Chapter 18
Eighteen
Melissa
Jealousy—rotten, corrosive, the kind that claws up your throat and settles in your teeth.
The kind that makes you want to scream and vanish at the same time.
Fucking Cassidy, trailing Hella like she doesn’t know I’m three seconds from peeling her face off and tossing the scraps to the alley cats.
Not that they’d want it. Even the desperate ones have standards.
I find Nyx and throw my arms around his neck, hating how my hands tremble. “Be careful. I mean it.” My fingers grip the leather of his cut, not wanting to let go.
He peels my hands away, his fingers warm against mine. “Always am.”
I want to believe him, but my chest tightens with the lie. I search his face, wondering if I should say more, say everything. “I'll see you when you get back!” My voice carries across the room as they file toward the door, too bright, too forced.
He pivots, flashing teeth beneath his beard. “I'll come back for that smile.”
“You better,” I whisper, torn between watching him leave and glancing at Hella, whose eyes burn into me with an intensity that makes me both want to run toward him and away from all of this before the door slams behind them.
Should I have said something to Hella as well? What if it’s him who doesn’t come home?
Twenty-six hours. Twenty-six endless hours since they left. I check my watch again—the hundredth time—then immediately wish I hadn't. Each minute crawls by as if it’s dragging razors across my nerves.
I should leave. It’s been a whole week, and Karian is expecting me tomorrow morning. I should stay. The drive is four hours, and night driving means fewer cops, but what if they call while I'm on the road? What if they need me here? What if they don't come back at all?
There’s a distant rumble of bikes that vibrates through the air, and the thought of me maybe wearing out my welcome grates against my nerves, but I don’t care. I’m not leaving until I know they’re all safe.
Jada bursts through the clubhouse doors, mascara streaked down her face like black tears. Behind her, engines cut off in sequence—one, two, three—but not enough. Not nearly enough.
My body can't decide if it wants to run toward the door or away from it. I'm frozen between breaths.
Beside me, Yana's chair crashes backward as she stands, her face ghost-white. She hasn’t heard from Beast since they left, so it’s no wonder she feels the way she does.
“Jada?” She needs to say something. Anything.
“Nyx,” his name leaves her in a whisper.
My mind races as a knot forms in my belly.
She continues. “They found him this morning, hanging from a tree—”
My vision tunnels, black edges creeping in as something hot and wet slides down my face.
I can't feel my fucking fingers. Can't breathe.
Can't — “I'm sorry, Melissa.” Jada's voice splinters, mascara bleeding down her cheeks.
“He always had everyone's back. First one in, last one out. I just, I could have…”
Something feral claws up my throat as I lurch behind the bar, knocking glasses to the floor. They shatter. I don't care. Nyx's laugh hammers in my skull—that deep rumble I'll never hear again.
Nyx is dead.
“I'm sorry.” I push it all away. “I just, I can't be here right now.” I look towards Yana, vision blurring with unshed tears. “I need to leave. Need to breathe. Need to be anywhere but here.”
She swallows hard, the grief spreading across her features mirroring my own as she nods slowly. “Go. Now.”
Sunlight hits me as soon as I break through the doors, everything behind some fogged-up glass. Chrome flickers, a hard line of bikes pulling in off the gravel, engines snarling to a close.
Hella's there. Of course he is. But I don’t let myself pause. I wipe at my face, palm dragging salt and grit across my cheekbones, because tears at this point are just weakness and I can’t afford any more of that.
Once. One final time, my eyes land on Hella. Then I start down the driveway, straight toward the house, already sorting through the logistics in my head—my clothes, the suitcase, my make-up and toothbrushes.
Nyx deserved a better friend than me. Could I have done more? Been a better friend. Asked better questions?
How could I not have seen?
My shoes are wrong for this walk, pebbles biting into the soles of my feet. I don’t care.
An engine cuts through my thoughts, low and thick.
I stop.
It’s impossible to ignore the rowdy growl of pipes. He pivots in his seat, eyes finding mine over his shoulder, and jerks his chin toward the empty spot behind him.
Is it supposed to be that simple? Just get on and go, like everything that happened doesn’t matter? Maybe. I don’t know anymore. I stand there, caught in the crossfire of sun and engine, waiting to see if I move.
“Get on the bike, Melissa.” His voice is sharp but low. A warning from exhausted lips.
My shoulders sag, pulled down by the weight that never seems to leave for long. The loss. The kind of tired that soaks into marrow and won’t let go.
My tongue flicks against my lips, trying to smooth out the sudden dryness.
He lifts his brow the way he does when he’s holding onto patience with both hands. With a little jerk of his foot, he flips up the stand, the move so easy it seems built into him.
He swings his leg off the customized Harley, jeans folding and stretching over his thigh, and for a split-second time stands still.
He removes his hat and runs his hand over his hair. A nervous tick, I guess, since this is the second time I’ve seen him do it. Can’t remember the first time.
His fingers linger at the nape of his neck for just a second before he places the hat back on backwards, adjusting it with a slight tug.
Leaning against his pride and joy, one hand rests possessively on the custom leather seat; the other hangs loosely at his side.
“Get on the bike, babe,” he says, his voice softer now. “I'll take you to your car.” His blue eyes flash. He knows. He knows I’m done with everything.
A soft whisper escapes me. “I can't fight anymore, Hella.”
He pushes off the bike and advances, each stride done with confidence.
I hesitate, stepping back. “I'm tired, Hux. I'm drained.” It’s true. I am. I was done with our fights soon after they started.
His boots stop moving against the gravel.
My gaze travels up the length of him, over worn denim, across the leather vest stretched tight over his chest, until I meet those deep blue eyes.
“You win,” I whisper.
“I'm not doing anything, Melissa. I just wanna make sure you get home, no bullshit.”
“Okay.” The word scratches past the tightness in my throat. I swallow hard. “You can take me to my car.”
Because then I'm leaving.
For good.