Chapter 27
Brendon
My cousin, Eli, is still riding the high of their win, loud and bright in that Blackthorne way, retelling a story about the same route three times, with bigger hand gestures every round.
His captain and quarterback, Luca, keeps throwing an arm around whoever’s closest, pulling them into another toast, then crying that he misses his boyfriend.
The whole front half of the bar feels like it’s vibrating with victory and cheap whiskey.
I laughed with them and clinked glasses. I hugged my cousin and told him I was proud of him, because I am. I did it all, like a good relative and a good sport.
The whole time, my phone sat on the table in front of me—texts unread and unanswered.
When I finally slide off the barstool, Eli complains. “Already?” he demands, half-empty glass in his hand, cheeks flushed. “It’s barely midnight, cuz. You turning into a pumpkin?”
“I’ve got papers to grade tomorrow,” I lie, grabbing my hoodie from the back of the chair. “And a headache. I’m happy for you, I promise, but if I stay longer I’m going to pass out on your shoulder and drool on your nice jersey.”
He snorts. “This thing has seen worse,” he says, flicking the number on my chest. His expression softens. “Real talk, though. It meant a lot that you came and wore the colors, even though you’re still a traitor at your traitor school.”
Luca leans around Eli, his grin lazy. “You coming to the afters at the hotel, Lane? We’ve got a whole floor. Depravity, debauchery… all the good D-words.”
“I’m pretty sure you just described your entire life,” I say. “No, thanks. I’m going to be responsible and go home.”
“Booooo,” Eli’s best friend, Julian, groans. “Eli, your cousin’s boring.”
“Yeah, but he’s the smart one,” Eli says, squeezing my shoulder. “Text me when you get back so your mother doesn’t call and yell at me about letting you walk around late at night.”
“I will,” I promise, hugging him quickly. “You really played great, Eli. I mean that.”
He beams. “I know,” he says, because he’s humble like that. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, then duck away quickly before Luca can try to involve me in another round.
The walk to my car is brisk, cold air cutting through the leftover warmth from the bar.
My head clears a little with each breath.
My cross is tucked underneath the Blackthorne shirt with Eli’s name, metal warm against my skin, while the cuff is a snug band under my sleeve.
It feels weirdly symbolic, all the different layers of loyalty piled on top of each other, none of them feeling quite comfortable tonight.
I slide into the driver’s seat and just sit there, letting the silence rush in while the noise from O’Malley’s becomes a muffled hum behind me.
I look at my phone again, and the last few messages I sent stare back at me, still unread.
Me: I’m proud of you. I know tonight sucked and you’re probably pissed off at the world and yourself and the refs, but I’m still proud of you.
I’ll be at the cottage tonight. If you want me there.
If you’d rather I stay away, I’ll respect that.
Just… don’t shut me out. You played hard. I’m proud of you.
My thumb hovers over the text thread, then I lock the screen and shove the phone into the cupholder.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “He’s pissed because they lost—he has a right to be. He’ll either cool off, or he won’t. You said you’d be there. So, go.”
The road out to his cottage is muscle memory by now.
Turn left at the sad gas station, right where the streetlights start to thin, then follow the curve until the asphalt turns into gravel.
The trees loom taller out here, dark shapes against the cloudy sky, as my headlights carve a path through the quiet.
Jericho is going to hear all about this when I get home.
I turn onto the gravel drive, my stomach already knotted with a mix of dread and hope—only for the bottom to completely fall out when my headlights sweep across the cottage.
The place is dark. Completely dark. No warm glow from the kitchen window, no TV flicker behind the curtains, no familiar silhouette moving through the space. Just a dark little house sitting silent at the edge of the trees.
And no Charger.
I pull in slowly and park anyway, gravel crunching under my tires obscenely loud in the quiet. My hands are slick on the steering wheel. Maybe he parked somewhere else. Maybe he’s out getting food. Maybe he went back to the stadium.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
“Okay,” I breathe, staring at the empty spot where his car should be. “It’s fine. He’s probably just… somewhere that isn’t here. That’s allowed. People are allowed to go places.”
I grab my phone and hit call before I can talk myself out of it. And it rings, and rings, and rings…
Every second stretches too long. Then his voicemail kicks in. His easy, smooth voice, telling me to leave a message, he’ll hit me back. I hang up before the beep, heart pounding. My breath fogs the windshield; I didn’t even realize I was holding it. Text, then. I can text.
