Chapter One #2
“I’ve replayed that night more times than I can count,” he continues, quieter now but no less intense. “Every second. Every way it could’ve gone differently.”
He steps closer again, not backing off, not softening.
“And you know what?” he mutters.
“I have zero fucking regrets.”
The words land sharp.
“But no matter how hard that shit was, no matter how mad you are,” he says, holding my gaze without blinking, “it was the only way you walked out of that alive. You needed to leave this place. Go back home. Go back to school. Forget we ever existed.”
I blink once, and recover fast.
“Wow,” I mutter. “So that was the plan? Toss me in the ER, wipe your fingerprints off my life, and hope I magically developed coping skills?”
That earns a low huff from him. Almost a laugh, though he’s clearly not amused.
More of like a you’re exhausting me already huff.
Good.
“Blair—”
“No, seriously,” I cut in, stepping closer. “You really thought I’d just wake up, shrug, and go damn, guess that psychotic rave boyfriend was a fucking hallucination.”
“I wasn’t your boyfriend.”
“Aw. And here I was about to make us Facebook official.”
His jaw tightens.
“This isn’t a fucking joke. You were gonna end up dead.”
“And whose fault is that?” I snap immediately.
That hits.
Silence stretches between us, sharp and loaded instead of empty.
Because we both know the answer isn’t clean. Doesn’t matter, in typical Blair fashion, I push anyway.
“You two don’t get to decide what I can handle,” I say, right in his space now. “And you definitely don’t get to play savior after dragging me into whatever the fuck that was, then disappearing like the world’s hottest witness protection program.”
That almost pulls a smirk out of him.
Almost.
“I didn’t disappear,” he says evenly. “I just made sure there was nothing left for you to fucking come back to.”
That stops me for half a second.
Which is so fucking irritating. Because the really fucked up part is that I get it. Like fully, completely, against-my-better-judgment get it.
And honestly? Fuck them even more for that.
Fuck them for making choices that pissed me off this badly while still somehow managing to make enough sense that I can’t even fully hate them for it.
I want to be furious. No, I am furious. But there’s still this annoying little part of my brain sitting in the corner like:
Well… to be fair, Blair, you were kind of actively trying to self-destruct.
Traitorous behavior from my own conscience, really.
“You really thought that would work?” I ask, quieter now. Sharper. “That I’d just go back to normal?”
His eyes flick to my mouth before lifting again.
“No,” he says after a beat, voice rougher this time. Honest in a way that feels dangerous. “I knew you’d come back eventually.”
That lands differently.
I fold my arms tighter across my chest. “Eventually?”
“We were trying to buy time.”
His jaw tightens before he continues.
“Time to handle Dante. Time to clean up the mess before it reached you again.” His eyes lock onto mine, harder now. “Time to make sure that when you came back, and we both knew your stubborn ass probably would—you’d actually be safe.”
The words hit heavier than I expect them to.
“And if I didn’t?” I ask.
His expression doesn’t change.
“Fuck, good,” he says simply. “Least we’d have known you were safe.”
Silence stretches between us again, thick and electric.
My lips twitch despite myself.
“Hmm,” I hum softly, tilting my head like I’m genuinely considering it. “So you did want me gone.”
His jaw tightens instantly.
“Jesus Christ, Blair,” he snaps, stepping closer so fast the words practically hit me in the chest, “I wanted you alive.”
The tension shifts immediately.
Sharper.
He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat rolling off him, close enough that the smell of smoke and leather wraps around me again, thick and familiar and way too easy for my body to recognize.
His eyes lock onto mine, hard and unwavering, like he’s trying to force me to understand something I keep intentionally joking around.
“You think any part of that was easy?” he says, voice lower now, rough around the edges in a way that feels dangerously real. “You think leaving you there fucking killed us for fun?”
My pulse stutters.
Which is deeply inconvenient timing, honestly.
I swallow before I can stop myself, but instead of backing down like a sane person would, I tilt my chin up higher.
“Worked out great then,” I mutter. “Look how emotionally stable I am now.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before dragging back up.
“That’s exactly my fucking point.”
I open my mouth, fully prepared to say something sarcastic and emotionally evasive, but the second I shift my weight, the entire street tilts sideways for half a second.
Oh.
Cool.
Love when my organs unionize against me.
A dull throb punches behind my eyes hard enough to make me wince before I can stop it. My stomach rolls a little too, which honestly feels dramatic considering the amount of substances I willingly introduced into my bloodstream last night.
