The roar of the shoreline was louder over here—the churning sound of the tide mixed with the screech of oversized tires and the high-pitched whine of modified engines tearing through the wet sand. It was a chaotic, dirty symphony of salt and exhaust.
I reached the edge of the washrooms and took a deep breath, trying to shake the image of Dominic standing in that hallway, his hand frozen and his eyes burning with a fury I couldn’t quite name.
Pushing into the washroom, the single light hums overhead as I splashed cold water on my face. The salt air had made my skin feel tight, but it was nothing compared to the weird twist in my gut. I leaned against the sink, closing my eyes, but the dark behind my eyelids just played back the moment the papers hit the floor.
I stayed there until I could breathe again, then pushed back out into the night.
The timber door hadn't even finished swinging shut when a hand clamped around my upper arm. Before I could even draw breath to scream, I was yanked back, my back hitting the rough wood of the building’s side as I was pulled into the black around the corner.
"What kind of games are you playing at?"
The voice was a low rasp. My heart hammered against my ribs, but the fear evaporated the second I heard him.
"Dominic?" I hissed, my eyes adjusting to the dark. He was looming over me, all hard edges and fractured light. "Are you insane? You almost gave me a heart attack."
"I asked you a question," he snapped, his fingers tightening just a fraction on my arm. He was too close, his intensity cutting through the damp ocean breeze. "Why are you out here? Why are you leading my brother on?"
I blinked, the confusion hitting me first. "Leading him on? We’re at the beach, Dominic. He asked me to see the sunset. It’s not a conspiracy."
"It’s a distraction," he snarled, leaning into my space until I could feel the erratic thud of his own heart. "He doesn't need you in his head. What’s this for you? A set-up? Do you just need to have every Valerio man in your pocket?"
The air left my lungs as if he’d punched me. I stared at him, my head tilting back as a short, twisted laugh broke out of me—sharp and devoid of any humor.
"Every Valerio man?" I repeated, the words tasting like poison. I shoved at his chest, yanking my arm out of his grip with enough force to make me stumble. "Is that what you think? That I’m just trying to collect everyone in your family for the fun of it?"
I stepped back, my chest heaving, searching his face for a flicker of something—regret, shame, anything. I get nothing."You really have a short memory, don't you? Because as far as I can recall, the count is still sitting at one. And I’m starting to realize that was one too many."
Dominic didn’t flinch. If anything, he stilled completely, the kind of stillness that felt more dangerous than any reaction. He didn’t look hurt; he looked like he’d sealed something off mid-impact. A sharp, dry scoff slipped out, his gaze cutting past me for a second before snapping back, focus too exact.
"Is that right?" he asked, his voice a flat, dangerous monotone. "Well, at least we’re finally on the same page about something."
I took a step toward the light of the parking lot, my skin crawling with an anger that made my hands shake. "You’re unbelievable. You’re so wrapped up in your own head that you think the entire world is revolving around your family's namesake."
"Carter, wait—"
I didn't stop. I couldn't. I started walking, my shoes sinking into the loose sand.
"Carter!"
He was behind me in two strides. I felt his hand reach for me again, but this time it wasn't a yank. His fingers brushed against my wrist, cautious and hovering, before settling there with a lightness that felt foreign coming from him.
My feet stopped but didn't turn around as he rounded me.
"I didn't mean it like that," he muttered. The edge was gone from his voice, replaced by something low and strained, like he was forcing the words out through a closed throat.
My focus shifted down at where his hand touched my skin. He wasn't gripping me, but his fingers were trembling—just a tiny, rhythmic pulse against my wrist that he couldn't seem to stop.
I didn't soften. If anything, the gentleness felt like a bigger insult than the shouting. I pulled my hand away slowly, themovement deliberate, putting distance between us. I didn't look at him, but I felt the way he flinched when the contact broke.
Tell me why I noticed that,I thought, a bitter pulse of irritation hitting me. I should’ve been focused on the sting of his words, not the way the air seemed to drain from the area the second he lost his grip on me.
I started to walk away, but the image of him in the hallway flashed behind my eyes—the way his fingers had just... quit. The way he’d looked at his own hand like it belonged to a stranger. I stopped, the air stinging my lungs, and turned back before I could talk myself out of it.
"What happened earlier?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. “Back at the practice facility.”
He stiffened, his shoulders squaring, going blank in a way that felt intentional. "I told you. The humidity. My grip slipped."
"Don't give me that," I said, taking a step toward him. I wasn't looking for a confession to hold over him; I just needed to understand why the person I’d spent months living nearby had just broken in front of me. "I saw your face. Your hand—it didn't just slip. It went dead. For a second, you weren't even there."