Me: I’m at the cottage. The lights are off, and your car’s gone. Please tell me you’re okay.
I stare at the little “delivered” underneath the message until my eyes burn. No “read.” No response.
I should go home; that would be the rational thing to do. He’s a grown man who can handle himself. He probably just needed to blow off steam after the game. He doesn’t owe me his location every second of the night.
I lock the car, and stay exactly where I am.
One hour passes. Then another.
My phone screen still says “delivered” instead of “read,” and the dread sitting in my gut has gone from a knot to a solid, sick weight.
“I’m going to puke,” I mutter, finally turning the key in the ignition again.
Leaving feels wrong. Every instinct in me is screaming that I should stay here and wait him out, but another, quieter voice points out that if he wanted to see me, he’d be here. Sitting in his driveway like some abandoned golden retriever isn’t going to fix anything—it just makes me feel pathetic.
“He’s not coming,” I whisper. That, or he’s face down in a ditch somewhere, bleeding.
That thought almost sends me back out of the car, but I shove it away.
If he’s hurt, he’s hurt because of who he is, not who I am, and I have no way to fix that from here.
I can’t patrol every dark corner he haunts.
I can either sit in this driveway until sunrise, or go home and try not to drive myself insane.
I choose the option that involves a litterbox and a judgmental cat.
The sound of a crash jolts me out of a dead sleep so fast my heart feels like it might tear out of my chest. Jericho launches off my ribs with his claws out, growling as he hits the floor.
My stupid brain decides we’re back in that cottage, that the body on the floor is fresh and I’m about to die for what I saw.
Then, the familiar shape of my bookshelf looms out of the shadows, the outline of my bedroom door comes into focus in the streetlight glow, and I remember.
My apartment. Jericho. Not dead. Yet.
Another sound comes from the living room—not glass this time, but a heavy thump and a low, rough curse.
I grab my phone out of instinct, thumb fumbling on the flashlight, and inch toward the door. Jericho is a dark lump in the hallway, fur puffed up, eyes wide, tail like a bottle brush. He hisses again at a shadow that moves just beyond the wall.
“Hey,” I whisper, as much to myself as to him. “It’s okay. Stay here.”
He ignores me because he’s a cat, and bolts under the bed instead.
I step into the living room and freeze.
Dominic is on the floor, half-collapsed against my coffee table.
The lamp by the couch is on its side, shade dented, the bulb somehow still working and casting a skewed, harsh light across the room.
There are shards of glass on the floor from the picture frame that sat on the shelf edge, my graduation photo now staring up at us from a spiderweb of cracks.
But Dominic looks worse.
There’s blood on his face, a dark smear along his cheekbone and temple. His hoodie is torn at the shoulder, revealing skin I know too well and a gash I definitely don’t. One side of his mouth is split, swelling already, and his knuckles are raw.
My brain tries to catalog everything at once—the wounds, the sway in his posture, the way his eyes are unfocused and glazed.
Then, he lifts his head slowly, like it weighs a hundred pounds, and squints at me. “Hey, Little Sin,” he says, voice a little slurred. “Door chain’s a bitch, but I locked up again.”
I lurch into motion.
“What the fuck,” I gasp, dropping to my knees beside him. “Dom, Jesus, what happened, why are you… I told you to come to the cottage, not break into my place like a—”
“Breaking and entering’s my love language,” he mutters, trying to push himself upright, and failing. His legs give out, and he sinks back against the low table, breath hissing through his teeth. “Fuck. Okay. That’s not… ideal.”
His bravado isn’t helping; tears burn behind my eyes, hot and infuriating.
“You’re bleeding,” I say stupidly, because it’s the only thing my mouth can manage around the panic.
He huffs a short, humorless laugh. “You should see the other guy.”
“Did you drive like this?” I demand, hands already hovering over him—afraid to touch, afraid not to. “Are you drunk? Are you concussed? Oh my God, sit down, don’t… just… sit down.”
“I am sitting,” he points out, head rolling back against the table’s edge. “You’re the one hovering.”
“And you’re the one leaking all over my rug,” I snap, some part of me clinging to sarcasm because the alternative is screaming. “Stay there. Don’t move. I mean it.”