My body right now:you know what would be fun? Dying.
I straighten immediately like nothing happened.
Unfortunately, Dagger notices everything, which is deeply irritating and honestly kinda fucking invasive, but in a hot, yes eye fuck me way.
His eyes narrow instantly.
“The fuck was that?”
“Nothing,” I say way too fast.
“Bullshit.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “I’m just hungover. Very common condition. Millions suffer every year.”
“You look like you’re about to fold.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “And people say romance is dead.”
Another pulse throbs behind my eyes.
Jesus Christ.
I blink hard against it, and that apparently confirms his suspicions because his entire expression shifts into that same aggravated look he used to get in the warehouse whenever I did something objectively stupid and then doubled down on it for fun.
Which, in my defense, is most things.
“Get on the bike,” he says.
I bark out a laugh immediately.
“Oh, absolutely the fuck not.”
“Blair.”
“No, because last time I trusted you, I woke up hospitalized and emotionally compromised.”
“You’re not staying here.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
I snort.
“Ohhh, right. Sorry. Forgot you appointed yourself mayor of bad decisions and nicotine addiction.”
His jaw tightens.
Mine keeps moving.
“What’s the plan here anyway?” I continue. “You throw me over your shoulder caveman-style? Kidnap me into the sunrise? Very toxic masculinity of you, by the way.”
“Fuck sakes,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
The movement pulls his shirt tighter across his chest for half a second and—
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Focus.
Mad, Blair. Remember? Furious. Deeply betrayed. Not mentally stripping him in the middle of a parking lot like a raccoon digging through trash.
My eyes flick back up to his face.
Unfortunately, his are already on me.
And that—
That does something deeply embarrassing to my nervous system.
God. This man could look at me while reading a grocery list and I’d still probably ruin my own life over it.
Humiliating.
His gaze drags over me slowly again, taking in the glitter still stuck to my skin, my smudged eyeliner, the fact I’m subtly swaying like a baby deer fresh out the womb trying to act intimidating.
The look on his face shifts.
Not softer, worse.
Like he’s one inconvenience away from developing a stress-induced aneurysm because of me specifically.
Yeah, there it is. The “this girl is going to be the death of me” look.
Good.
Suffer.
“I’m serious,” he says, stepping closer. “Get on the fucking bike.”
“No.”
I barely get the word out before his hand closes around my wrist, firm and warm.
And my body—traitorous little bitch that it is—immediately notices all of it.
Cool. Amazing. I love being this easy. Such a needy slut, Blair.
“Dagger—”
“Save it.”
“I can walk by myself, you overbearing asshole.”
“Yeah?” he shoots back, already turning me toward the bike anyway. “Then why do you look like you’re fighting for your fucking life standing still?”
Okay, thats rude. accurate, but rude.
“God I hate you,” I mutter.
“No, you don’t.”
What I hate even more, is how confidently the cocky asshole says it. Like he already fucking knows.
Which makes me want to bite him and make out with him at the same time, and honestly? Neither option feels emotionally healthy given my current state.
He stops beside the bike and pulls his helmet off before dropping it onto my head.
Everything immediately smells like him.
Smoke, leather and trouble.
Fantastic.
Now I’m horny, hungover, and coming down off enough drugs and alcohol to qualify as a public health concern.
“This is kidnapping,” I complain through the visor.
“No, this is me keeping your dumb ass alive.”\
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Dagger just shakes his head again, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like fucking menace before grabbing my waist and lifting me onto the bike like I weigh absolutely nothing.
Oh.
Okay.
That—
That’s fucking hot.
Unfortunately.
“I had legs literally thirty seconds ago,” I protest weakly, gripping his shoulders automatically.
“And now you’ve got a ride.”
Cocky dickhead.
He swings onto the bike in front of me and starts the engine.
The roar vibrates through me instantly—through my thighs, my ribs, straight into every already fried nerve ending in my body.
And when I wrap my arms around his waist—
Because contrary to popular belief, I actually don’t want to fly off the back of a motorcycle and become a tragic roadside memorial—
One ugly little truth settles deep in my chest.
The drugs were never the real problem.
Because sitting here behind him, pulse racing, head spinning, already sinking back into this like it owns me—
Because somewhere between the drugs, the chaos, and wrapping my arms around the exact men who nearly ruined me the first time, one deeply catastrophic truth settles in hard—
This wasn’t just a relapse back into the pills.
It was a relapse back into them too.