Chapter 23 Lottie
Lottie
Idon’t sleep.
Not after the tattoo. Not after Roman’s words or the way his eyes looked like a graveyard when he finally said them out loud.
The image of Medusa still burns in my brain—snakes coiling down his jaw, etched into his skin like penance. And I don’t know if I want to scream at him or thank him.
By morning, my chest feels like someone’s stuffed it with broken glass.
My head’s pounding, my phone keeps buzzing with notifications from Archer and Oscar asking if I’m okay since they had to leave to help Will with something at the college, and Elijah’s hovering so close that I swear if I roll over in bed, I’ll roll straight into his lap.
I can’t breathe like this. I can’t breathe at all.
So I do what I always do when the world feels like it’s caving in. I call Angel.
“Babe,” she drawls the second she picks up, her voice still thick with sleep, “it’s eight in the morning. If this isn’t you telling me one of your rich boys finally wired me five grand, I’m hanging up.”
I almost laugh. “No, it’s not that. I just need a night. Tonight. Out. You, me, Zara. Drinks. Loud music. Pretending I’m not actively losing my mind.”
Angel perks up immediately. “Oh, bitch. Say less. You want to meet there? And are you going to dress like a slut or a slut-slut?”
“Somewhere between tragic and unapproachable,” I say, scrubbing my face. “The kind of outfit that screams ‘yes I’m hot but touch me and I’ll bite your fingers off.’”
“Done. Zara’s in?”
“I’ll text her. Heads up, though, I will have Claire tailing me since I can’t go anywhere alone right now.”
“Think we can get her to do some shots with us?” Angel asks, and I laugh.
“If anyone can, it will be you. Right, I love you, get some more sleep.”
“I love you too, bitch.”
I hang up, already lighter.
Angel’s chaotic, but she’s the kind of chaotic that makes me forget for a few hours that my life is basically one long Greek tragedy.
Zara’s different—soft, steady, the only reason I’ve survived more than two semesters of marine biology without drowning myself in the lab tanks.
Together, they’re my escape from the testosterone that seems to be suffocating me slowly.
Of course, Crew picks the exact moment I’m pulling myself out of bed after a nap to appear in my doorway, leaning against the frame like a menace. His hair’s a mess, his hoodie looks like it’s survived three wars, and he’s holding a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Human.
“Afternoon, baby,” he says, too chipper. His grin is crooked, infuriating, and somehow—God help me—endearing.
I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Only your eternal love and devotion,” he shoots back, then takes an obnoxiously loud sip from the mug. He smacks his lips like he’s tasting fine wine. “Also, I had an idea.”
I flop back onto my pillow, groaning. “That’s never good.”
He ignores the jab. “No, seriously. Since you’re running off to get drunk with your girl gang—Angel and Zara, right?—I thought I’d arrange a little bonding time for the boys. You know. Me, Elijah, Roman, Archer, Oscar. Just the fellas.”
I lift my head enough to squint at him. “You mean five emotionally stunted men in one room together? That’s not bonding, Crew. That’s a cage fight.”
“Exactly.” His grin widens. “Male bonding.”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying not to laugh. “Fine. Just don’t kill one another.”
“Oh, no promises,” he says cheerfully. “But if we make it through without murder charges, that’s growth, right?”
I roll my eyes, but a small smile tugs at my lips anyway.
Crew’s been patient lately—too patient. I can feel him hovering, not in the smothering way, but in the way someone does when they’re just waiting.
Waiting for me to crack.
Waiting for me to stop pretending I’m not breaking apart.
Waiting to catch me when I finally fall.
I’m not ready for that. Not yet. Not when my chest already feels like it’s full of splinters and every day adds a few more.
By the time the afternoon sun drags across the kitchen, there’s a knock at the door. Three identical cardboard boxes wait on the step, each one labeled.
“Special delivery,” I sing as I drag them inside, stacking them on the counter like trophies.
Elijah’s the first to appear, sleeves rolled up, damp from washing something in the sink. He eyes the stack with suspicion that borders on paranoia. “What did you do?”
“Nothing criminal,” I say sweetly. “Yet.”
Crew materializes behind him, already reaching for one of the boxes, but I smack his hand away.
Roman follows, slower, more cautious, his shoulders tense like he’s preparing for a trap.
Before they can ask questions, I shove the boxes into their arms. “Care packages,” I announce with a flourish. “Open them.”
That’s the exact moment Archer wanders in, tugging a hoodie over his head, and Oscar trails behind him.
Oscar spots the pile of torn cardboard and raises his brows at me in silent question.
