Chapter Fourteen
Blair
The drive back to the apartment feels unreal.
The city blurs past outside the windshield in smeared neon and wet pavement while my entire body vibrates somewhere between adrenaline, drugs, and delayed panic. My ears still ring from gunshots.
Every time headlights flash too brightly across the glass, I flinch.
Noir notices every single time.
Because apparently even post-gang-war, half-traumatized, definitely-still-high Blair cannot have one private nervous system malfunction without one of these men clocking it like emotional surveillance is a hobby.
His hand keeps reaching across the console, fingers tightening around my knee like he’s grounding himself more than me.
Mina sits in the backseat unnaturally quiet for once, glitter smeared beneath her eyes while blood dries dark across one sleeve of her jacket.
Not hers, I don’t think.
At least I hope not.
Honestly, at this point, who fucking knows? The night’s been a real choose-your-own-trauma adventure. Murder bathroom. Rave shooting. Parking lot kidnapping attempt. Platform heel assault. Very diverse itinerary.
Ten out of ten for variety. Negative stars for emotional stability.
Nobody talks for the first few minutes.
The car smells like smoke, sweat, and whatever pills are still dissolving slowly through my bloodstream, because apparently my body has decided now is a great time to keep buffering reality instead of loading the full horror package all at once.
Rude, but appreciated.
I keep replaying the parking lot over and over in my head.
The screaming.
The bodies.
The guy grabbing Mina.
The sound my platform made hitting his skull.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I beat a man with my shoe.
Like, not metaphorically.
Not in a cute girls-night-out way. I weaponized footwear like Happy fucking Gilmore, rave edition.
Somewhere, my ancestors are either proud or deeply concerned.
“You okay?” Noir asks finally.
His voice sounds rougher than usual.
Tighter.
I look toward him slowly.
He’s gripping the steering wheel hard enough his knuckles have gone pale beneath his tattoos while city lights flicker across the sharp lines of his face. There’s blood dried beneath his jaw that definitely isn’t his.
“You look like shit,” I mumble.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly.
“Helpful.”
“I’m serious.” My voice sounds floaty even to me. “You look like you murdered somebody.”
Silence.
Then Mina snorts softly into the passenger seat.
“Babe.”
“What?”
“Judging by the fact you’re still holding a blood-covered platform like a murder accessory, I’m gonna go ahead and guess you definitely murdered somebody too.”
Fair.
I sink lower into the backseat afterward, forehead resting briefly against the cold window while downtown Severance Point slides past outside in black glass and neon reflections.
My body still hasn’t caught up to reality yet.
Everything feels too sharp and too distant at the same time.
Like I’m still standing in the rave bathroom staring at Miss Georgia peach’s body folded beside that disgusting fucking toilet.
The thought makes nausea twist suddenly through my stomach.
Noir notices immediately from beside me, his hand tightening around my knee while his eyes flick briefly from the road to my face.
“You gonna puke?”
“Maybe.”
His jaw flexes, attention cutting back to the street while his thumb presses firmer into my skin.
“Breathe through it.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re holding your breath.”
Oh.
Rude of him to be right.
I drag in a shaky inhale, but it scrapes weirdly through my chest, too thin to be useful.
Noir’s hand slides a little higher on my thigh, not sexual, just grounding. Possessive in the way he always is, like if he keeps his palm there, the whole world has to think twice before touching me again.
“Stay with me,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.” His voice drops lower. “Just keep doing that.”
Mina laughs quietly from the backseat.
The sound helps. A little.
Noir pulls up outside Mina’s building fifteen minutes later, tires hissing over wet pavement before the car eases to the curb. For a second, nobody moves.
His hand is still on my knee.
Not soft exactly.
More like he forgot to let go.
Behind us, Mina leans forward between the seats, quiet now that the adrenaline has started to wear thin.
“You scared the shit out of me tonight,” she says.
Something tight twists in my chest.
“You literally could’ve died,” Noir says, voice low and tight. “Do you not understand that? This isn’t a fucking game.”
“Yeah, well, we didn’t.” Mina’s voice is smaller from the backseat, but she still tries to force some attitude into it. “I got her out safely, didn’t I? Like the amazing babysitter I said I was.”
Noir’s jaw flexes.
Mina points weakly toward the windshield. “Besides, last I checked, you guys were the ones getting shot at.”
That shuts me up fast.
Noir stares straight ahead, fingers flexing once against my knee like he’s trying very hard not to lose it completely.
