Page 32 of Bitter When He Begs

Sage isn’t even bothered.

His hoodie is still slightly rumpled from where Damien had his hands on him, his lips swollen, his cheeks flushed, his glasses slightly askew like he’s been kissed within an inch of his life. He’s just standing there like this is fine, like he’s fine, like I’m nothing more than some inconvenience he has to brush off.

I hate him for it.

I hate him for making me feel like this.

I hate him for making me fucking care.

Sage raises an eyebrow, completely unimpressed, then he looks back at Damien, tilting his head toward the front door. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

My whole body locks up.

I watch as Damien gives me one last confusing look before nodding, sliding an arm around Sage’s waist, pulling him away and walking out of this party with my fucking property like he has the right.

The brat wants a reaction, he wants me to snap. So I don’t give it to him. Instead, I turn on my heel, let out a breath through my nose, and head upstairs, straight toward the couple I left waiting for me.

The guy raises an eyebrow when I walk in, the girl tilts her head, but I don’t waste time explaining.

I grab the girl first, pull her against me, kiss her like I need to get this fucked up feeling out of my system, like I need to wipe the image of Sage out of my fucking brain. Then I pull the guyin too, gripping the back of his neck, dragging him close, sinking my teeth into his lower lip until he groans against my mouth.

I try. I swear I fucking try. But nothing about it feels good.

Their hands are on me, their mouths are warm, they moan when I touch them, they let me take, but it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s not him.

It’s not his mouth, his little sounds, his fingers digging into my skin, his bratty fucking attitude melting into desperation the second I really put my hands on him. And that’s when I realize, the whole night, the win, the booze, the pills, the high—

None of it fucking mattered. Not when he could take it away in a second. Not when he could strip it all down, leave me raw and furious, and make me ache in a way that no drug has ever done before.

And fuck, I hate it.

So I finish up quick, leave them tangled together in the sheets, barely sparing them a glance as I grab my hoodie off the floor and head the fuck out.

The drive home is a blur of frustration, my hands gripping the wheel too tightly, and my entire body thrumming with unrestrained fury.

And when I push open the front door, the house is quiet except for a few murmured voices from the kitchen. I think I can finally breathe, I think I can finally let it go, until I hear the creak of a bed frame when I walk up the stairs, and I freeze. I exhale slowly, slow enough that my breath shakes as I listen, my pulse a steady fucking roar in my ears.

Then I hear a moan, and remember Damien’s room isn’t far from mine.

I clench my fists so hard my knuckles pop. My jaw grinds as I stand there, breathing deep, dragging a hand down my face, and trying to shove down the white-hot rage rising in my chest as Iturn away and move toward my own room, slamming the door behind me.

But even when I throw myself onto my bed, even when I bury my face in my pillow, even when I clench my jaw so fucking tight it hurts, I still hear him. Still hear every gasp, every choked-off moan, every fucking sound he makes for someone else and it fucking kills me.

So, I just lie there and listen to Damien wrecking what’s mine.

Luca

Themorningairiscrisp and biting against my skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire still burning in my veins.

My lungs ache, my muscles scream, but the run helps—it always does. The rhythmic pounding of my feet against the pavement, the sharp inhale-exhale of my breath, the sheer physicality of moving until my body is too exhausted to crave anything but air.

It’s the only thing that helps when the withdrawals creep in, when the itch beneath my skin gets too much and my head gets too fucking loud.

Julian and Eli trail behind me as we jog up to the house, both breathing hard but looking a hell of a lot fresher than I feel.

“Didn’t think you’d actually keep up today, Devereaux,” Julian teases, shaking out his arms as he stretches. “Thought you’d be too busy still nursing your hangover.”

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