Chapter 26
I stare at the screen, the stupid fucking text blinking back at me. Again. And again. I can’t stop reading it, like maybe the words will change or make more sense, but they never do. They just keep digging into me, each letter carving out a new piece of my anger.
Your favorite dick: Remy, whatever this was. It’s done. I’m done. We had our fun, but it’s over. I need focus on shit that matters, and this isn’t it.
Your favorite dick: Don’t text, don’t call, don’t talk to me. I’m serious. We’re done.
It’s so fucking cold. So final. As if I’m nothing more than some casual fling he can toss aside. I’ve read it a hundred times already, and every time it hits me the same way. I feel like a fucking fool. I can’t believe I let him get under my skin.
I dial his number.
It rings once... twice... then goes to voicemail.
Zane Coburn. Leave a message.
“Fuck you,” I growl, slamming my hand down on the table. “Fuck you, you piece of shit.” I hang up before I can say more, and that’s when the rage really starts to build up. I don’t know what I’m angrier about. The fact that he ended it with me like I was some fucking afterthought, or that he won’t even pick up the goddamn phone.
I pace around, breathing heavily, my fists clenched.
I can’t deal with this shit anymore.
I grab my phone again and shoot Maya a text.
Remy: Where are you?
Maya: The Reaper’s are having a party. You coming?
I almost laugh at the irony of it. The last thing I want is to be at a party with a bunch of masked assholes, but I need something. I need to figure this out. I need to get my head on straight, and that means seeing him.
Remy: Yes, of course. See you there.
I start getting ready, ripping through my closet like everything is a goddamn mess. Nothing seems right. I’m too angry to think straight, but I manage to throw on a tight, red dress that hugs my curves and makes me feel like I can conquer the world.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. My hair’s a mess, my eyes are red, and I’m pissed off. I don’t care. I throw on some heels, slick on lipstick, and grab my jacket. I’m going to the party, but I’m not going there to have fun. I’m going there for answers.
By the time I walk into the venue, the place is packed, loud music thumping from every direction.
I push through the crowd, my eyes scanning for Maya. And there she is, leaning against the bar with a drink in hand, looking like she owns the place. She grins when she spots me.
“Damn, you look hot,” she says, eyeing me up and down.
I give her a half-smile. “Thanks. Where’s the bastard?”
Maya raises an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Who?”
I can’t help the way my blood boils. “Zane. Where the hell is he?”
Maya glances around the room, then smirks. “Oh, I see. You two are finally going to have the big talk, huh?”
I don’t answer her. I don’t need to. I spot him immediately— standing across the room, leaning against the wall, looking out of place. His mask is red, the same from the first night we met, and even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I’m grateful for the moment of silence before I storm over to him.
I don’t waste any time. I march straight toward him, my heels clicking against the floor. When I reach him, I don’t say hello, don’t ask how he’s been. I just stare him down.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap.
His eyes widen behind the mask, and for a second, I see a flicker of surprise. But it’s gone just as fast as it came. “Remy…” He says my name like a warning, like he knows this isn’t going to end well.
“No. No more of this shit.” I take a step closer to him, eyes narrowed. “Tell me what you said in the text.”
His mouth tightens, and I can see the conflict in his eyes. “I—”
“Tell me to my fucking face!” I yell, but the music’s too loud for anyone to hear. He looks around, like he’s trying to figure out if he can escape this conversation.
I grab his arm, my grip tight, and pull him with me. He doesn’t resist, and we push our way through the crowd until we reach a closed room. He slams the door shut behind us and locks it.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I seethe, shaking with fury. “You think you can just end things with me over a goddamn text? You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just treat me like that!”
I’m so fucking angry now that my voice shakes, but I don’t care. I want him to understand. I want him to feel how much this is hurting me.
Zane doesn’t say anything for a while. He just stands there, leaning against the wall, his posture slumped. He looks different. There’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite place. But it’s not anger. It’s something else.
Finally, after what feels like forever, he says, “Are you done?”
“No, I’m not fucking done,” I snap, my voice cracking. “Fuck you for making me fall for you. For getting me all twisted up in these feelings and then just leaving me like I’m nothing.”
His shoulders sag, like my words have taken something out of him. “Remy…”
“Fuck you,” I repeat, my lips trembling now. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just walk away and act like I’m dirt.”
I see him swallow hard, like he’s trying to control himself. I’m still furious, but a part of me wants to reach out to him, wants to comfort him. But no. I can’t. That would be fucking stupid.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
His voice is broken, and I hate it. It makes my heart ache in a way I don’t understand. I don’t want to feel sorry for him. I don’t want to care.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, my voice full of emotion. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re fucking sorry, Zane. After everything.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says, his voice raw. “Believe me, Remy. It was all for your own good.”
I shake my head, but there’s this sinking feeling in my chest. The tears are welling up, but I won’t let them fall.
“When I walk out of that door, I’m never coming back,” I warn him, my voice low.
Zane stands up straight, stepping closer to me. “Please, don’t,” he says. “Please, I need you. I fucked up.”
I can see the pain in his eyes, the desperation. He’s not the asshole I thought he was. He’s... he’s hurt. But that doesn’t change anything.
Then, in a move that catches me off guard, he says, “Take off my pants.”
My breath catches in my throat. “What?” I gasp. “Are you fucking serious?”
