I scream.
The sound tears from my throat—feral, dying. Everyone at the dock must hear me.
“I hate this!” It echoes until my voice melds with the falls.
Years of smiling, nodding, being good—bleeding out of me like an open wound.
Let them hear. I’m done.
I don’t notice Dante until he’s there at the edge. Watching. His gold eyes steady on mine.
He sees everything. Always seems to.
“Reese, you’re in the water,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather and not witnessing my breakdown.
The falls pound against me, soaking my hair and clothes. The cold brings clarity now, not panic. What remains of my costume clings like a second skin as the current pulls at my legs.
He walks through the downpour until he’s before me.
His gaze isn’t concerned or pitying—it’s just my own reflection.
For the first time since landing this role, I’m not auditioning for my own life. That’s how it feels with him.
He was right. Something wild in me begs for both release and control.
I look at him—steady, firm—nights of temptation and fantasies rushing all at once as my heart forgets its rhythm.
Not from fear. From something dangerous and inevitable.
I have nothing left to lose. Not even my hard-earned control.
No excuses. No job to protect. No directors to dodge.
Whoever catches us, it doesn’t matter. Felix already spread his filth about me to the crew.
“I’m in the water,” I repeat, the falls pounding against my back. What I hope he hears:I’m not afraid.
I’m done playing good.
Because being a good girl consumes you whole. It smothers and suffocates. Devours you from within until nothing remains but a hollow shell of pleasing smiles and careful words.
And right now? I want to tear my perfect life apart with my teeth.
Dante’s eyes catch mine through the water’s curtain. Dark. Intent. Burning. He drags me into that liminal space between fury and freedom with his gaze.
The boundary I dance along whenever we’re together.
I crave danger.
I need to ignite.
My body moves before my brain catches up. I clutch his shirt—fabric bunching between my fingers like salvation—and crash my mouth against his.
I kiss Dante Hastings.
Nothing gentle exists here. It’s all teeth and tongue and weeks of raw wanting.
He answers instantly, violently. His hands brand my skin through soaked clothes, lifting me effortlessly, strong fingers digging into my thighs as my legs instinctively lock around his waist.
