Page 62 of The Malibu Destiny

Roman grips the doorframe until his knuckles blanch white. "Lilith," he says, his voice raw. "I fucking love you. Christ, I'm drowning in it. I'd tear my own heart out if it meant keeping you with me. When you're gone, I can't breathe—can't think—but when you're here..." His eyes burn into mine. "You're the only goddamn peace I've ever known. I'm too selfish to let you go, even knowing I'll destroy us both. I swear on my mother's grave, I'd put a bullet in my head before I'd hurt you. But this—us—it's like playing with fire in a room full of gasoline."

He scoops me up like I weigh nothing, his muscles flexing against my body as he carries me toward the spiral staircase leading to his loft bedroom. Each step upward punctuated by his mouth crashing into mine, his teeth grazing my bottom lip, drawing a gasp from deep in my throat. My skin burns everywhere he touches, electric currents racing through me. "I can't breathe without you," he growls against my neck, his voice raw with need. The words echo my own desperate hunger—he's become as essential to me as my next heartbeat.

His bedroom is magnificent—a sprawling sanctuary where floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Pacific like living artwork. Minimalist furniture in muted grays and blues complements the view rather than competing with it, while the California king bed sits on a raised platform, its crisp white linens practically glowing in the golden hour light that streams across the polished marble floors. My entire apartment could fit into this bedroom.

For the next three hours, we make love with a desperate hunger that leaves us gasping and trembling. The world outside this room ceases to exist. There is only his skin against mine, the thundering of our hearts, the taste of salt on his neck. We crash together like waves against rock, over and over, until neither of us remembers where one ends and the other begins.

Chapter Thirty-Five

ROMAN

God, it feels so fucking good to be waking up next to Lilith in my bed. My eyes snap open at 5 AM, my body still crackling with electricity from last night—every nerve ending raw, every muscle humming. I'd sworn to myself I'd cut her loose. Had rehearsed the speech a hundred times. Can't drag her down into my darkness. But the second I saw her standing in that lobby, something primal in me shattered. She's a goddamn force of nature—a hurricane I want to run straight into. When I'm with her, I'm both on fire and completely still for the first time in my miserable fucking life. She's rewired me from the inside out.

I brew a cup of coffee, planning to head to the resort by 7—later than my usual arrival, but I'll compensate with evening hours. When I return to the bedroom, Lilith's side of the bed lies empty. Following a hunch, I climb the stairs to my rooftop sanctuary and spot her by the infinity pool.

She sits cross-legged on the Carrara marble, fingers resting on her knees, eyes shut in perfect stillness. I hang back, coffee warming my palms, not wanting to disturb her meditation or whatever ritual she's performing. Instead, I simply drink in her beauty. As the first rays of dawn break across the horizon, highlighting the green streaks in her hair - she has no idea how much I love those green streaks because they’re so her - she opens her eyes, rises fluidly, and stretches skyward, unaware of my presence in the shadows.

She spins around, her smile radiating warmth across the terrace. "Roman, I couldn't resist this view! The sunrise called to me—perfect for my morning devotions to the goddess. And this rooftop garden is beyond belief!”

She's not wrong. My rooftop terrace spans six thousand square feet of curated paradise—Japanese maples casting dappled shadows over custom limestone pathways, a glass-bottomed infinity pool suspended over the Pacific, three separate lounging areas with handwoven Moroccan daybeds, and a living wall of rare orchids that cost more to maintain monthly than most people's mortgages. I have a full-time gardener, Hans, who comes in just to maintain the orchids. I flew in Hiroshi Yamamoto from Kyoto to design the rooftop garden and paired him with Isabelle Duchamp from Paris—they'd never collaborated before my project.

But…goddess? Then I shake my head. Of course, goddess. This is Lilith. I need to know everything about this woman who's hijacked my entire existence. I realize that beyond the tarot cards she clutches like weapons and her claims about seeing auras—which I'd normally dismiss as complete bullshit—I know nothing. Nothing except that when she walks into a room, the chaos in my brain goes dead silent. Not even the strongest sedatives have ever shut down my demons that effectively. Christ, I'm drowning in questions about who she really is, what she believes, what drives her.

