Page 23 of Watch Me Burn

“Like what?”

“Like mornings without lies. Without wondering which name I used yesterday. A life where I don’t have to look over my shoulder before I breathe.” I pause, hating how easily it slips out. “I don’t want that to matter. But it does.”

His expression shifts, becoming softer. “And that scares you.”

“Terrifies me.”

A beat of silence. His voice drops. “I want to know something else.”

I tense. “What?”

He leans in, close enough for the air to thicken between us. “Do you even know what you want, Caterina? When there’s no mission, no target—when the mask comes off—what’s left?”

The question slices deep. “I used to think I knew. Revenge. Control. Justice, however I could take it. But lately…”

I look down at my half-empty glass, the flicker of candlelight trembling across the rim.

“I’ve been fighting for so long, I wouldn’t recognize peace if it walked in and sat beside me.”

Aaron doesn’t speak. Just listens. It unsteadies me more than if he’d said something cruel.

“The person Zoe knew, that wasn’t fake.” I force the words out. “The name, the story, sure. But the part of me she saw? That’s real. Just…not all of me.”

“The normal girl beside the killer,” he murmurs. No judgment. Just clarity.

“Not hidden. Just…adjacent.”

He nods, slow. “Parallel possibilities.”

“Exactly.” I glance up, caught off guard by how deeply he understands. “In another life, maybe that version would’ve been enough. Maybe we would’ve met differently.”

“Maybe we wouldn’t have hated each other,” he says, and his eyes drop to my mouth.

Something inside me sparks, wild and hot.

Oh no . This is not happening.

“My turn,” I breathe. “Have you wanted to kiss me again? Since the altar?”

What the hell am I doing?

I’ll blame the whiskey. The storm. The way this moment hums like something about to detonate.

“Why would I want to kiss someone I hate?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I wait for him to back off. To shift away, end it.

He doesn’t move.

“Fine,” I say, pulse hammering. “Your question.”

“Why did you ask me that? About the kiss.”

“Because I’m drunk,” I shoot back—too fast.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Even drunk, you’re calculated. You wanted to know.”

“Maybe I’m just curious.”

I try for nonchalance, but the words land low and choppy, betraying me in their delivery.

“Want to know what it feels like without an audience? No officiant. No performance. Just you and me.”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.” My chest tightens. My heart is racing, blood too warm. Whiskey and want burns under my skin.

Aaron moves even closer, enough for his knee to brush mine.

Thin fabric. Thick fucking tension. Heat rolls off him like it wants inside my skin.

His eyes fall to my mouth again, lingering this time and making my breath catch like a traitor.

“You want to know if it was adrenaline,” he murmurs. “The chaos of the day. Or if it was real.”

“Did it feel dangerous to you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Everything about you feels dangerous.”

His voice doesn’t waver. His focus doesn’t shift. Not once.

He’s close enough now that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

“Good,” I whisper. “It should.”

His hand lowers to the cushion beside my thigh. Not touching. But close enough that I feel the gravity of it like a spark waiting to catch.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he says. Still inching forward.

“Probably not.”

But I don’t move. I won’t. I can’t.

This is insanity. He’s a threat. A liability. A mistake I should’ve never let get this close.

But some sick part of me aches to feel something unscripted.

Something real.

Even if it cuts me open.

“It would be a mistake,” he says, voice lower now, eyes pinned to my mouth.

“The worst mistake.”

His other hand lifts, fingers hovering like he’s afraid touching me might break something.

“So why does it feel inevitable?”

“Because we’re drunk,” I say—barely.

“Because we’re trapped in this fucked-up arrangement.”

“Because we hate each other.”

“Do we?”

What did he just say?

He’s studying me like he already knows the answer.

Fuck.

Then his fingers slide a strand of hair off my cheek, making my body shiver. I hate how easily he reads it.

“The kiss at the altar…” His voice drops, dangerously soft. “It wasn’t just in your head.”

It hits harder than I expect. Like he’s not just admitting it, he’s owning it.

My first instinct is to laugh.

The second is to reach for my knife.

What kind of man confesses that like he’s still the one holding all the power?

“Whatever.”

“Don’t believe me?”

I shake my head. “No. Because if that were true…you wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor every night.”

“You think I’m scared of you?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I reach up and mirror his touch. My fingertips graze his face, skimming the edge of something volatile beneath his skin.

“You’re afraid of this.”

His jaw flexes under my hand. But he doesn’t move away from me.

“There is no this,” he says. “Just proximity. Alcohol. And?—”

“Lies we tell ourselves,” I finish.

Outside, thunder cracks like a warning shot. The storm builds, but in here, silence swells—thick, electric, predatory.

Don’t do it.

But I don’t listen.

Because whatever this is, it’s stronger than common sense.

Then he’s on me. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair—not rough, but sure. Claiming. Anchoring me to him.

His eyes seem conflicted and a little desperate. Not to escape this standstill but for something else?

“Fuck it. Only one way to find out.” His voice sinks into my spine.

I should pull away. I should shut this down.

Instead, I lean in. Lips parting, breath held. Ready to taste the mistake.

And then the world fractures.

Light snaps on, flooding the villa with brutal, sterile brightness. The illusion dies instantly, drowned in cold reality.

We jerk apart like we’ve been caught mid-sin.

Breathless. Guilty. Wrecked.

The space between us pulses, still crackling, but now we’re both staring into the fallout.

“It’s late,” he says stiffly, retreating.

I nod, trying to ignore the aching absence of his touch. “Right. Sleep.”

We move on autopilot—clearing glasses, snuffing candles, pretending none of it mattered. In the bedroom, we avoid each other’s eyes. We don’t speak. We keep to our sides of the bed like strangers wearing borrowed names.

But as I lie there, listening to the storm fade and his breathing slow beside me, my mind won’t stop.

What if the power had stayed out?

What if I’d kissed him?

What if I hadn’t stopped?

The ache in my chest is sharp and infuriating. I’m not supposed to care. Not about him. Not about this.

But I do.

And I hate myself for wishing the lights had never come back on.

Because the truth is, I don’t think I would have stopped.