Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Alaric
The room is draped in a shadow, the only light coming from the soft glow of the lamp on my nightstand and the occasional glint off the cards as they flicker between my fingers. I riffle the deck, letting the edges slip and align fluidly, then move into a cascade shuffle, letting the cards flow like water from one hand to the other. I finish with a one-handed cut and a bridge flourish, the shuffle a practiced whisper in the dark.
My hands move on autopilot, the cards snapping and folding in ways that used to mesmerize people once upon a time. Now, my only audience is Jinx, who lies curled up on the bed, her eyes half-lidded with boredom.
“All right,” I say, fanning out the deck. “Pick a card.” Jinx blinks lazily at me, her eyes reflecting the dim light as if considering my request. She flicks her tail, the tip brushing against the card on the far right. “That one, huh?” I hold it out to her. “Don’t tell me what it is.”
I slip the card back into the deck, shuffling quickly. After a moment, I pull a card from the middle of the deck and hold it up with a flourish. “Is this your card? ”
She barely flicks an ear, giving the card the most unimpressed look I’ve ever seen before closing her eyes altogether. “Oh, come on, at least pretend to be amazed.” I huff out a quiet laugh, slipping the card back. “Tough crowd,” I add, setting the deck aside.
The sharp ping of my phone shatters the stillness, and I glance at the screen. It’s a message from Brat. At least, that’s what I saved her contact as. Now I know she calls herself Glitter , and that name is a damn joke meant to get under my skin, just like everything else about her.
It’s been two days since she was here, and I haven’t heard from her since, yet she’s still in my head. Her laugh. I only caught the sound while she was outside with Sylus. It’s almost too soft to hear, yet somehow, it echoes in my mind, messing with my thoughts.
It’s maddening.
I see it for what it is. Karma . A haunting echo, twisted up by Glitter and whatever ghost she’s managed to awaken.
My girlfriend’s face flickers in my mind, a reminder of what I lost or how wrong this is. I shouldn’t be thinking about someone else.
Yet here I am, opening our message thread while my heart rate picks up.
Do you know stuff about parkour perhaps?
I tap my fingers against the edge of the phone, feeling the ghost of a smile pull at my lips.
Why does she always come wrapped in chaos?
Why in the world?
My super well-thought-out plan worked yesterday, and Nicholas sought me out at the gym.
He asked me on a date or rather a coffee. First, he wants to show me parkour stuff. And I like to be prepared.
Sorry, I don’t have a clue about parkour.
Unless you count dodging idiots in this house as practice.
I grin, the memory of the last time I narrowly avoided a collision with Sylus flashing through my mind.
Parkour, my ass.
Ha-ha.
Some of us have standards. And that includes not jumping off buildings.
I stretch out on the bed, one arm behind my head, the other holding the phone. My pulse is steadying, the familiar back-and-forth with her easing the tension in my chest, replacing it with warmth.
That’s a shame. I thought you might have a secret ‘bad boy who does parkour at night’ vibe. Guess not.
Did you just ask if I’m secretly Batman?
Maybe
If I were, you’d be the last to know.
She takes a moment to reply, and I can practically feel her eye roll through the screen.
Anyway, can you be serious? I need some help.
Here’s a pointer: don’t break your neck.
So useful. Thank you.
I try.
A pause. Her next message has a hint of… nerves?
I don’t want to look like a complete idiot in front of him.
Why? Planning to impress him with a front flip?
More like planning not to trip over my feet and land on him.
Although that could be fun if I got us both naked first.
Fuck.
My mind drifts to the selfie she sent me—that damn dress hugging every perfect curve. I swallow hard, and at the same time, my dick says hello. I reach down to squeeze it, but that only triggers my guilty conscience, telling me to stop this shit.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to deflect with humor.
Now, that would be impressive.
Classic first date move.
I wait.
A minute.
Then two.
Then five.
When no answer comes, my mind drifts back. I scroll up to our last conversation. The twins’ birthday. The night she got hurt. A knot tightens in my chest, and before I can second-guess myself, I start typing.
I’m sorry you got hurt Saturday.
I would’ve never agreed to that if I’d known.
It takes her only seconds to reply like she’s been waiting, phone in hand.
It’s fine. It wasn’t that bad.
I close my eyes, clenching my jaw. Not that bad? My fingers move faster than my thoughts.
He hit you.
It was just a backhand.
… or two.
Like that makes it better somehow.
The words on the screen tighten the already thick coil of anger in my chest. My reply is a knee-jerk reaction, unable to soften it.
Do you even hear yourself?
