Chapter 28
Noah
I’m too focused on trying to survive the ride that I don’t pay attention to the streets whipping by in a blur of neon lights and shadowed alleys.
The city’s pulse throbs outside the cracked windshield, horns blaring faintly in the distance, but it all fades to white noise against the agony in my ribs.
Only when Bea finally slams on the brakes, the car shuddering to a halt, do I snap back to reality. I glance around, squinting through the dim streetlamps, and realize this isn’t my building. Not even close.
Whipping my head around—too fast, sending a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over me—I spot the street name etched on a weathered signpost. Bea’s address. It’s seared into my brain from her personnel file, the one I’ve glanced over more times than I care to admit.
“Do you live here?” The words come out with more judgment than I planned, but the cat is out of the bag. I’m not happy with what I’m seeing.
This neighborhood is rough. It’s no place for a young woman to walk home at night from work. How long does it take her to get here in the evening when we finish late? Who else must be roaming the streets at that hour with her?
Her chin lifts proudly as she shuts off the engine, the car falling silent except for a faint ticking from the cooling motor. “Yes, I do.”
I’ve hit a nerve. Good. Maybe it’ll make her think twice about putting herself in danger like she did tonight.
She jumps out of the car with a huff, slamming the door behind her, and I follow suit—not as swiftly.
The crazy ride must have aggravated my concussion because a wave of dizziness slams into me like a sucker punch, blurring the edges of my vision.
I grab the side of the car to steady myself, my knuckles whitening against the chipped yellow paint, fighting the urge to crumple to the sidewalk.
Bea is at my side in an instant, her small hand hovering near my arm. “Are you okay?” Concern softens her voice, which cuts through the haze in my head.
I push her helping hand away, straightening my back with a grunt that I hope masks the pain. “Get inside and text me.”
“What?” Her smooth forehead wrinkles in confusion, her brows knitting together under the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp.
“Get inside, Beatrice, so I can go home.” I need space, distance from her—from the way her presence is twisting my thoughts into knots. And a shower. I need a fucking shower and some Tylenol.
Her eyes narrow, that stubborn fire igniting once again as she places her hands on her hips. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Yeah?” My chuckle is dark, bitter, echoing off the empty street. “What did you expect me to do?”
“Well.” She crosses her arms over her chest, taking an unyielding stance.
“At first, I thought I’d get you an Uber from here because I don’t know how to drive to your place.
But seeing you now.” She gestures at me with a shake of her head while her gaze sweeps over my battered form.
“You’ll stay here until Ezra comes to get you. ”
“No,” I cut her off, the word sharp as a blade.
“What do you mean no?”
“Ezra can’t know about this.” I step closer to her, invading her space, the proximity sending that unwelcome spark through me despite the pain. “And you won’t tell him.”
“Huh, that’s your dirty little secret,” she says gleefully, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “He doesn’t know about the fighting.”
I lean into her face, the sudden movement churning my stomach with nausea. “You will not tell a soul about that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” She doesn’t back down, her breath warm against my skin, challenging me.
“Because I—” I want to say a lot more—threaten her with her job, remind her of boundaries, confess how much this secret means to my sanity—but the words die in my throat.
Nausea envelops me in its dizzying grip, and I turn to the side just in time to vomit onto the sidewalk, the acrid bile burning my throat.
Bea jumps backward with a startled gasp before rushing to me, her small hand gently landing on my shoulder as I retch, the world spinning around me.
“I think you need a doctor, Noah. Really.”
Shaking my head, I raise a hand to stop her, wiping my mouth with the back of my other sleeve.
I don’t need a doctor. I’ve been through worse—broken bones, stitches in back alleys after fights in my younger years.
What I need is a few pain pills, ice, and sleep.
Real sleep, away from the adrenaline and chaos.
“Okay, we’re going inside.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.
Once I’m finally done, my stomach empty and aching, she tries to help me up.
I want to push her away, maintain some shred of dignity, but I physically can’t.
My legs feel like jelly, and my vision is still spotty.
So she sneaks under my arm, wrapping hers around my torso with surprising strength, her body warm and steady against mine.
“Let’s go.”
“Don’t call Ezra.” It’s supposed to be an order, but it comes out as a plea.
