The storm had passed by midnight, but Damian Rivera sat awake in the dark, the air in his house still thick with the scent of rain-soaked wood and damp earth. His glass of whiskey sat untouched on the table beside him, ice long melted, amber gone thin and lifeless.
Sleep was out of the question. He hadn't expected otherwise.
She was back.
Elena Vasquez.
The name alone was enough to coil tight in his chest. It had been five years since he'd last seen her, five years since she'd broken him in a way he'd sworn never to allow again. But the second he'd seen her step out of that rental car, her hair plastered to her cheeks from the rain, suitcase dragging behind her it had been as if no time had passed.
The years had stripped her of innocence but sharpened her edges. She was more poised now, her beauty carrying a sophistication that hadn't existed when she was just Rosa's granddaughter, when she was his everything. Manhattan had carved her into something untouchable, but Damian knew better. He'd seen the flicker in her eyes when their gazes locked.
She still wanted him.
And God help him, he still wanted her.
The Restlessness
He leaned forward in the armchair, elbows braced on his knees, staring into the shadows. The whiskey glass mocked him. He didn't need alcohol tonight. What burned through his veins was far more potent.
Restlessness. Hunger. Fury.
He had told himself he would never give her another chance to wound him. He'd built walls around himself, around this house, around the life he'd constructed with his own hands. But walls meant nothing when the enemy was already under his skin.
Damian rubbed his palms over his face, dragging in a harsh breath. The scent of sawdust clung to his hands from the workshop, grounding him, but even that failed tonight. He could still smell her, faintly, as though the storm had carried her fragrance across the yard warm skin, lavender, something sharp beneath it, like city steel.
His body reacted instantly, blood rushing hot and insistent. He cursed under his breath, shifting in the chair, furious with himself.
You're not a boy anymore. You're not hers to command.
But it didn't matter. Because the moment her eyes had widened at the sight of him on that porch, he'd seen everything she tried to hide. Guilt. Longing. Fear.
And it had undone him.
The House Next Door
Through the window, he could see the faint glow of light spilling from Rosa's house. Her house. Elena's house now.
For years, he'd looked at that house and felt the sting of absence. Rosa had been a second mother to him, a steady anchor after his own family fractured. He had gone to her after Elena left, searching for answers Rosa never gave. She'd only looked at him with those wise, tired eyes and said, She'll come back when she's ready. Until then, don't waste your love on ghosts.
But Rosa was gone now. And the ghost had returned.
Damian's jaw clenched as he imagined Elena inside, pacing Rosa's old floors, touching the fabrics in the sewing room, sitting at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a mug.
He shouldn't think about her that way. He had no right. She had forfeited that right the night she left without looking back.
And yet his body didn't listen to reason.
Desire's Betrayal
He rose abruptly, unable to stay seated another moment, and crossed to the kitchen. The hardwood creaked beneath his weight, the sound echoing through the silent house. He poured himself another whiskey, downed it in one swallow, and braced his hands against the counter.
His reflection in the darkened window met his gaze hard eyes, tense shoulders, a man battling himself.
But no amount of discipline could undo the way his body betrayed him.
The memory of her at Club Obsidian hit him in waves: the way she'd looked that night, every inch of her taut with resistance and want. She had been fire wrapped in silk, pretending she didn't burn for him, but her eyes had told the truth.
She had trembled when he leaned in. Her pulse had fluttered against his lips when he whispered her name.
And when she pulled away, it hadn't been rejection. It had been desperation.
Damian's fists tightened on the counter, his knuckles white. His body throbbed with need, an ache that had been denied for too long. He shut his eyes, picturing her pressed against him, her breath catching, her nails dragging down his arms
A low growl escaped his throat. He slammed his fist against the counter, the sound cracking through the silence.
"No," he muttered aloud, teeth clenched. "Not like this."
The Hunt
The storm outside had eased to a drizzle, and the world was quiet now. Too quiet. Damian paced the length of the kitchen, every muscle taut. He was a man built for control, but tonight control slipped through his fingers like smoke.
He wanted to go to her.
The thought alone was dangerous, reckless. To walk across the yard, knock on Rosa's door, and demand that she face him not with excuses, not with fear, but with truth. To force her to admit that she still wanted him, still burned for him.
His body screamed for it. His blood hammered against his ribs.
But he didn't move. Because beneath the hunger, beneath the rage, there was something worse.
Hope.
And hope was more dangerous than desire.
He sank back into the chair, dragging a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. He could almost feel her across the yard, restless as he was, tossing in Rosa's bed, her body betraying her just as much as his betrayed him. The thought both tormented and thrilled him.
They were still bound, whether she admitted it or not. Two predators circling the same cage, waiting for the other to break first.
The Scar
His gaze dropped to his own hand, where faint white lines still marked his knuckles. Scars from the night everything shattered. The crash. The screaming. The promises broken in blood and smoke.
He could still see her, that night, the way she looked at him with wide, terrified eyes, whispering I promise and then walking away, leaving him to choke on the ashes of everything they had built.
That scar wasn't on his hand alone. It was carved into his chest, deep and permanent.
So why, after all these years, did the thought of her still make him hard with want, raw with anger, desperate with need?
Why couldn't he let her go?
The Predator Awake
The clock struck three a.m., but sleep remained an impossible dream. Damian stood again, crossing to the window. Rosa's house was dark now, no glow from within, but he could still feel Elena there.
Her scent clung to the night air. Her presence haunted the silence.
And his body his traitorous, desperate body ached for her as if she had never left.
He pressed a hand flat against the glass, the cold biting his palm, grounding him in the moment. His reflection stared back, eyes shadowed, lips pressed thin. A man on the edge.
"Fight it," he muttered. "You're stronger than this."
But the truth was, he wasn't. Not when it came to her. He never had been.
Because Elena wasn't just a ghost. She was the storm itself, and he had always been the man who wanted to stand in the center of it, even if it destroyed him.
And now she was back.
The predator inside him stirred, stretching awake after five long years of slumber. And Damian knew sooner or later he would go to her.
And when he did, there would be no walls left standing.