Difficult if I’m texting :)
She’s pulling it back into a joke, trying to shake it off. Only, this isn’t something I can joke about, not for her and definitely not for myself.
I can’t stand women getting hurt.
Why? Did your daddy hit your mommy ?
I jolt. Apparently, the harder she tries to deflect, the darker her humor gets.
I’m more than familiar with that.
I didn’t have a mommy.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering, my mind flickering over the reality of how much I’d rather forget.
Me neither.
A pause stretches. Somehow, it makes sense that we’re talking like this—two strangers with no one else around and no eyes on us. This conversation is as bare and dark as my room. I send the next part without a second thought.
I only had a dad.
I’m a foster kid.
It seems we’re trading scars, opening up wounds to see if there’s anything we recognize in each other.
Why don’t you like women getting hurt?
It sounded like there is more to that than common sense and morals.
The question feels heavier than it looks. Before I can rethink it, my fingers take over as if they need to get it out.
I killed my girlfriend.
Unintentionally.
I can’t look at the screen. That truth is an open wound I’m showing her, and quiet terror settles in my gut as I brace for the judgment, the disgust.
This is where she’ll go silent.
This is where she’ll be done with me.
My phone vibrates, and it has my heart jumping to my throat.
I’m sorry for your loss.
A shaky breath expels from me as I reread the text. There’s no accusation, no fear.
That’s not how most people react to that.
Most see me as a monster.
The next text takes a little longer to come, but when it does, each word hits like a punch I never saw coming.
I killed my boyfriend in an accident.
I freeze as I try to process it, not knowing what to feel. Part of me wants to laugh at the dark irony, but mostly, there’s this hollow ache in my chest. She’s not messing with me. She’s not playing along. She’s been there in that same pit of grief and guilt.
Is she someone who could actually understand ?
I’m sorry for your loss too.
I’m sorry for the pain you have to live with.
It’s a lonely pain.
It is. It’s the truth that keeps me trapped inside these walls since her death. And here is Glitter, admitting it with a raw honesty that leaves me feeling more exposed than I have in years.
I don’t think. I just type.
I could be your friend.
My heart pounds, waiting until the screen finally lights up again.
Doubt you can handle me.
I grin as I shoot back.
Try me.
Be careful what you wish for.
Ever since our first text exchange, we’ve established this push-and-pull energy that leaves me teetering between irritation and intrigue. Like a hook sunk in deep, yanking me closer, even when every instinct tells me to stay guarded.
She reminds me of my life before everything went to shit.
Before I became anchored in a past I can’t undo, where I live in silence and darkness, and every second drags on endlessly. The way she flits between light and heavy has that same easy rhythm I used to know, which I thought I’d lost forever. It’s like when she slipped into my life, she immediately found and tugged at some part of myself I thought was gone, dragging me out of the darkness, coaxing something real and reckless from the numbness.
A part of me balks at that. There’s a reason I stopped letting people get close. I know better than anyone that letting her in means dragging up a lot I’ve tried to bury. And thinking about her, this random stranger who’s starting to feel a little less like one, brings a gut punch of guilt, the kind that gnaws, settles in your bones, and makes you question everything.
Am I betraying her memory by even feeling this way?
I remember my girl’s laugh, and how she made me feel like I was worth something, like I was alive . And I can still see her, clear as day. Every laugh, every damn moment we shared is etched in my mind. If I let myself feel anything , does it mean I’m leaving her behind?
Then, Glitter , this woman, whatever name she’s hiding behind, somehow makes me remember that feeling. She’s waking something I didn’t think could be stirred again, cracking open the rusted lock on a door I’ve been too afraid to open.
And I’m not sure I want to slam it shut.
The first breath of fresh air I’ve had in longer than I’m willing to admit is as refreshing as it is terrifying.
I stare at her message, my finger hovering, torn between closing this off and leaning further in. It would be easier to lock this down to keep things quiet and safe. But tonight, safe feels too much like death.
And I guess I do actually want to be alive.
I think I want to take that risk, Brat.
A second passes. My heart hammers as her typing bubble appears, then pauses and flickers again. She’s making me wait. It’s maddening, but it’s better than silence.
Then maybe it’s time to come out and play, Captain Bossy.
I blink at the screen, and the message settles inside me like a dare.
I set my phone down. It’s been so damn long since anyone called me out like that .
And now?
The idea of sitting around and staying locked in here starts to feel too claustrophobic. Maybe all this time I’ve been waiting for something or someone to remind me that there’s a world outside these walls, a life I could still have.
I close my eyes, her words echoing in my head.
Then maybe it’s time to come out and play.
I might just try.