“Let’s go.” She ignores my request, guiding me toward the door. No doorman, no working intercom—just a battered entrance that doesn’t even close properly, creaking open with a push.
The hallway inside is dimly lit by a single blinking bulb, casting erratic shadows on peeling wall paint and stained floors. The elevator reeks of urine and stale smoke, and I nearly vomit again as the doors screech shut behind us.
Bea presses her floor number, and we ascend in jolting silence with her arm firm on my back and her shoulder bearing some of my weight. I don’t lean fully into her—I won’t burden her like that—but the contact feels comforting, so I let myself enjoy it while it lasts.
The elevator dings, and we step into another silent hallway with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. We don’t talk as she leads me to her door, her keys jingling softly in her hand. She unlocks it with a click, and we step inside.
Only for me to fucking freeze.
Because this sure as hell isn’t where she lives. At least, it shouldn’t be. The place is the size of a shoebox—quite literally. As we both step inside, there’s barely space for anything else. If I turn around too quickly, I’d probably smack into one of the walls.
In front of me, squeezed between two plain walls with a decent-sized window high up, is a queen-size bed, its length fitting exactly from wall to wall like it was built into the room.
To the left, there’s a tiny sink, a couple of cabinets that look like they’ve seen better days, and a smattering of personal items: a mug here, a book there, a folded blanket.
That’s it. No actual kitchen, no living area—just a cramped space.
“Keep moving,” she reminds me, her voice gentle but firm, nudging me forward.
“Where?”
“To the bed,” she replies, irritation creeping in as she closes the door behind us.
I make a move toward it, but she yanks on my sleeve. “Shoes.”
“Sorry.” I kick them off awkwardly, leaving them by the door, and shuffle to the bed, glancing at her uncertainly. “What do I do?”
“Sit on it and wait for me.”
“Is there anywhere else I can sit?” The idea of sitting on her bed feels too intimate, too personal—like crossing the line we’ve both been tiptoeing around. Something that shouldn’t be done in these circumstances.
“Floor.” She points at her feet with a wry smile. “Help yourself.”
Bed it is. I carefully lower myself onto the very edge, making the mattress dip under my weight, and stare at her, trying to ignore that the room smells like her and that the scent is creeping into my nose to take up permanent residence.
“I’m going to start a shower. Take off your shirt, I’ll check the damage.”
She pulls open a door I hadn’t noticed before—tucked into the wall like a secret—and flicks on the light inside.
Water starts running soon after, and the sound echoes in the tiny space.
I didn’t even realize she had a bathroom here because the place is so compact, everything packed in like a puzzle box.
How does she live like this? Day in, day out, in this confined world?
When she comes back, I’m still sitting in the same position, shirt on, frozen by the absurdity of the place and situation.
“Shirt, Noah,” she orders, snapping her fingers with a no-nonsense air.
“Yeah.” I rise to my feet, wincing, and take the shirt off slowly, pulling away the fabric that’s still damp from half-dried blood and sweat.
She takes only two steps to stand right in front of me while her watchful eyes assess the damage.
I already know there are no cuts on my body—the hits were blunt, flesh cushioning bone.
But my face is another story. The cut on my forehead has been oozing since the car ride, and it’ll gush anew under hot water.
“Do you have an extra toothbrush?” I ask, standing in front of the shower in only my pants while the steam fogs the mirror.
“Yeah.” She rushes to one of the cabinets in the makeshift kitchen area, rummaging inside before handing me a new one. Then she retreats to the bed, giving me space.
As I step under the hot stream, my bones nearly cry out in relief—and pain. The water pounds against my bruises and turns the drain red with diluted blood.
The hits I took today were nasty. I’ve always been one of the winners in the ring, rarely losing even to bigger guys because I’m one angry motherfucker, and my rage makes up for size.
I’ve always been good at dodging too, so hits to the face are rare.
But not tonight. Tonight, I got distracted—by her wide eyes in the crowd—and paid for it against that sack of bricks.
It’s going to hurt for weeks, and the healing will be slow and frustrating, which means I can’t go back into the ring anytime soon.
And now, with my face looking like ground meat, there’s no way I can avoid telling Ezra. Everyone will know. But not tonight. Tonight, I just need a break from the world.