Heather
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I never thought I’d get to feel Robin’s lips on mine again.

Never thought I’d get to touch her, to have her pressed against me like she belongs there, like she isn’t supposed to hate me. But here she is, kissing me like it means something, like I mean something.

I don’t know why.

I don’t know what changed, what made her let me in, what flipped the switch from ice-cold resentment to this feverish, all-consuming heat.

But this is happening.

And I think I like it.

No—I know I like it.

Because Robin kisses like she’s making a point, like she’s staking a claim she doesn’t even want.

Her hands are everywhere—gripping my waist, sliding up my arms, tangling in my hair like she’s trying to undo me from the inside out.

She tugs, just enough to make my breath stutter, and I hate her for knowing exactly how to wreck me. I think that's what I love most about her, that's why I keep coming back even after telling myself this is a bad idea over and over again.

She knows how to touch me. She knows where to touch me.

She shouldn’t be touching me. I shouldn’t be letting her.

But neither of us stops.

Her mouth moves over mine with a hunger that borders on violent, like she’s trying to take back every breath, every whisper, every stolen moment we ever shared.

Her teeth scrape my lower lip, sharp enough to make me gasp, sharp enough to remind me that this isn’t love—it’s war.

Her hands tighten around my hips, fingers digging in like she’s trying to leave a mark, like she wants me to feel her long after this is over.

Like she wants to own me, ruin me, destroy me the way I destroyed her.

I arch into her, gasping, my body betraying me in ways I can’t control, and she laughs—low and breathless, like she can’t believe this is happening either.

Like she didn’t expect me to melt so easily, to want her like this, to fall back into her hands as if no time has passed, as if she never hated me, as if I never broke her heart.

The sound of her laughter coils around me, smug and knowing, sending a shiver down my spine. It’s not just amusement—it’s power. She has me exactly where she wants me, and she knows it.

I hate that sound.

I love that sound.

“Is this what you wanted?” she murmurs, voice thick with something I can’t place. “You miss me, Heather?”

Her tone is taunting, dripping with mockery, but her hands betray her. They linger, fingertips skimming my skin like she’s memorizing the feel of me all over again, like she’s fighting something she doesn’t want to name.

They shake—just the slightest tremor, but I feel it. A hesitation, a crack in her armor. She wants to hurt me, to make me suffer, but some part of her still remembers what it was like to want me.

And for a split second, I wonder—does she hate that more than she hates me?

I close my eyes. “Robin…”

I don’t know what I’m asking for. More or Less?

Her name is a plea and a confession all at once.

She shudders against me, like she hears every unspoken word, and then she kisses me again—deeper this time, more desperate.

I fist my hands in her towel, pulling her closer, needing her closer, because she’s Robin and I can’t help myself. I never could.

She tilts her head, lips tracing a slow, dangerous path down my jaw, my throat, lower—

A knock at the door.

We freeze.

Robin’s breath is hot against my skin. My pulse slams in my ears.

The handle jiggles.

“Heather?” It's Melanie’s voice. “Robin? Mom wants you both downstairs. Wedding stuff.”

I shove at Robin’s shoulders like she’s burning me. Because she is.

She doesn’t budge at first, just watches me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her pupils blown wide.

Then she grins.

Like she’s having fun. Like she knew this would happen.

Like she planned it.

The realization is a punch to the gut.

Robin doesn’t want me.

She wants to hurt me. Not in the sexually hot way I thought. She actually wants to get me in trouble, sabotage all this.

I scramble off the bed, straightening my dress, trying to look normal when I feel anything but. My face is flushed, my lips swollen, and Robin?

Robin looks completely at ease.

Like she expected me to cave. Like she was counting on it.

I hate her.

I hate her, I hate her, I—

She winks at me.

The bitch winks at me!

“Coming, Mel,” she calls, her voice smooth, controlled. Like she wasn’t just kissing me like her life depended on it.

Like I didn’t just lose every ounce of dignity I had left.

Melanie sighs. “Hurry up. Mom’s in planning mode, and you know how she gets.”

I force my legs to move, even though they feel unsteady beneath me, my hands to stop shaking even though every nerve in my body is still lit up from her touch.

I keep my head high, my expression neutral, pretending like that kiss—like she—didn’t just undo me completely. But I can feel her eyes on me, heavy and unrelenting, burning into my back as I reach the door.

Just as I pull it open, she leans in, so close I can feel the warmth of her breath against my skin.

Her lips barely brush my ear, sending a shiver through me, and for a second, I think she might kiss me again.

But she doesn’t.

She just lingers there, stretching the moment until it’s unbearable, until I can hardly breathe. And then, in a voice so low, so smug, it makes my chest ache, she murmurs—

“See you downstairs, Sister-in-law.”

My stomach plummets.

Because her voice is low and mocking and dangerous.

Because she’s up to something.

And because, no matter how much I tell myself I should run ---

I won't.