Page 59 of Bitter When He Begs

“Do you know how easy it would’ve been?” I finally say. “To pull him in. To lose myself in him and pretend I’m not still trying to rebuild whatever the hell’s left of me?”

“Yeah,” Damon says. “I do.”

I nod, letting the silence stretch a little before I keep going. “But I didn’t.”

He looks proud, but he doesn’t say that. Damon knows better than to give me that kind of praise too fast. He just nods. “That’s fucking hard, man. Really hard. Especially when the thing you want the most is right there, handing himself to you.”

I close my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. “He said… he said he was worried about me.”

“And that’s the problem?” Damon asks.

“No,” I say. “That’s the part that fucked with me because I’m not something he should be worrying about. Not after everything I did to him.”

I can feel the weight of what I just admitted settle between us. The part where it stopped being about lust or control or ego a long time ago and became something I’m not sure I’m ready for.

“I feel like shit,” I mutter.

“Yeah. That’s how you know it matters.”

We sit there in silence for a long moment. Damon doesn’t push. He never does. He justis—this solid, unflinching presence that somehow makes it easier to breathe.

He claps a hand on my shoulder. “You did good, Devereaux.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t start with the motivational bullshit.”

“I’m not. I’m just telling you, as the guy who’s seen you puke in your sleep and scream your lungs out during withdrawal—this is the most together I’ve seen you in weeks.”

I hate that he’s right.

I hate that I care this much about one fucking boy with big eyes and too much attitude.

But mostly, I hate that I’m scared to let myself want something good.

Damon stands, tossing the spare key onto my bed. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, but—Luca?” I glance up. “I’m proud of you, even if you’re still kind of a dick.”

I snort. “Takes one to know one.”

His mouth twitches in a rare smile before he heads for the door. “Damon?” I call out before he disappears.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t say anything, he just nods once and slips out, leaving me alone again—but not as hollow as before. I stretch out on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and let myself feel it.

All of it.

The burn in my chest, the ache in my bones, and the craving for something I can’t have yet.

But I’ll figure it out. Because I didn’t pick up tonight. I didn’t self-destruct. I stopped myself before it got too far.

And that’s gotta mean something.

Right?

Luca

Killiandoesn’tknockwhenhe wants something—he doesn’t ask, doesn’t suggest, doesn’t wait. He just tells you, and you’re supposed to fall in line. That’s how it’s always been with him.

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