“You should’ve stayed in the fucking apartment like you were told.”
I glance at him. “Noir—”
“No.” His voice stays low, controlled, and dangerous. “Don’t.”
Mina exhales shakily from the backseat. “Jesus, Debbie Downer, okay. I know it was stupid. But can you blame me for trying to help her breathe for five minutes? She was suffocating in there.”
Noir laughs once under his breath.
There’s nothing amused in it.
“Stupid doesn’t even remotely cover what you did.”
Silence presses into the car.
The city hums outside the windows. Somewhere far off, sirens cut through the night, fading in and out between the buildings.
“Holy fuck, its not all on her. I wanted to fucking go,” I say quietly.
His eyes flick to me.
“Oh I know.”
Two words.
Still enough to sting.
His hand tightens around my knee, then loosens like he catches himself.
“That’s the problem, Blair. You always want to go. You always want noise, drugs, lights, strangers, anything that feels like freedom for five fucking minutes.” His voice drops rougher. “And tonight, that almost got you killed. Again.”
I look down at my lap.
No smart-ass comeback arrives.
Rude of my personality to abandon me in my time of need.
Mina shifts behind us. “I didn’t think Dante’s guys would be there.”
“No one ever thinks,” Noir says, eyes back on the windshield. “That’s usually how people end up dead.”
Mina doesn’t answer.
Neither do I.
Because what the fuck do you say to that?
Sorry we went dancing and accidentally triggered a shootout?
Feels weak.
Noir drags a hand over his mouth, then finally looks at Mina in the rearview mirror.
“Get inside,”
She nods immediately, but before she opens the door, she leans forward and squeezes my shoulder.
“Text me tomorrow, okay?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, I will, and thanks, for tonight.”
Her fingers linger for one second before she pulls back, opens the door and steps onto the sidewalk, shutting the door behind her. Noir watches her cross the wet pavement and disappear into the lobby.
He waits until the door closes behind her.
Then he locks the car.
The click sounds way too fucking loud thanks to the drugs assaulting my system right now.
I stare at the dashboard.
My skin still feels too hot from the high, too cold from everything else.
The second we pull away from the curb, the silence comes back.
Heavier this time.
I stare out the window while the city glows black and electric around us.
My high’s fading now.
Not completely.
But enough that reality starts creeping back in ugly pieces.
Dagger.
Still out there.
Still bleeding somewhere.
Still fighting.
Anxiety twists violently through my ribs.
“Noir…”
“I know.”
His grip tightens harder around the steering wheel.
“He’ll come back.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Too certain.
Again.
The answer settles strangely beneath my skin while Noir pulls into the underground garage beneath Dagger’s building.
Everything suddenly feels too quiet after the rave.
Too still.
The elevator ride upstairs feels worse.
No bass.
No screaming crowds.
Just fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while my pulse pounds violently in my ears.
Noir keeps glancing toward me every couple seconds like he’s checking I’m still standing.
The second we step into the apartment, the silence almost hurts.
I didn’t realize how loud the night had been until now.
My body feels shaky suddenly.
Wrong.
Noir notices immediately.
“Hey.”
I look toward him slowly.
His expression softens slightly while he steps closer.
“You’re safe.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because I don’t feel safe.
I feel cracked open.
I feel like Severance Point swallowed me whole tonight and spat me back out wrong somehow.
My eyes burn unexpectedly.
“Oh no,” I mutter immediately. “Absolutely not. We are not crying right now.”
Noir’s mouth twitches faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Then he reaches up slowly and pushes damp pink hair back from my face.
His fingers feel cold against my overheated skin.
“You’re still high.”
“No shit.”
Noir’s jaw tightens, and he tips my chin up carefully, forcing my eyes to meet his. His gaze sharpens immediately as he studies my blown pupils, the too-fast flutter of my lashes, the way I keep blinking like the room won’t sit still long enough to behave.
“What did you take?”
I lift one shoulder, which feels weirdly detached from the rest of me.
“Pills.”
His stare hardens.
“Blair.”
“What? I don’t know.” I swallow, then add, because apparently honesty has chosen a terrible time to become a personality trait, “Definitely more than I should’ve.”
Something dark flashes across his face.
Anger.
Fear.
Shit probably both.
His thumb presses lightly beneath my chin, keeping me focused on him.
“Of course you did.”
“That feels judgmental.”
“Thats because it is.”