He’s trembling, like he’s holding himself together by a thread. I look at him, really look at him, and that’s when I see it— the way he shifts his weight onto one leg. It’s subtle, but it’s enough for me to notice.
“Wait… you’re injured,” I whisper, my anger fading for a moment.
Zane doesn’t say anything. He just nods.
Without another word, I step toward him. My hands shake as I reach for his pants, my mind racing. This isn’t how I thought this night would go. But as I undress him, I can’t stop myself. Something’s wrong. He’s hurting. And it’s not seeming to be good.
And right now, I need to know what it is.
I stare down at him, my hands shaking as I press against his bruised ribs. Zane winces, his breath catching in his throat. I don’t know what I’m looking at. It’s like he’s been in a goddamn war. His chest is covered in dark purple marks— bruises that look like they’re more than just surface-level. His ribs— one of them might even be broken. The way he winces when I press harder makes my stomach churn.
“What the hell happened to you?” I snap, but there’s only concern in my tone. I can’t focus on the anger right now. Not with him in front of me like this, barely holding it together.
“I tore my adductor. Maybe broke a rib.” His voice is low, strained, but not in a way I’m used to hearing from him. This is different. This is... pain .
I swallow hard, trying not to let the panic take over. “Jesus, Zane. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He doesn’t answer. Just shifts a little, like he’s trying to push me off, but he’s too hurt to do anything about it. His eyes flicker up to mine, and I catch a crack in the cold mask he’s always worn. He doesn’t speak, but the look in his eyes is enough. There’s guilt there. Maybe shame.
“You can’t keep doing this,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “You’re killing yourself. You—”
“I have to.” His voice cracks, and I hate the desperation in it. “This is... this is all I’m good for.”
I shake my head, pressing harder against his ribs. He winces again, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“ Stop ,” I snap, my chest tight with anger that’s quickly turning into fear. “You’re not some... some fucking machine. You’re not a fucking toy to be broken, Zane. You don’t have to do this.”
I take his face in my hands, and for a second, he looks at me like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to breathe.
“Look at me.” I don’t know where the words are coming from, but they feel important. “You’re more than this. You’re smart , you’re attentive , you work your ass off for what you want. And you’re relentless as hell when you set your mind to something. I don’t give a shit if you’re not some fairy-tale prince. You are everything to me.”
His eyes narrow, and I see the doubt there. “You don’t want someone like me, Remy. You don’t want a broken person.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “You’re not broken, you’re just a little misshapen, but I fucking love every jagged piece of you.”
He stares at me like I’m insane, but there’s this moment, this weird, fragile moment, where I think he might believe me.
“I love you,” I say, almost in a whisper, but I mean it with everything I have.
His face softens. “Remy…”
“I love you,” I repeat, even though I’m starting to feel like I’m about to drown in it.
And before I know it, his lips are on mine. It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s desperate, a little broken, like we’re trying to piece ourselves together with the only thing that’s ever made sense between us— this mess we’ve created.
He pulls back after a second. “I hate these fucking parties.”
I can’t help but laugh, even though there are tears in my eyes. “Then let’s go home.”
He looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t, like he’s too tired, too... done to even try. Slowly, he starts dressing, each movement slower than the last. My stomach flips every time I catch a glimpse of the bruises, the battered skin that tells a story I don’t even want to hear.
But he’s not going to tell me. I know that now. I’m going to have to piece it together myself. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that, but I can’t sit here and watch him break.
I help him with his shirt. His body shudders under my touch, but it’s not from what I expect. He’s not just hurt— he’s exhausted . Something is wrong with him, and I’m not going to let him ignore it.
“Zane, you need to rest. You’re...” I can’t even find the words. He’s destroyed. But he doesn’t need me to tell him that. He already knows.
“Let’s just go home,” he says again, but this time, it sounds like a question. He doesn’t look at me, like he’s afraid if he does, he’ll fall apart completely.
I take his hand, and the way he grips mine makes me feel like he might snap. I want to tell him it’s going to be okay, but I can’t promise him that. Not when everything between us is so fucking broken.
We leave the party in silence. The noise of it— the music, the people, the laughter— is far behind us now. It’s just the two of us, walking side by side, but it feels like we’re miles apart.
When we reach the car, I glance at him one last time, my chest tight with everything unsaid.
He stares straight ahead, his jaw clenched. “I hate the fucking parties, Remy.”
“Then don’t go to them,” I snap, angry again. “You don’t have to keep hurting yourself just to... just to be a fucking hero.”
“I’m not a hero,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Just a guy who doesn’t know what else to do. I don’t have a choice.”
I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to help him when he won’t even let me in.
I mutter, “I know it doesn’t feel like you do, but I promise you that you do have a choice.”
The drive to my place is quiet, too quiet, until we’re finally at the gate. I don’t say anything as I let us in. I just want him to be okay.
And if he’s not, if he can’t be, then I don’t know what I’m going to do.
But I can’t leave him like this.
When we get inside, he collapses onto the couch, looking like he might just fall asleep right there. I stand there, frozen for a second, watching him.
“What now?” he asks, voice rough, almost pleading.
I sit next to him, my eyes still searching for something—some hint that this isn’t all just a fucked-up game to him. That this is real. That he wants me the way I want him.
“Now?” I whisper. “Now, you rest.”
He doesn’t argue this time. He doesn’t have the energy to.
I take his hand. And I don’t let go.