had sex, and again in the middle of the night when he pulled me back under him and whispered my name like a secret.

A pleased, petty part of me wants to let Jake know that he was wrong. It wasn't me—it was him .

My thighs ache in a way I didn’t know I’d crave again the second he touched me.

I glance down and gently press my fingers over the tender marks along my inner thighs, faint purplish shadows where his hands gripped me too tightly, too sweetly.

Proof that last night was real. That he wanted me. That I wasn’t dreaming.

I had a couple drinks, but they wore off long before I followed him up to his room. And thank God.

Because I don’t want to forget a single second of the most perfect night of my life.

I’m sore and tender, already wondering if it’s too soon to slip back into his room and crawl into his bed like I belong there.

Because I want to. God , do I want to.

For years, he was the answer to every aching, late-night fantasy I never let myself say out loud.

Until the quarry bonfire, when he leaned too close and said my name like it meant something. Until the way his eyes dragged over my mouth when I laughed at his shitty joke. Until he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and didn’t pull his hand away.

Until I followed him back here and let him kiss me like it would kill him not to.

I grin into the mirror, shaky and high on hope. It wasn’t just sex. Not for me. And based on the way he held me after—how he whispered my name into my skin like a secret—I don’t think it was just sex for him either.

This is something.

It has to be.

I hold on to that belief with both hands, my breath uneven and adrenaline fluttering in my chest like I’m about to step onto a stage.

I open the bathroom door slowly, ears straining. My bare feet make no sound against the hardwood as I move down the hallway, hands smoothing over the fabric of my dress. It’s wrinkled and slightly twisted from where I pulled it back on last night. I didn’t bother putting my shoes back on.

If one of Mason’s roommates sees me, I’ll lose my nerve. But I have to do this. I have to tell him that I love him.

It feels huge. Messy and terrifying and too big for someone who’s only nineteen. But it feels right .

I’m still smiling when I round the corner.

And then I crash into him.

Warm, bare skin. A broad chest that smells like soap and sleep. His hand lands on my hip, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep me from falling. My breath catches.

“Mason.” His name leaves me on a breathy sigh, soft and reverent.

His eyes scan me, slowly. He takes in my hair, still messy from his hands. My bare legs. The lovesick smile I can feel on my mouth.

For one brief second, the world stills.

I wait for that slow grin I know by heart, the one that never quite reaches his eyes but always makes my stomach flip anyway. I expect him to say something low and teasing. Pull me back to bed. Call me sweetheart , like he did last night.

But none of that happens.

His hand drops from my hip like I burned him, and he takes a full step back.

My brows knit. I glance down at myself, half-expecting something to be off. A line of toothpaste on my dress, a mascara smear, a tear in the fabric. Something to explain the sudden distance. But there’s nothing. Just silence loud enough to reverberate in my ears.

“Abby?” His voice is low, rough from sleep. He drags a hand over his face and glances down the hall, then toward the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

The question lands wrong, bouncing around the hallway before dropping at my feet unanswered.

I blink too fast. “What?”

He rubs the back of his neck and shifts his weight, eyes darting away from mine. “Does Beau know you’re here?”

The air thins, and I shuffle backward a step. My mind whirls at the mention of my brother's name, a drop of dread pooling in my stomach.

My fingers twitch, then curl into the hem of my dress. My brows lower over my eyes as I look at him. " Beau ? I don't . . ."

He won't meet my eyes. His shoulders round just slightly, and then he lets out a low sigh, almost like an apology. “Shit. I was really drunk last night.”

Everything inside me stills. For a moment, I think maybe I misheard him. Or that he’s joking. But the longer I look at him, the more he dodges my gaze. Until finally, he meets it. And for the first time ever, I wish he wasn't.

His voice softens and he closes his eyes for a second.

A pained sort of wince flashes across his face before he looks at me once more.

“I don’t remember much after someone started singing Queen at the fire pit.

Did one of the guys . . . ?” he trails off, tilting his head toward the closed bedroom doors of his roommates.

He raises his brows, content to let the leading question swell between us.

"What? No, of course not."

He exhales a low breath and drags his hand through his hair again. His gaze is open, brows crinkling with emotion. "Thank God. I'd hate to have to take a bat to their kneecaps. Or shit, unleash your brother on them."

Dread expands inside me, twining around my ribs and squeezing. "You really don't remember last night?"

He glances toward the hallway before pasting a smile on his face and avoiding my question entirely. But it's all wrong, just like this entire situation. "The annual bonfire strikes again, yeah?"

It takes everything inside of me to breathe through the sharp pain piercing the middle of my chest. Heat prickles across my skin and my eyes feel hot. Shame washes over me like an electric blanket, overheating and too tight.

You are such an idiot , I tell myself. A stupid, silly girl.

I swallow hard and try to bury every uncomfortable emotion strangling me. "Right. I, uh, actually have to go," I blurt out, walking backward.

"Of course, yeah." He blows out a breath and nods. "Abby?"

I pause, my hand gripping the bannister, but I don't turn around. "Yeah?"

"See you at Sunday dinner soon?" His voice is low, quiet.

The reminder steals my breath for a moment, and I have to swallow to clear it. "Yeah, sure.” The only place I want to be less than right here is sitting across from him at my parents' dinner table on a Sunday night.

I keep my head high as I descend the stairs, feeling those same threads of hope shrivel and flake off like something left out too long in the heat. Cracked, weightless, and no longer mine.