Chapter Two
Dagger
The second her arms wrap around my waist, I know I’m fucked.
Not in the fun way either.
In the this girl is going to crawl under my skin and carve herself into something permanent kind of way.
The bike tears through the quiet streets while the sun keeps dragging itself up over the horizon, pale orange light bleeding across the buildings, but I barely register any of it.
All I can feel is her pressed against my back, forehead bumping lightly between my shoulders every time she shifts, arms tightening around me whenever I take a corner too fast.
Like she forgot she was supposed to hate me five minutes ago.
Or maybe she didn’t.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I grip the handlebars tighter.
Because this?
This is exactly what we were trying to avoid.
The night we left her at the hospital still lives under my skin like a fucking infection. Noir standing beside me in that hallway covered in blood, sweat, and guilt, both of us staring through the glass while nurses swarmed around her bed trying to stabilize her.
Neither of us saying what we were both thinking.
Not her too.
Not another fucking girl we care about getting swallowed whole by our world.
Because that’s what this place fucking does.
It takes and takes until there’s nothing left but bodies, addiction, grief, and ghosts that follow you around like a goddamn curse no matter how far you run.
Brynne learned that the hard way long before Blair ever crashed into our lives, and watching Blair spiral down the exact same fucking road felt like standing on train tracks with headlights coming straight for us while being too goddamn late to stop it.
We couldn’t save Brynne from this world.
But Blair?
No fucking way were we losing her too.
That's why we erased everything.
Wiped the motel. Cleared the warehouse. Killed every path leading back to us. I took my hoodie back off her floor while she was unconscious in a hospital bed because if she remembered us, she’d come looking.
And the worst fucking part?
I knew she would anyway.
We both said if she remembered even half of what happened between us, she’d burn herself alive trying to get back to it.
The pressure of her fingers flexing lightly against my stomach drags me back to the present.
“Do you always drive like you’ve got a death wish?” she calls over the engine, tightening her arms around my waist every time I take a corner even remotely fast despite all the shit she talks.
I huff out a quiet laugh.
“You always run your mouth this much when you’re hungover?”
“Probably,” she says easily. “Hard to know for sure. Most mornings start with me trying to figure out where I am and whether I committed any felonies the night before.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Before I can answer, she taps her fingers lightly against my stomach and adds, “Honestly? If I wake up with both kidneys and my eyelashes still on, I consider that personal growth.”
I shake my head.
“The fuck is wrong with you?”
“Oh, we don’t have enough time for that conversation,” she calls back immediately. “You’d need, like, a whiteboard. Maybe a licensed professional.”
Despite myself, another laugh almost slips out.
Almost.
Then she says, way too casually—
“But hey, at least this morning I remembered your name, so technically we’re improving.”
That one lands harder than it should.
Because she sounds relaxed about it.
Too relaxed.
Like waking up blacked out on random bathroom floors became routine while we were gone. Like chemical comedowns and memory loss turned into normal fucking mornings instead of warning signs.
My jaw tightens hard enough to ache, and behind me, completely oblivious to the damage she’s doing, Blair just keeps talking.
“Actually,” she says thoughtfully, “there was one time I woke up in a kiddie pool outside a vape shop? Still unclear on that sequence of events.”
By the time we pull into the underground garage beneath my building, she’s gone quieter behind me.
Not silent.
Blair’s never fucking silent.
But the constant smartass commentary slows a little once the bike stops rumbling beneath us, her arms lingering around my waist half a second longer than necessary before she climbs off.
One hand stays hooked on my shoulder for balance while she steadies herself, rolling her eyes immediately after like she’s personally offended her body betrayed her in front of me.
Cute.
Most people probably wouldn’t notice the difference.
I do.
I notice every fucking thing about her now.
The exhaustion sitting behind her eyes underneath all the glitter and attitude.
The slight shake in her hands every now and then when she thinks nobody’s paying attention.
The way her pupils are still blown slightly from whatever the hell she took last night.
Smudged makeup. Barely-there outfit. Sparkles clinging stubbornly to her skin like she walked straight out of the rave and never fully came back down.
