Page 25 of The Viper
We hit our cues, the camera rolling. My bare feet pressed against the worn planks of the dock, the breeze teasing at my dress. The scene called for longing—a look across the water, a soft line of dialogue, a hand on his chest that wasn’t supposed to linger but always did.
I delivered the line, whispered, “You make it hard to leave.”
Benji’s hand closed around mine, steady and professional, but his eyes twinkled. “Then don’t.”
“Cut!” Franklin barked. “Perfect. We’ll get coverage.”
The crew scattered like startled birds. Makeup swooped in with powder, sound adjusted my mic, someone shouted for silence near the generator. The normal chaos of a film set—beautiful in its rhythm, predictable in its noise.
And through all of it, Lucas didn’t move.
He stayed at the edge of the platform, a shadow cut from muscle and restraint. Neutral stance. But I could feel him watching. Not ogling. Assessing. The difference between lust and awareness was thin as silk, and he lived right on that line.
I turned toward him under the pretense of fixing my hair, letting my eyes find his for just a heartbeat.
There it was again—that flicker. Recognition. Connection. The barest tilt of his chin, like he knew I knew.
Then nothing.
He looked away, hands clasped behind his back, the perfect picture of professionalism.
And it made me want to ruin it.
As the day wore on, the heat wrapped around the set like a wet towel. Franklin ordered umbrellas and fans. Wardrobe rushed to blot sweat from my collarbone. Hannah shoved a bottle of coconut water into my hand like I might die without it.
Lucas didn’t seem to notice the heat. He stood off to the side, scanning the crowd, calm.
I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Need something, Lexi?” Franklin asked, distracted by his monitor.
“Water break,” I said, before anyone could stop me.
I walked toward the shade where Lucas stood. He noticed me coming, of course—he probably noticed the breeze before it arrived. But he didn’t speak until I was right in front of him.
“Everything all right?” he asked, voice low, rough.
The sound of it slid down my spine.
“Perfect,” I said. “You’re very … good at standing still.”
His mouth twitched. “It’s part of the job.”
“Is it? Watching me all day?”
“Protecting you,” he corrected.
I tilted my head. “From what?”
He hesitated, then said, “You’d be surprised.”
That should have chilled me. Instead, it felt like a spark to dry tinder. “Maybe I’d like a surprise.”
He looked at me for a long moment. His gaze wasn’t invasive—it was deliberate. Controlled. Like he was searching for my tells and finding too many.
“I don’t think you’d like this kind,” he said finally.
I smiled, slow and practiced. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