I mouth, “wait and see.” He grins, slides onto a stool, and elbows Archer in the ribs to make sure he’s paying attention.
Crew goes first, naturally. He tears into his with the reckless enthusiasm of a kid at Christmas. His grin falters the second he pulls out the pink satin eye mask with ‘killer’ stitched across it in sparkly letters.
“What the—”
“Self-care,” I explain innocently.
Oscar barks out a laugh, catching the gist without hearing a word, just from Crew’s expression. Archer smirks, arms folded across his chest, clearly settling in to enjoy the show.
Crew digs deeper. He pulls out the lavender-and-oat-milk candle labeled ‘To calm your inner dickhead’ and holds it up like he’s been personally attacked. His eyebrows shoot skyward. “Really?”
“There’s more,” I say, all sugar.
The stress ball comes next, molded into the shape of a gun. Crew squeezes it once, snorts, and mutters, “Okay, that’s kind of genius.”
Finally, he hits the jackpot. The book. ‘How to fix your inner sad boy and stop being a pussy.’
Crew stares at the cover for two whole seconds before bursting into laughter so hard he nearly drops it. “You’re a savage, baby,” he wheezes. “I love it.”
Elijah’s turn.
He opens his box slowly, deliberate, as if bracing for an actual bomb. The pink eye mask earns me a flat, unimpressed glare. The candle gets a resigned sigh. The gun-shaped stress ball—a twitch at the corner of his mouth he tries and fails to smother.
But when he reaches the book ‘Working through your gaslighting tendencies, ‘ he makes a strangled sound. Almost a laugh, almost a groan. He immediately clears his throat and mutters, “Thank you, wife.”
“Therapy in a box,” I chirp, ignoring the way the word ‘wife’ on his tongue makes me feel. “You’re welcome.”
Oscar slaps Archer’s arm, “She’s not wrong.” Then cracks up at Elijah’s expression.
Archer signs back. “Not his wife, though.”
Finally, Roman.
He doesn’t tear into it like Crew, doesn’t inch through it like Elijah.
He just opens the box, methodical, eyes wary.
He pulls out the mask, no comment. The candle, no comment.
His jaw ticks, his grip on the stress ball lingers longer than it should, like he doesn’t know whether he wants to crush it or throw it at my head.
And then the book.
‘You emotionally torture people… Why?’
For a second, he just stares at it. The silence thickens until even the air feels breakable.
My pulse spikes, waiting for the explosion—the bite, the glare, the venom…
everything I’m used to from him. But then he huffs a laugh.
His shoulders shake, and suddenly he’s laughing for real, head tipped forward, one hand dragging down his face.
“Oh, fuck off,” he mutters, still grinning.
Crew blinks like he’s just been robbed of a once-in-a-lifetime moment. “You can’t like it. That ruins the whole point.”
Roman tosses the book onto the counter with a thud, still chuckling. “It’s not wrong, though, is it?”
Archer snorts, a smirk spreading slow and smug. “Not even a little.”
Oscar signs something quick and then dissolves into silent laughter. Archer translates between snorts. “He says Elijah should ask for the sequel. ‘How not to marry someone without their consent.”
Roman actually laughs harder, his shoulders shaking, his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to keep it in and failing. The sound is raw but real, spilling into the room as if it hadn’t existed in years.
I’m frozen, but not with fear.
For the first time in forever, his laughter doesn’t cut like a knife. It doesn’t sound cruel or mocking or like he’s sharpening it on my skin. It just sounds… human.
Crew groans dramatically. “Great. You’ve ruined him. Next thing you know, he’ll be asking for scented bath bombs and journaling about his feelings.”
Elijah mutters dryly, “Better than torturing people because he doesn’t know how to feel.”
Roman just flips him off, still laughing.
And I realize, with a jolt that leaves me breathless, that I’m not scared of him. Not the boy who wrecked my childhood. Not the echo of his father.
Just Roman.
And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
Angel smirks like she owns the street, all fishnets and leather, daring anyone to look twice.
Zara, meanwhile, looks like she got dragged here by accident—oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, tote bag knocking against her hip, pristine sneakers squeaking on the pavement.
They don’t match. They never have. That’s what makes them perfect. That’s what makes them mine.
Claire’s heels click steadily beside me, her fitted black dress making her look like she’s stepped straight out of a magazine. Next to her, I feel like a kid playing dress-up in my red wrap dress that barely covers my thighs, glitter catching the streetlights.
“Are you going to do shots with us?” Angel chirps as we approach the club door, practically vibrating with energy.