SCARLETT

The day after he kissed me, I couldn't breathe without feeling it.

It lived on my lips, in my pulse, deep in the heat between my thighs. Every step I took, every glance in the mirror, reminded me of how his mouth had claimed mine, how his hands had crushed me against his body like I already belonged to him.

He thought he could pull away, slam the brakes, pretend it hadn't happened. He thought he could drown it in silence, in distance.

But desire doesn't vanish. It ferments, grows stronger, sharper, until it eats you alive.

And I was starving.

By mid-morning my mother was gone again, flitting off to some lunch or shopping trip. She was all perfume and distraction these days, as if marrying him had turned her into a queen who never had to worry about the kingdom she left behind.

She didn't even kiss me goodbye.

The front door shut, the silence echoing through the house.

I felt it in my bones: today would be different.

I found him in the garage, shirtless, bent over the hood of his car. Grease streaked his shoulder, sweat glistened down his back, tattoos shifting with the pull of his muscles.

For a moment I just stood in the doorway, watching, my breath caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

He must have felt it, the way animals sense being stalked. His head lifted slowly, and when his eyes locked on mine, the air between us thickened.

"Scarlett," he said, his voice rough, low. "You shouldn't be here."

My lips curved into a smile I didn't even mean to wear. "Why not?"

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking. "You know why."

I stepped forward, deliberately slow, the sound of my bare feet soft against the concrete. My dress clung to me in the humid air, thin enough to show the outline of everything underneath.

"Tell me you don't want me," I said, my voice almost a whisper.

His silence burned hotter than words.

I reached up seductively, laid my hand against his chest. His skin was hot, slick with sweat, the ink of his tattoos alive under my palm. His heart pounded hard, fast, betraying him.

He caught my neck. His grip was tight, almost bruising. "Don't do this."

"Then stop me."

Something inside him snapped.

The kiss hit me like a storm.

He crushed his mouth to mine, devouring, hungry, savage. My back slammed against the hood of the car, his body pinning me in place as if he couldn't bear even an inch of space between us.

I moaned into him, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the sweat-slick muscle. He growled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against my lips, against my skin.

His hands roamed-my waist, my thighs, pushing my dress higher with reckless urgency. His mouth left mine only to travel down my neck, biting, sucking, marking me as if he needed the proof.

"Fuck, Scarlett," he muttered against my skin. "You're going to ruin me."

"Then let me," I whispered, arching into him, begging without shame.

He lifted me suddenly, setting me on the workbench, tools scattering across the floor with a metallic crash. His hand slid under the thin fabric of my panties, fingers pressing against the heat he had made unbearable.

I gasped, bucking against him, the sound echoing in the garage.

"You're so wet for me," he rasped, his breath ragged. "God, you've wanted this."

"Yes," I moaned, shameless, trembling. "Yes."

Clothes disappeared in frantic pieces. My dress is on the floor. His jeans shoved down, he massaged his cock with his spit. His body against mine, skin to skin, heat to heat.

When he pressed his huge cock into my little hole, I cried out, Ahh I could feel it reaching my ovaries. The sharp sting stealing my breath. His jaw clenched, his forehead pressed to mine as though he could hold me together through the pain.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice breaking.

"Yes," I breathed, clutching at him, nails raking down his back. "Don't stop."

And he didn't.

The rhythm built, wild and relentless, the garage filled with the sound of us-our breaths, our moans, the slap of skin. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, begging for more with every broken cry that left my lips. I was both feeling pain and pleasure at the same time.

The world narrowed to this: his cock inside mine, his hands gripping me like I was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

When I shattered around him, it was like falling off a cliff, wave after wave crashing through me until I was sobbing into his shoulder. He followed with a guttural groan, his body shaking as he poured into me, holding me tight as if letting go would kill him.

After, we stayed tangled together, bodies slick, chests heaving. The air was thick with sweat, oil, and the sharp, forbidden scent of sex.

He pulled back finally, his eyes dark, unreadable. "This can't happen again."

But even as he said it, his hand lingered on my thigh, his thumb stroking circles against my skin, his lips brushing mine in a softer kiss that tasted like surrender.

We both knew it wasn't the last time.

I crept back upstairs later, I couldn't feel my legs any more. His cock was so massive, my body sore in places that throbbed deliciously with the memory of him. News flash my little hole wasn't little anymore it felt like it was dug into.

I lay on my bed in silence, staring at the ceiling, replaying it all-the way he'd groaned my name, the way he'd buried himself in me like he never wanted to leave.

