When I opened them again, a wild stallion had broken away from the herd, galloping along the neat edge where surf met sand, its black mane a banner of defiance.
I envied its freedom and rawness, its refusal to be tamed by anything or anyone.
The wind, muscles, and salt were all it needed to exist. I craved that kind of clarity. Self-contained and wild, not endlessly dependent on the affirmations and attentions of others.
I started walking along the shore, squinting into the sun, my hands thrust into my jacket pockets. The sand was loose, each step a shallow sinking.
My mind wandered to Caiden, to the kiss, to the way he had peered into me as if he was desperate to memorize the shape of my pain and carry it for himself.
The darkness in him threatened to drown us both, but for a moment I had felt it: the safety in his abyss, the promise that if I fell, he’d reach into the depths and catch me.
I hated myself for turning away, and I hated myself for giving in. A small part of me wanted to go back to that moment and see what would happen if I let myself be consumed by Caiden Baxter.
15
CAIDEN
I awokein the middle of the night, sweating from another bad dream. I quietly crept out of the room, needing some fresh air.
It was past midnight, and everybody was asleep.
What stopped me, though, from walking out the sliding balcony door was the light on in the kitchen.
Curiously, I followed the light and peered in to see Amelia bent over in front of the fridge.
She was barefoot, one palm braced against the open door, posture lazy and loose in a way that made my mind go blank for a full three seconds.
Her shorts were wedged up tight, riding high enough that half her ass was on display. I had to clamp my teeth together to keep from making a fucking noise.
Amelia was oblivious to how feral she looked, how easy it would be to just close the space and take her, right there on the floor.
Sweat prickled under my collar.
I stood frozen in the doorway, every cell in my fucked-up body ready to bolt or to pounce. Impossible to say which.
My fists curled. Something in me broke open, a low hunger grinding through my nerves and settling deep in my lungs.
I remembered the taste of her, the air between our mouths on the ferry, how her body had fit so perfectly under my hands. I remembered the way she’d let go, just for a second, and the noise she’d made when I pressed her to the railing.
That sound replayed, louder and louder, until I ached.
She straightened, arms full of a bottle of water and some snacks, and caught me in the doorway. Her hair was wild, cheeks flushed from the cold, and for a second she just stared, as if she’d been expecting me all along.
“I didn’t think anyone else was up,” she whispered, voice hoarse with sleep.
I shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
The way she stood there—open, unguarded, shivering in nothing but that paper-thin white shirt and pathetic blue shorts—made me want to ruin her.
She was almost see-through, her nipples dark against the cotton, and the curve where her waist met the band of her shorts was a map of every place I’d wanted to touch since I was a kid, since before I knew what it meant to want like this.
I couldn’t even look at her directly; I stared at her feet, the pale milky ankles, the flex in her calf muscle. But I could still see the rest. I could see everything.
She knew it, too. She always knew.
I said nothing for a long time. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the faint, arrhythmic stutter of my pulse.
Amelia didn’t retreat or cover up. For a heartbeat, we were both animals. I was the wolf at the edge of the clearing, and she’s the rabbit who didn’t know if she wanted to run or be taken down.
