Chapter 40 Koa
Koa
The engine hums beneath me, a steady growl that vibrates through the steering wheel and up my arms. Highway lights flicker across the cracked windshield in rhythmic intervals—yellow, dark, yellow, dark—hypnotic and disorienting.
My hands grip the wheel hard enough that the scabs across my knuckles split open again, fresh blood seeping through and staining the leather.
I don’t loosen my grip.
Axel closes his eyes in the passenger seat, his head pressed against the window, breath fogging the glass in small circles.
The rehab bracelet is still on his wrist—white plastic with black lettering, a marker of failure and hope existing in the same space.
His face looks younger in sleep, less haunted. Almost peaceful.
Lexi thinks I fucked up his life by making him a dealer, but I did that to keep control over him before Vincent could ruin him.
The second I heard Axel was a junkie though?
I pulled him under my wing and offered him a position to keep him close, to give him a purpose.
As fucked up as that purpose was, it took him a couple years to get lost in it.
Then his sister came into the picture. And thank fuck she did because I think he’d be lost without her.
I hate to admit that I probably would be too.
The silence between us is heavy—too clean, too complete. I don’t trust silence. Silence is where thoughts live, where guilt breeds, where the things you’re running from catch up.
I keep running through the night in my head, frame by frame like a movie I can’t turn off.
Vincent’s voice echoing off warehouse walls.
Lexi’s eyes when she realized what I’d done—the exact moment trust shattered and became something else.
Something uglier. The Reaper masks pouring through the doors like judgment made manifest.
I thought delivering her would free me. Thought fulfilling the debt would cut the chain Vincent had wrapped around my throat since I was fourteen. Instead, it branded me. Marked me as something I never wanted to be—my stepfather’s son in all the ways that matter.
The highway stretches ahead, endless and dark. Exit signs flash past advertising gas stations and diners that are probably closed at this hour. The dashboard clock reads 3:47 AM. The dead hour, when the world holds its breath.
Axel stirs, shifting against the window. His eyes flutter open, unfocused and clouded with residual drugs. He blinks a few times, trying to orient himself.
“Where are we?” His voice is rough, scratchy from disuse.
“Almost back to campus.”
He processes this slowly, staring out at the darkness rushing past. Then his head turns toward me, and there’s something calculating in his expression now. More alert than he was a second ago.
“You sure you wanna bring me there? Thought you people liked hiding your messes.”
I smirk, keeping my eyes on the road. “You’re the least of my messes.”
The words hang between us. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t look away. Just studies me with an intensity that makes my shoulders tense.
“You love her, or you just want to own her?”
The question hits harder than his fist ever could. My jaw flexes, teeth grinding together. I can feel the muscle jumping in my cheek.
“Same thing in my world.”
“No.” His voice is flat, certain. “That’s not love.”
Something in my chest cracks. “Then maybe I don’t deserve to call it that.”
The words slip out before I can pull them back, before I can shove them down where they belong. Admissions in the dark are dangerous—they make things real, give them weight and substance.
Axel exhales, long and heavy. “She trusted you, man.”
“I know.” The words taste like ash.
“I trusted you too, but I know why you did it.”
“You do?”
He nods. “I overheard you one night.”
I narrow my eyes at him. What the fuck is he talking about? He’s been stalking me?
He brushes it off. “You need to fix it.”
I glance at him briefly, then back to the road.
We fall back into silence, but it’s different now. Less hostile. Just two guys driving through the night, both carrying the weight of their failures.
The campus comes into view gradually—first the glow on the horizon, then the outlines of buildings, then the familiar landmarks I’ve memorized over the years.
It looks normal. Too normal. A couple walks past holding hands, laughing about something.
A vending machine near the student center, its fluorescent light harsh against the darkness.
I kill the headlights as I pull into the dorm lot, coasting to a stop in the back where the security cameras have blind spots. Old habit.
“You got a place to crash?”
Axel nods, rubbing his face with both hands like he’s trying to scrub away the last few days. “Yeah. My room’s still mine. Roommate probably thinks I’m dead.”
He reaches for the door handle, pauses. Looks back at me.
“I can’t save you next time, you know.”
I allow myself a small smile. “Thanks.”
Then he’s out of the car, shoulders hunched against the cold, but his steps are steady. I watch him disappear into the dorm building, watch the door close behind him, and catalog it as a small win.
If wins are still possible.
I lean back in the seat, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright for the last twelve hours drains out all at once, leaving me hollow. I pull my hoodie tighter around myself, trying to trap warmth that isn’t there. My breath fogs the glass, obscuring my reflection.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. The screen lights up with a name that makes my stomach drop.
Revan.
I stare at it for three rings, debating. Then answer on the fourth.
“Vincent’s still alive.”
My eyes close. Of course he is. Men like Vincent don’t die easy—they’re too mean, too stubborn, too convinced of their own invincibility.
“Yeah.”
“And he’s not done with you.” Revan’s voice is matter-of-fact, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“He never is.”
The words trigger a memory I’ve been trying to keep buried. I’m fourteen again, standing in Vincent’s garage while he circles me like a predator. Revan’s there too, near fifteen and already wearing that mask of casual indifference he’s perfected.
Vincent’s high—always high—but functional. The worst kind.
“Revan forgot to take out the trash,” Vincent says, his voice deceptively calm. “You do it.”
It’s not a request. It never is.
I do it. Take out the trash, clean the garage, fix whatever Revan broke or forgot or didn’t care about. And when Vincent finds something wrong—a spot I missed, a tool in the wrong place—he doesn’t hit Revan.
He hits me.
“You need to learn responsibility,” he says, his fist connecting with my ribs. “Revan’s got a future. You? You’re lucky I let you breathe my air.”
Revan watches from the doorway. Doesn’t intervene. Doesn’t say a word.
Later, when Vincent passes out, Revan tosses me an ice pack. “Sorry,” he mutters, but he’s already walking away.
That’s how it always went. Revan got away with everything—late nights, bad grades, drug deals that went sideways. Vincent called it “giving him space to grow.” Called it “trusting his judgment.”
I got away with nothing. Every mistake earned a beating. Every success was expected, unremarkable. And somehow, I kept protecting him anyway. Kept taking the hits, kept covering his tracks, kept being the responsible one because someone had to be.
The memory fades and I’m back in my car, phone pressed to my ear, Revan’s voice still talking.
I hang up without saying goodbye.
I stare at the campus lights—warm and golden and promising a normal life I’ll never have. My reflection in the rearview mirror looks older than twenty, harder. There are shadows under my eyes that might be permanent now.
Vincent can have me. Can drag me back into his world, can use me until there’s nothing left. But he doesn’t touch her again. Not after everything.
I start the car, the Charger’s engine roaring to life like it’s been waiting, like it’s hungry for what comes next. I throw it in gear and pull out of the lot, leaving campus behind.
No more debts. I’m fucking done.
Just one more thing to make right, even if it destroys me in the process.
As I accelerate onto the main road, headlights cut across my peripheral vision. A black bike flashes across the opposite lane, heading in the same direction I just came from. I’d recognize that ride anywhere—Oxy’s custom Yamaha, matte black with red accents.
He must have been watching my location, waiting in the parking lot. Making sure I didn’t do anything stupid, or maybe just making sure I made it through the night.
I can always count on him.
The bike disappears behind me as I take the next turn but knowing he’s there—knowing someone has my back even when I don’t deserve it—makes the darkness feel a little less harsh.