I had given him everything.

And I would give it again.

Even if it meant burning my mother out of the picture.

Because now he wasn't just her lover.

He was mine.

The scent of him clung to me sweat, oil, sex. My skin still burned where his hands had held me, where his teeth had grazed me, where his body had filled mine.

I pressed my fingers to my swollen lips and smiled, though it trembled with something wild and dangerous.

I had crossed the line.

No, we had crossed it. Together.

And no matter what he said, no matter how many times he tried to insist it couldn't happen again, I knew the truth.

Once you taste sin, you can't spit it back out.

That night at dinner, I couldn't stop staring at him.

He sat across from my mother, nodding along to her chatter about some store she'd visited, but his eyes flicked to me when she wasn't looking. Just for a second. Just long enough to make my stomach clench and my thighs press together under the table.

His expression was tight, guarded, but the heat in his gaze betrayed him.

I tilted my spoon into my mouth slowly, deliberately, letting my tongue drag against it in a seductive manner. His jaw flexed.

My mother didn't notice a thing.

It was intoxicating.

Later, when the house went quiet and my mother's door clicked shut, I lay in bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Every sound made me ache. Every creak of the floorboards made my pulse quicken with hope.

Would he come?

Would he dare?

The minutes dragged into hours. I couldn't take it anymore.

Slipping from bed, I padded barefoot into the hall, my heart hammering against my ribs. The light under his door was faint, but it was there.

He was awake.

I didn't knock. I pushed the door open slowly, holding my breath.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, shirtless again, jeans slung low on his hips. He looked up sharply when he saw me.

"Scarlett," he hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"

I closed the door behind me, the soft click of the lock echoing like a gunshot.

"I couldn't sleep." My voice was low, trembling, but not from fear. From hunger.

He stood, tension coiling in his body. "You can't be here."

I took a step closer. Then another. Until my chest brushed his.

"Then tell me to leave," I whispered.

His hands hovered at my arms, not pushing me away, not pulling me closer. His eyes burned into mine, and I saw the war raging inside him.

"You're playing with fire," he said hoarsely.

"Then burn me."

His restraint broke.

One second he was fighting it, the next his mouth was on mine, crushing, devouring. His hands slammed into my hair, pulling me back as his tongue slid into my mouth, and I moaned into him, already dizzy.

We stumbled back onto the bed, his weight pressing me into the sheets, his body caging me in.

"This is the last time," he groaned against my lips, already tugging at my nightshirt, ripping it over my head.

"You've said that before," I gasped, arching into him.

His laugh was dark, broken. "God help me."

And then there were no more words, only skin, only heat, only the reckless, forbidden rhythm of him hitting my hole from the back.

When I finally collapsed against him, body limp, lungs burning, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.

I belonged to him now.

And I didn't care what it cost.

Not even if it meant eliminating my mother. Fuck I should make plans for that soonest. The earlier the better.

SCARLETT

The sound of glass breaking woke me before dawn.

For a moment I thought it was a dream. Then came the voices my mother's sharp and jagged, Damien's low and simmering. I slid out of bed and crept to the top of the stairs, heart hammering.

"...not your concern," Damien said, his voice like a warning growl.

"It becomes my concern when you always disappear half the night!" my mother snapped back.

I pressed against the wall, holding my breath. The hallway smelled faintly of wine and something darker anger hanging heavy in the air. Another crash followed, a second glass shattering on tile.

I should have gone back to my room. Instead I stayed, listening, a strange thrill moving through me with every raised voice. They were unraveling, and each frayed thread felt like a door cracking open.

Damien's footsteps thundered across the kitchen. "I told you I needed space, Maria. You never listen."

Silence, thick and dangerous.

When he finally emerged into the hallway, I froze. His shirt hung half-buttoned, his hair a restless mess. He stopped when he saw me. For a heartbeat we just stared at each other. The house was so quiet I could hear the ticking clock in the living room.

His eyes storm-dark flicked to the broken glass glittering behind him, then back to me. No words. No excuses. Just a look that burned and warned all at once.

I swallowed hard. "Are you... are you okay?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Go back to bed, Scarlett."

I didn't move.

Something unreadable passed through his expression that was regret, maybe, or something far more dangerous. Then he turned and walked past me, the faint scent of smoke and whiskey trailing after him.

When the front door slammed, the house seemed to exhale. My mother muttered curses in the kitchen, but I barely heard. My pulse still raced from that single look.

