Chapter 17 #2
I scratch it out and try again. A woman on a train. Going somewhere. Running from something. Generic. Safe. Boring.
Professor Montley would hate it.
I lean back and flip through Bird by Bird instead, looking for inspiration.
The pages fall open to a passage I've underlined three times, the ink faded from how often I've returned to it.
Something about giving yourself permission to write a shitty first draft.
About silencing the voices that tell you you're not good enough.
Easy for her to say. She doesn't have Linda's voice permanently lodged in her skull.
I force myself back to the notebook. Write a paragraph. It's bad, but it exists. Write another. Worse, but at least it's words on a page. Momentum. That's all I need. Just keep the pen moving and eventually something will click.
An hour passes. Maybe more. I lose track, which is rare for me and almost nice.
The pain fades to background noise when I'm focused.
My hand cramps. The notebook fills with fragments—half-formed scenes, dialogue that goes nowhere, descriptions of places I've never been.
None of it is the assignment. All of it is practice.
My body continues to remind me of its condition between bursts of focus. The ache between my legs has settled into a constant throb. My muscles are stiff and sore. And underneath it all, something else is building. That heat that's been flickering through me for days. Getting stronger.
Pre-heat.
I know that's what it is. Know that my body is gearing up for something I can't stop.
I have maybe four weeks. Maybe less.
Four weeks until I go into full heat in a house with three alphas who already can't control themselves around me.
Four weeks until everyone knows what I am.
Four weeks until my life falls apart completely.
I push the thought away. Bury it deep. I can't deal with that right now. Can barely deal with getting through today.
I'm mid-sentence—something about the way light moves through water, which is probably too poetic for a five-thousand-word short story but feels right in the moment—when a voice cuts through the silence.
"You're in my spot."
My eyes fly open.
Bane.
He's standing in the doorway, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing jeans and a henley that clings to the muscle of his arms. There's a book in his hand—something thick, nonfiction by the look of it.
"I didn't know you could read," I say.
The words come out before I can stop them. Sharp. Defensive. Bracing for attack.
Bane's eyes narrow. For a heartbeat, I see the flash of the guy who told me I was nothing. The one who could cut me to pieces with words.
Then he huffs. Almost a laugh.
"Cute," he says. "Move over."
"What?"
"The other chair is shit. This one has the best light." He gestures at the window beside me. "Move over or I'm sitting on you."
He's not going to sit on me. That's ridiculous.
But I shift anyway, pressing myself into the corner of the oversized chair, making room.
Bane drops onto the other side.
The chair is big—meant for two, probably, or for one person who wants to sprawl—but he's big too. Our shoulders are inches apart. I can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell him—amber and sandalwood and something sharper underneath. Sea salt, maybe. Fresh and clean.
My pulse kicks up.
What is he doing? Why is he sitting here? Why isn't he being cruel?
Bane opens his book and starts reading like this is completely normal. Like he didn't just voluntarily put himself in my space. Like we're just two people sharing a chair in a library.
I stare at him.
He ignores me.
Minutes pass.
The silence isn't awkward, exactly. It's more... charged. Like there's something building in the air between us, something neither of us is willing to acknowledge.
My eyes drift to his hands. Long fingers. Clean nails. The way they hold the book—firm but not gripping. Controlled.
I think about Zero's hands. The way they grabbed. Bruised. Took.
Bane's hands are different. Steadier.
I don't know why I'm thinking about his hands.
"You're staring."
I jerk my gaze away. "No, I'm not."
"You are." He doesn't look up from his book. "It's weird."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just stop."
I stare at the opposite wall instead. Try to breathe normally. Try not to think about how close he is or how he smells or how this is the longest I've been in the same room as him without wanting to cry or scream.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
The question escapes before I can catch it. Blunt. Desperate.
Bane's page-turning pauses.
"I'm not being nice."
"You're not being cruel. That's an improvement."
He's quiet for a long moment. Long enough that I think he's not going to answer.
"I said some shit I shouldn't have," he finally says. His voice is low. Still not looking at me. "At dinner. After."
"You mean when you told me I was nothing?"
"Yeah." The word is tight. "That."
"Was it a lie?"
He looks at me then. Those hazel eyes sharp and searching.
"I don't know yet," he says honestly. "But I shouldn't have said it."
It's not an apology. Not really. But it's something.
More than I expected.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
We sit in silence for another few minutes. Him reading. Me existing.
Then my phone buzzes. A text from Margot saying they're on their way home.
"I should go," I say, starting to push myself up—
My hand slips.
I don't know if it's exhaustion or the awkward angle or my body just giving out, but suddenly I'm falling sideways, flailing, about to crash off the chair—
Bane catches me.
His hand wraps around my arm—firm, steadying, warm—and pulls me back before I can faceplant onto the hardwood floor.
We freeze.
His face is inches from mine. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his irises, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his pupils dilate as he breathes in.
Breathes in.
His nostrils flare.
Something shifts in his expression. Cracks open. His grip on my arm tightens.
"What—" His voice comes out rough. Wrong. He swallows hard. "What the fuck is that?"
He can smell it.
Whatever's leaking through my failing suppressants. Whatever's building in my body. He can smell it.
Panic floods through me.
"Nothing," I say, pulling back, pulling away, scrambling to my feet even though it hurts. "I have to go."
"Max—"
"Thanks for catching me."
I don't run.
But I walk very, very fast.
And I don't look back.