That’s when Damien’s hand slides to my jaw.
There’s no warning — just his mouth on mine, warm and sure, stealing my breath before I can think. His thumb strokes my cheek, tilting my head so the kiss deepens, his other hand finding the small of my back and pulling me against him.
It’s not soft. It’s not polite. It’s claiming.
I can taste the wine on his lips, feel the steady thump of his heart against my chest, and for a dizzying second, I forget that this is supposed to be for show.
When he pulls back, my lips are tingling and my knees feel unsteady. Damien’s eyes stay on mine, but I catch the flicker ofsomething in his expression — satisfaction, maybe — as Colton turns away and gets into his car without another word.
The drive back is quiet, but not empty. Every time I shift in my seat, I can feel the ghost of his hands on me, and I know this isn’t just about selling the lie anymore.
Chapter Thirteen
Damien
The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, squeaky arcs, clearing away the light mist that’s started to fall. The air in the cab is heavy, quiet except for the low hum of the engine.
“That was for him,” she says suddenly, her voice sharper than the rain.
I glance at her. “What?”
“That kiss. You didn’t do it for me. You did it to get under Colton’s skin.”
Her cheeks are still flushed, her eyes bright in the passing glow of the streetlights. She’s not wrong that Colton saw every second — but she’s dead wrong if she thinks that’s the only reason I did it.
“You think I’d—”
“Iknowyou would,” she cuts in, her tone like a whip crack. “You’ve been at each other’s throats since before I met you, and I don’t want to be part of it. I never want to feel like I’m some pawn in whatever twisted game you two are playing.”
I keep my eyes on the road, my grip tightening on the wheel. I should let it go. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But the words stick under my skin like splinters.
I bite back the first thing that comes to mind and keep my voice level, even though it’s a damn effort. “This is what you wanted, Lyla. A fake relationship. We agreed to sell it.”
“I didn’t agree tothat,” she snaps, twisting in her seat to face me. “There’s a difference between playing the part and… whatever that was.”
Her words hit harder than they should, but I don’t look at her. “So what do you want from me? Kiss you? Don’t kiss you? You tell me the rules.”
“The rules?” She lets out a sharp laugh that has zero humor in it. “I want you to stop using me to fight your battles.”
I flick my eyes toward her then, catching the defiance in her stare. “And I want you to stop assuming you know why I do what I do.”
Her mouth presses into a hard line, and she turns to face the window again. The silence that follows feels thick enough to choke on.
We turn onto my street just as a streak of lightning slices the sky, white-hot against the dark. The thunder follows seconds later, a deep, rolling growl that makes the windows vibrate.
Beside me, Lyla flinches. Not just a startle — her shoulders tense, her breath hitches, and she curls in on herself like she’s bracing for a hit.
I pull into the driveway, cutting the engine. Rain starts pattering against the hood, the rhythm quickening. Another flash, another rumble.
Her fingers are clenched in her lap, knuckles pale.
“Lyla.”
She doesn’t look at me. “It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. I saw it the night Aaron died, when the storm was so loud you could barely hear your own voice over the roof.
I lean closer. “We can fight later. Right now, I want to show you something.”