Downstairs, shards of crystal glittered on the floor. That was the broken glasses. I tiptoed into the kitchen and crouched, running my finger along a piece until a bead of blood welled up. The sting felt real in a way nothing else did.

Maybe everything really was starting to break.

Maybe that was exactly what I needed.

Back in my room, I lay awake until the first thin light of morning bled through the curtains. Just as I drifted toward sleep, my phone buzzed.

One message.

We need to talk. Tomorrow. Alone.

My breath caught. I was so curious.

Tomorrow.

Alone.

I pressed the phone to my chest, the tiny cut on my finger throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I should have felt fear. Instead, anticipation spread through me like fire.

The rest of the night stretched like a wire pulled too tight.

I tried to sleep, but every sound in the house sharpened my nerves the groan of floorboards, the faint hum of the refrigerator, my mother's restless pacing below. Each creak felt like my secret trying to claw its way out.

When the clock read 3:17 a.m., I gave up. I slipped out of my bed and stood at the window. Streetlights cast long shadows across the yard. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, lonely and insistent. Damien's truck wasn't in the driveway.

My phone burned against my palm. I read his message again. We need to talk. Tomorrow. Alone.

Tomorrow suddenly felt centuries away.

I wandered to the hallway and sat at the top of the stairs. From the kitchen came the soft scrape of a chair. My mother. Still awake.

She muttered to herself, low and uneven. A faint clink of glass followed. Pouring another drink. I pictured the broken shards still on the floor and the blood-red wine soaking into the grout. A crime scene without a crime.

A strange calm settled over me. If they kept fighting, if she kept drinking, the house would eventually swallow itself whole. And I would just... be there. Waiting.

The front door opened at 4:06 a.m.

Damien stepped inside quietly, but I heard him anyway. He paused when he saw me on the stairs. We stayed like that me on the stairs, and him at the door silent as the house held its breath.

"You should be asleep," he said finally, voice rough.

"So should you," I whispered back.

His eyes flicked toward the kitchen where my mother still moved. "We'll talk tomorrow. Not now."

I nodded, though every part of me wanted to ask why wait? He lingered one heartbeat longer, then climbed the stairs past me. His sleeve brushed my arm a whisper of warmth that set my skin alight.

When he disappeared into the dark hallway, I stayed where I was, gripping the banister until my knuckles whitened.

Tomorrow. Alone.

The promise coiled inside me like a living thing.

Morning sunlight slices across my room long before I'm ready for it. I haven't slept. Every time I closed my eyes I heard the echo of Damien's voice-Tomorrow. Alone.

Downstairs, the house is too quiet. No clinking dishes, no low murmur of my mother on the phone. Just the hiss of the coffeemaker.

I move carefully, like sound itself might betray me. The kitchen smells of strong coffee and last night's wine. My mother is gone. A note rests against the sugar jar. Early meeting. Back late.

My heart skipped hard. Alone.

I don't have to wonder long. A soft knock rattles the back door. When I open it, Damien stands there, hair damp from a shower, a hoodie thrown over a white T-shirt. He looks like he hasn't slept either but I don't care.

"We need to talk," he says, low and steady.

I step aside to let him in, the air between us charged.

He didn't sit. He paces once, then stops. "Last night got out of hand. Your mom and I..." He shakes his head. "She's drinking too much. I don't know how to fix it."

He's trying to sound calm, but I hear the crack in his voice. I fold my arms, more for balance than defense.

"She's not the only one breaking things," I say before I can stop myself.

He looks at me sharply, something unreadable in his eyes. "Scarlett, whatever's happening between us-"

"There is something," I cut in.

Silence. Only the soft drip of coffee into the carafe.

He exhales, long and heavy. "That's exactly the problem."

For a heartbeat we just stand there, the words we're not saying filling every inch of space. I could feel the house listening, the walls holding their breath.

He finally steps back. "I can't-" He stops, starts again. "We can't let this get worse." I don't even know how we got to this extend. This is thing between us is an abomination and I can't continue.

"Then why are you here?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Damien closes his eyes, jaw tight. "Because I had to see you."

The admission hangs between us like a spark looking for dry wood.

Before either of us could speak again, a car door slams outside. My mother's car. Early.

Damien's eyes snap open. "Later," he says, already moving toward the back door. "We'll finish this later."

He slips out just as the front door opens and my mother's footsteps echo through the hall. I stood in the kitchen, heart pounding, the smell of coffee and danger mingling in the morning light.

I said to myself " Here comes the witch" in a mother's clothing.