Chapter 125: Madeline
I take the quickest shower of my life—scalding water, a palm of shampoo, salt and sand swirling down the drain. I scrub until my skin smells like vanilla and hazelnut instead of ocean and sunscreen, then towel off fast and slip into my dress. My shoulders and nose are dusted with brand-new freckles from the day; my hair, left to its own devices, is full of stubborn, salt-born curls. I swipe on a little mascara—one coat, done.
I’m relieved to have fabric back on my body. Being that bare next to them did something reckless to me—made my brain go quiet and my body want to fold, to submit, to let them tell me exactly what they wanted and obey. Both of them. And I cannot think about Reid like that. I said I would keep my distance. I am clearly failing.
I pad downstairs.
Jake’s on the couch.
All black—open cardigan over a fitted shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms, watch glinting at his wrist, an ease to the way he sits that reads like power. Dark, composed, man. I stop on the last step without meaning to, breath catching; my mouth actually parts.
His gaze drags over me slowly, once, then again, head tilting like he’s committing the sight to memory. “Come here,” he says—same tone as the other night. Quiet. Not a request.
This time I barely hesitate. I cross the room. He shifts, opens his legs wider so I fit between his knees, and then his hands are at the backs of my thighs again, heavier than before—warm and sure, like he’s bracing me there. Air thins. My pulse stutters.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
Heat climbs my neck to my cheeks. “Thank you,” I manage, voice soft.
His eyes — darker now, like the tide before a storm — don’t move. I can feel him looking.
So I do what anyone would do under that gaze: I look for a distraction. “Where’s Reid?”
Jake only tips his chin past my shoulder.
I glance back—and nearly jump. Reid is right there, silent as shadow, stepping up behind me with my shoes dangling from one hand. Where the hell did he come from?
Jake turns me gently with pressure from his hands—spins me to face Reid but keeps his hold on my thighs, anchoring me in place. I take Reid in fast—black crew, clean lines, the same relentless calm as Jake but cut a fraction sharper. Breathtaking, in a way that makes my ribs feel too small.
Jake tugs, and I’m suddenly in his lap—weightless for a second, then seated, his arm banding around my waist to steady me. Reid crouches in front of us, close enough that I can see the dark sweep of his lashes, the way a vein stands in his forearm as he works. He lifts my ankle with one hand, slides the shoe on with the other—precise, careful, like he’s done this a thousand times for someone else and somehow it still feels like only me. The second shoe follows; the brief brush of his knuckles against my skin that sends a sparking line up my calf.
He doesn’t move away immediately. He looks up at me from where he’s crouched, then reaches to tuck a damp curl behind my ear—just his knuckle against my temple, feather-light. “Jake’s right,” he says, voice low enough that it seems to hum through my bones. “You’re beautiful.”
I forget how to breathe. Jake’s palm curves higher on my thigh now. Reid’s breath skims my cheek. Two points of heat, one in front, one beneath me; their attention pins me in place until everything I thought I knew about sense and rules and distance burns off like mist.
“Let’s go,” Reid says at last, straightening, the words a mercy and a promise. “We’ll be late.”
Jake gives my leg a last, slow squeeze before releasing me. I stand on unsteady legs; Reid offers a hand without thinking, and I take it because my body does before my brain can argue.
I nod—speechless—and follow them out the door, the cool evening air hitting my cheeks, my heartbeat still pounding against the places their hands were and deep, low in my core.
It takes me a few minutes — maybe more — to pull myself together. To breathe like a normal person again. Even once we’re outside, the cool air doesn’t help. If anything, it makes everything worse — because walking between them like this, on the quiet, dark street, feels like walking into something I don’t come back from.
At the beach, they looked human. Warm. Laughing. Sunlight in their hair, salt on their skin. The kind of men who could make you forget where you end and the day begins.
But now—
Now they look nothing like that.
Now, dressed head to toe in black, with the faint shine of metal at their wrists and the quiet, heavy rhythm of their steps against the pavement, they look otherworldly. Like two dark angels walking out of the night. Like men sent to take you somewhere you’d never be found again.
Reid’s stride is smooth, precise, every step deliberate, his gaze fixed straight ahead — calculating, unreadable. Jake, beside me, moves looser, easier, one hand in his pocket, the other occasionally brushing against mine, like he doesn’t realize what it’s doing to me.
The street is almost empty except for the whisper of the ocean a few blocks away, and their shadows stretch long on either side of me, blending into mine. Every now and then, a passing light catches their profiles — sharp jawlines, the curve of a throat, the gleam of a watch.
A few weeks ago, even a few days ago, I would've never pictured spending this much time with them outside of work, let alone have this many inappropriate thoughts.
And it hits me that at the beach, under sunlight and laughter, I could almost convince myself that what I felt was something innocent — a crush, curiosity, admiration.
But in the dark, with the air cool and their presence closing in like gravity, it doesn’t feel innocent anymore.
It feels inevitable.
Jake looks down at me once, slow, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking but won’t say it. Reid doesn’t look at all — doesn’t need to. The air around him feels charged, aware.
And for one insane heartbeat, I think: if they asked me to go anywhere right now — anywhere — I would.
No questions.
No hesitation.