She sits down on one of the outdoor sofas—teak wood frame with cashmere cushions—and pats the space beside her. I join her, though my watch reminds me I should be halfway to the resort by now. My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Miranda with another crisis only I can solve.

For 10 years, I've been the first to arrive, last to leave, six days a week. Before that? Seven days, sometimes sleeping on the office couch. The strange thing is, I never resented a minute of it. The resort was my oxygen. But watching Lilith's hair catch the sunlight, feeling that unfamiliar lightness in my chest—I suddenly see my schedule for what it is: not dedication, but hiding. Running from the emptiness waiting at home. Miranda's been ready to step up for months. She knows the operation inside out, commands respect from the staff. Maybe it's time I trusted someone else to carry the weight. Maybe it's time I had something to rush home for.

I grab my phone and fire off a quick text to Miranda: "Taking today off." Her response pops up almost immediately—a heart-eyed smiley face followed by:

About time! Looks like that tarot reader is working her magic on you. Don't worry about anything here—I've got it all covered. Stay away as long as you need. God knows you deserve a break.

I smile to myself, thinking how perfect today could be. I could spend the whole day pinning Lilith to the bed, watching her face as pleasure overtakes her again and again. But first, I need some answers about this goddess business she mentioned. I've always been skeptical about that spiritual stuff—when someone talks about praying to goddesses, I usually picture either someone dancing around a cauldron in the woods or someone who should probably be talking to a psychiatrist instead of burning sage.

“So,” I say. “Goddess.”

She smiles. "Yes, goddess." Her eyebrow arches playfully. "Look, if this thing between us is going somewhere, we should be honest with each other. I could hide the fact I start each morning with goddess prayers, but eventually you'd catch me with my altar out—or worse, I'd pack it away and lose a piece of myself. And trust me," she adds with a soft laugh, "you don't want a watered-down version of Lilith Sydney. Better to lay all my crystals on the table now."

I laugh, but it's raw, almost desperate. "Lilith, you could tell me you sacrifice virgins under a blood moon while chanting in tongues, and I'd be there holding the knife for you. Nothing—nothing—would make me love you any less." I nod.

Love. The word burns through me like lightning striking dry timber. It sears my throat, ignites my chest. I never believed I'd say it to anyone, let alone mean it with every atom of my being. Thank Christ Granddad kept his manipulative claws out of my life the way he sank them into Max, forcing him to marry Celeste. Lilith is everything the old bastard would despise—wild, untamable, spiritual. Everything that makes my heart slam against my ribs when she walks into a room. Perfection. Mine.

She laughs. “No virgin sacrifice here. But I participate in solstice and equinox celebrations.”

Roman arched an eyebrow. "You celebrate solstices and equinoxes?"

"Mmm," Lilith nodded, her silver moon earrings catching the light. “You do too if you celebrate Easter and Christmas.”

“What do you mean?”

Her lips curl into a smile, her eyes catching the light. “You know how we decorate eggs and fill our homes with flowers at Easter? The ancients did the exact same thing for Spring Equinox celebrations. And Easter’s date? First Sunday after the first full moon after the Equinox—pure lunar calendar stuff. Total pagan playbook. Christianity just came along later and sprinkled some Jesus over traditions that had been around for centuries.”

She's practically glowing, thinking she's blown my mind with this revelation. I've heard it before, but watching her excitement, I realize I'd never connected those dots about the lunar calendar. Should've been obvious to a science guy like me.

She goes on. “And Christmas? Those evergreen decorations, gift exchanges, feasts, even the yule log burning in the fireplace—all borrowed from Winter Solstice traditions.” She tilts her head, a playful challenge in her voice. "When early Christians were converting the masses, they weren't fools. They knew people wouldn't abandon their harvest festivals and winter solstice celebrations overnight, so they simply rebranded them. Easter eggs became about resurrection rather than fertility. December feasts celebrated a holy birth instead of the return of the sun."

I nod along, even though I could recite these winter solstice and spring equinox rituals from memory. Something about the way Lilith's eyes light up when she shares her "secret knowledge" makes me bite my tongue. Her hands flutter like birds as she speaks, punctuating each revelation. I find myself leaning closer, not to hear the facts I already know, but to watch her animation. Now, this goddess business she's getting into...

“Now, you were praying to a goddess this morning?”