Except for Archie.

Old places have a way of growing more alive the longer they stand. The stories they house, the memories they facilitate… We can’t meet Elvis, but thousands of people visit his home every year, because to be where he was is like seeing his ghost.

Saber Point erodes more every year, and eventually they’ll tear it down when it becomes a hazard, taking its century-long history with it like the lightkeeper and Archie (and the girl) were never here at all.

Like I was never here at all and about to kill Olivia Jaeger.

The crowd falls away as I climb and climb, and I hear a door slam above me. The service room and watch room are before the catwalk at the top, and I launch up the rest of the stairs, drops of rain pummeling the windows like darts as the music fades to a low beat below me. I jump up to the landing, grab the handle, but then I pause, my heart beating so hard it hurts my chest.

Pressing my other hand to the door, I lean my ear in, listening. But I Prevail’s rendition of “Blank Space” drowns out everything. Even the sound of my breathing.

I should leave. What will I accomplish by ripping both of their hair out? I’m better than that. I can have anyone. She should beg for me.

But my gut twists into knots, and I can’t ignore it. I’ve lost everything that’s important. I’m not losing the only other thing that matters anymore.

Twisting the handle, I inhale and hold it, bracing myself as I open the door and enter the room.

Moonlight casts a dim glow through the fifteen or so small, circular windows spread out around the room that lightkeepers used to watch the weather, the walls paneled with wood, unlike the brick of the rest of the structure.

A blackboard sits on the wall to my right, remnants of chalk still dusting its surface, and a square, wooden table fills the center of the small room alongside a large cannister. The old gears and axles inside the glass windows that once operated the lens are now still and quiet.

Another narrow, spiral staircase leads up through the ceiling, but the small hatch door to the lantern is closed.

No Liv.

I spin around, heading for the service room, but she’s there, stepping around the corner and into the doorway.

I halt. The other girl isn’t with her.

“You dance nice,” she says.

She leans into the doorframe, pulling her gum out of her mouth and sticking it in a piece of foil.

I steel my spine. “None of that was for you.”

“All of that was for me.”

She finally looks up, cocking her head, and even though I can’t see her eyes, I feel the self-satisfaction rolling off of her.

Bitch.

“How much have you had to drink, Clay?”

Not nearly enough. The slight buzz in my head is probably from the hundred bodies downstairs, sucking up the oxygen, rather than the shots I did in the car.

“Where is she?” I demand.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

A flash of white and I know she’s smiling. I glance above me and then back to Liv, knowing her slut is waiting either in the service room, or up at the lantern. I wouldn’t have missed them if they’d come back down.

She sticks the foil back into her pocket and steps farther into the room. “About that dress, Clay,” she says. “You’re losing weight. I need to measure you again.”

The dress? She’s making it after all?

I don’t give a shit about the dress.

She closes the door behind her, and the music fades a little more, my hands shaking the closer she gets. I hear my breathing now.

“Hold out your arms,” she says in barely a whisper.

But I don’t. “How do you know I’m losing weight?”

She approaches, taking out her phone and opening an app. Her eyes meet mine, and while she doesn’t reply out loud, I read it in her eyes. She knows my body.

A thrill courses through me, and I dip my head a little, wanting her mouth only a few inches away. But I hold back.

I hadn’t been trying to lose weight. I’d just…forgotten to eat. I’d spent more time at the gym the past week. I was waking earlier and staying up later, my head preoccupied.

She forces my arms wide, ready to use her phone and some kind of measuring app, I guess, but I push her hand away. “Who is she?”

“A friend.”

“Someone you’ve been with before?”

“Yes.”

My chest caves, and my stomach knots. Tears burn my eyes. Fuck. I don’t know what’s worse—Martelle or someone she has a history with.

Definitely someone she has a history with. It’s a reminder that she had a life before me. That there are other people who can make her happy.

What the hell’s happening? I see Callum talking to girls. Girls looking at him. I don’t give a shit. In fact, it relieves me a little to see him preoccupied, his attention off of me.

With Liv, I could stab someone, because there’s nothing I can do to stop the past. That girl above us has kissed Liv. Touched her. Liv was alone with her, doing things and tasting and biting and not thinking about me at all. Ugh…

I grab her waist and yank her in. She shoves me off, growling, but I grab her again. “I’m sorry I drove past you last weekend,” I whisper over her lips.

I’m sorry, okay?

She stills, her hands paused, about to push me off, but she doesn’t.

“You didn’t deserve that,” I tell her. “I wanted you there more than anything.”

“Would you have done anything differently?” she asks.

I stare into her eyes, her nose an inch from mine. The lie sits on the tip of my tongue. Yes. I would’ve told them I’m tired, and I’m going home and to find their own rides. Then, I’d swing around the corner, risk being seen, and pick you up. How easy would that have been?

But I know I’d be scared. They were right there, watching me.

She takes my face in her hands, not blinking once. “You know what I want?” She hardens her voice. “For you to stop lying to me.”

She backs me into the table, and I reach back, gripping it with my hands to steady myself.

“I don’t need you to be soft,” she says. “And I don’t need to be seduced. You wanna fuck, because it feels good, right?”

No, I…

But she shakes me. “Right?”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, it felt good.”

“Because I get you off.”

“N—”

“Right?” she grits out.

I nod. “Yes.”

She leans into me, pushing me onto the tabletop. The pulse in my clit thrums like a jackhammer as she positions herself between my thighs and sets her palms on the table at my sides, looking down at me.

“Liv…”

“Because I’m safe, right?” Her tone is an icy bite. “The dirty Catholic girl cliché you’ll tell your husband about someday?”

I can’t swallow. I touch her neck, holding it in both hands and caressing her jaw and throat with my thumbs.

“Right?” she asks.

Tears sting my eyes, and I hate this. I hate that I did this to her.

“Right,” I whisper, but the sob in my throat says the opposite, and I know she hears it. “Like I would ever love you.”

“You would never.”