Savannah

His words slithered down my spine like a snake, coating every nerve with a thick layer of unease.

"I hate seeing you with that guy." Dean's voice cracked, raw and desperate, but laced with a dark, ugly undercurrent. He leaned his weight against me, seeking a comfort he no longer had the right to claim. "You win, Savannah. End this charade with him. Please, Sav... just please."

The stench of whiskey wrapped itself around me, thick and nauseating. Every syllable he spoke reeked, making my stomach churn in protest. My hand trembled at my side, itching to grab my phone, but Dean’s grip tightened around it. His knuckles were pale, a silent threat that he wouldn't let me call for help.

"Please, Sav," he murmured again, his breath hot against my skin, sending a jolt of pure revulsion through me. "I know you still want me."

A violent jolt ran through my body like an electric shock. I twisted sharply, shoving at him with all the strength I could muster. Disgust fueled me; I wanted to erase his touch from my skin entirely. "Stop that!"

But he was faster.

Before I could turn away, he lunged forward, forcing a kiss that felt like nothing less than a theft. It was forceful, suffocating, and cruel—a desperate attempt to reclaim a power he had already lost. To him, it might have been a moment of passion, but to me, it was an assault. My chest burned, my lungs screaming for air as every instinct in my body revolted against his presence.

The urge to wretch rose sharp and acidic. I would have kneed him hard if not for the fact that he had pinned me in place, caging me against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall. He knew what he was doing—cutting off every possible escape.

"Kiss me back, Sav," he whispered against my mouth, his words slurred and heavy with alcohol. "You don't have to fight it. You used to want me."

I jerked my head to the side, his lips scraping uselessly across my cheek. "Get away from me!" My voice cracked, shrill with fury. "I'd rather kiss a slug!"

Summoning every ounce of strength, I shoved him backward with both palms. His balance faltered just enough. My hand flew before I could think, connecting with his face in a sharp, ringing slap—followed immediately by another before he could recover.

The sound echoed off the tiled walls like a gunshot. His head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming across his cheek instantly.

"Are you out of your mind?!" My voice vibrated with pure fury. "I'm engaged! And you're married, you fool!" I scrubbed the back of my hand over my lips until they stung, desperate to wipe away the memory of him.

His laugh was unhinged. "It doesn't matter! None of that matters! The heart wants who it wants, Sav!" He sounded like a madman, his desperation stripped bare.

"No." My voice sliced through the air like a blade. "You don't get to want me. Not after everything you've done. Not anymore."

Dean leaned closer again, slamming his palm against the wall beside my head. The sound reverberated through the small room. He boxed me in, his heat oppressive and suffocating. His eyes scanned my face with a hunger that made my skin crawl.

I turned my face to the side, catching our reflection in the mirror. I saw the stranger I had become today, and the monster he had turned into.

"I made a mistake," he slurred, but beneath the alcohol, there was a cold, hard edge. "I almost married the wrong woman. You were always the one. I hope it's not too late to fix it."

"You are married, Dean! And I don't want you!" My chest heaved with rage. "I don't love you anymore! God, I hate you!"

For one fleeting second, the mask slipped. Hurt flickered across his face. I saw a glimpse of the boy I once loved—the one with the genuine smile and the dimples. But that boy was gone, replaced by the rot of the man standing before me. I straightened my spine, refusing to be pulled into his trap of nostalgia.

"I'm not married," he suddenly blurted, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The officiant's license was expired. The whole thing is null and void." He sighed dramatically, as if confessing a noble truth. "Chloe thinks she can screw me over and still win? She needs to think again."

My heart thudded with dread. "You're drunk and spouting garbage."

"Maybe." His grin was slow and crooked. "But drunk words are sober truths, isn't that what they say?"

I shoved at his chest, but he barely budged. He only laughed—a low, guttural sound that scraped along my nerves like nails on glass.

"Get off me, Dean."

"You still feel it," he murmured, leaning closer until the smell of liquor burned my nostrils. "Don't lie to me. I can see it in your eyes."

What he saw wasn't desire. It was disgust. It was the absolute realization that I needed to get away. The thought of Roman flickered through my mind like a lifeline. I couldn't be weak now.

I shoved again, harder this time. He stumbled back a step, his grin faltering.

"You think Roman's going to save you?" he sneered, straightening his rumpled shirt. "You think he's different from me? He's not. He's way worse."

"Give me my phone, Dean," I demanded, my voice steadying.

He smirked, dangling the device between two fingers before sliding it into his back pocket. "Not until you admit you still love me."