She looks worse than before.
And somehow hotter for it.
More reckless.
More unhinged.
Like instead of getting scared after the hospital, she leaned all the way into the chaos just to see if we’d come crawling back for her.
Which—
Fuck.
Maybe we did.
Because standing there watching her sway slightly in my garage with that cocky mouth and half-lidded eyes, all I can think about is how hard it was staying away from her in the first place.
My favorite fucking fix standing right in front of me looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted twice.
Guilt twists sharp in my stomach anyway.
Because beneath the attitude and flirting and all the glittering wreckage she hides herself behind, there’s something emptier in her now than there was before we let her go.
And I can’t shake the feeling that part of that is on me.
I lead her toward the stairwell without saying much, the sound of our footsteps echoing through the underground garage while she trails behind me in tiny glitter-covered shorts and attitude like she owns the fucking place already.
The bike ticks quietly as it cools behind us, engine heat still curling through the air while I pull the helmet off her head.
Her split pink and purple hair spills free immediately, messy from the ride, glitter catching through the strands beneath the fluorescent garage lights.
Fuck.
She looks like trouble designed specifically for me.
Blair immediately runs her fingers through it, glaring up at me. “You know, I feel like by now someone would’ve invented a cure for helmet hair. I mean, when you look this good, it’s basically a hate crime.”
“Pretty sure the drugs are the bigger concern.”
“Agree to disagree.”
I huff out a laugh despite myself and hook the helmet onto the handlebars before turning toward the stairwell.
She takes exactly three steps before her platform boot catches slightly against the concrete.
The stumble’s small.
Barely noticeable.
Except I notice every fucking thing she does now.
Her hand shoots out toward the wall to steady herself, muttering, “Okay, feet. That was just rude,” under her breath like gravity personally offended her.
I stare at her for a second.
Then at the stairs.
Then back at her swaying slightly where she stands trying very hard to pretend she isn’t one blink away from eating shit directly onto the concrete floor.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter.
Her brows pull together immediately. “Excuse you?”
Before she can argue, I step forward, hook an arm around her waist, and throw her over my shoulder.
Instantly.
A surprised yelp breaks out of her before she starts squirming against me, glitter-covered legs kicking slightly.
“Dagger!”
“You’re fucked up.”
“I’m functioning!”
“You almost just died walking.”
“I tripped,” she argues dramatically. “There’s a difference.”
“You lost a fight with the floor.”
“That floor came at me aggressively.”
I shake my head and start up the stairs anyway, one hand locked around the backs of her thighs while she continues complaining over my shoulder.
“This is kidnapping,” she announces.
“Still so fucking dramatic, little relapse. More like damage control.”
“Oh my god, put me down. I can walk.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re being sexist.”
“In what world does me saying you’re still to fucked up to walk come off as sexist?”
“My world, obviously. Though who's to say if it's a real world and not just another made up hallucination.”
She shifts slightly against me trying to regain some dignity, but all it really does is press her tighter against my shoulder, warm skin against my arm while her laugh bounces around the concrete stairwell.
And fuck me if that sound doesn’t hit harder than it should.
“You know,” she says conversationally, “most girls would probably find this hot.”
“Most girls don’t mouth off this much.”
“Aw,” she coos. “So I’m special.”
I snort quietly despite myself, tightening my grip slightly when she nearly slips again from moving too much.
“You know,” she says conversationally from over my shoulder, “this is exactly how girls end up chopped into little pieces on true crime podcasts.”
“You talk too much.”
“You like it.”
Unfortunately?
Yeah.
I really fucking do.
Her fingers drag lazily against the back of my shirt while I carry her upstairs like she weighs nothing, and every second of it feels way too familiar already.
The smell of her perfume mixes with smoke and sweat and the leftover heat from the bike ride, crawling under my skin in a way that makes it hard to remember why staying away from her was ever supposed to be a good idea.
By the time I unlock the apartment door and set her back on her feet, she’s grinning at me like she won something.
Cocky little addict.
She wanders inside immediately, looking around while I shut the door behind us.