Chapter 63
Sixty-Three
ANDREA
Drinking that much was stupid. Selfish. Idiotic. Destructive. Inconsiderate. Pathetic. I deserve to suffer after the shit I pulled last night. Remy, Cade— shit, even Seba— would be better off without me. I’m a tornado, spiraling out of control, destroying everything beautiful in my path.
I hug my knees to my chest, the scalding water splashing at the sides of the tub.
It’s the third time I’ve refilled it. My nerves are frayed wires, sparking wildfires through my core, fueled further by the guilt ravaging my insides.
When the pain gets this bad, I’m useless.
I can’t function. I panic. I shut down. I’m reduced to a singular chant.
Make it stop.
Make it stop.
Make. It. Stop.
My phone vibrates on the tile. I reach over the side of the tub to grab it. An incoming call. From Cade.
Please don’t break up with me.
“Hey, babe, about last night—”
“Where are you?” he interrupts, a twinge of panic in his voice. “I hear water.”
Shit. He hates bathtubs. And water. I shut off the faucet.
“I’m at my apartment.”
“Doing what?”
I stare at the brown stain on the ceiling next to the light. “Turning myself into soup.”
“What?” He sounds positively appalled.
“The only way to calm the burning inside is to boil myself alive.”
“That’s… awful.”
“No, it’s fucking delightful,” I deadpan.
He snorts. “How far is your apartment from Sebastian’s?”
I shoot upright. “Are you with him right now?”
“He had some errands. He’ll be back in a few hours.”
A mix of confusing emotions stews in my gut. Mostly shame for insinuating he had to choose between us.
Rustling. “I think you need to hear him out,” Cade murmurs.
I don’t want to hear him out. Like the lab results— I’m afraid. Afraid that what I’ve believed for years isn’t true. The fact that Cade isn’t angry with him only amplifies that fear. He showed up at the club with Seba, holding hands, for fuck’s sake.
Pangs of guilt hit me again.
Pain has made me bitter. It warps my perception of reality and keeps me stuck in fight or flight— my body on high alert, ringing the sirens, screaming, Protect! We’re injured! We’re not safe! Everything is a threat, especially concerning the church.
And Seba is irrevocably tied to that world. He’s a living, breathing reminder of the trauma carved into my bones.
It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him.
I do.
Missing him makes me violent in the way an injured animal is violent.
Hearing his faint southern lilt say, sweetheart, sends me into a frenzy.
Rejecting him has become a sick form of self-mutilation.
It would be so easy to give in— so easy to fall into him and let his comforting hands hold me together, but I’ve twisted and warped the initial heartbreak into something so hideous, it seems impossible to move past.
Unless…
I’m forced to. And maybe that’s what I’ve been waiting for.
That final push.
Rivulets slough off my pruned skin as I rise from the water.
“Send me the address.”