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“You’re controlling.”
“You’re chaos.”
We stand inches apart, heat crackling between us. Same damn cycle every time: she provokes, I warn, she ignores, I get close, and suddenly the only thing I can think about is how good she’d taste if I kissed her quiet.
She’s poison.
I’m already addicted.
“You done?” I ask, nodding at the ribbons, plastic skull candles, and glitter cobwebs chaos-spread across my lodge.
She plants her hands on her hips. “Absolutely not. I’m only halfway done. I still have the haunted village to set up by the staircase, pumpkin lights for the hallway, and a fog machine that’s going to bring this dead space to life.”
I look around slowly. “This place doesn’t need life.”
“This place needs therapy.”
“It’s a lodge.”
“It’s a cry for help, Thorne.”
I grit my teeth. “No fog machine.”
“Yes fog machine.”
“No.”
“Watch me.”
She turns to go, and I step forward, catching her wrist—not tight, just enough to stop her. Her pulse kicks under my thumb.
“Why do you keep pushing?” I ask quietly.
She twists to look back at me. “Why do you keep pretending you don’t like it?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth—fast, unintentional—but I see it.
She wants me.
I want her harder.
Too bad I can’t touch her. Because if I do, if I get even one taste, I won’t stop.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
I let go first. I always do. It feels like yanking out one of my own ribs, but I do it.
She walks away.
And I watch her go.
Hours pass.
I chop wood until my shoulders burn and my head clears, but it doesn’t help. She stays lodged too deep beneath my ribs now, stubborn as a splinter.
When I finally head inside again, the scent hits me first.
