Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
B oyfriend. The word tastes bitter.
She flushes, and I know.
Of course I know.
She’s not ready to say it—not out loud—but her body gives her away. The way her breath catches. The way her eyes won’t meet mine. She’s not committed to the line she’s feeding me.
“I need to go,” she stammers, her voice as thin as paper.
I don’t move. I hold the silence, let it hang heavy between us. Sometimes, serenity speaks louder than force, and her stance right now is speaking volumes. She stares up at me, green eyes rounded.
“Please?” she adds, and it lands like a match to dry grass—soft, but begging to burn. It’s not defiance. It’s not even resistance. It’s surrender dressed up in the illusion of choice.
Something twists behind my ribs, and I don’t like it.
I step back—not because I want to but because I have to.
She breathes again, like I’ve been holding the air hostage. I let her go, but only for now.
The walk through the building is silent. She doesn't speak. Neither do I. Words would only muddy what we already understand. I open the car remotely and the Mercedes blinks in the dim light of the garage. She slides into the passenger seat like she doesn’t know if she belongs there.
She does.
She will.
Inside, the air smells like it always does—leather, smoke, and the residual scent of violence; the life I’ve built. She flinches when I drop the gun in the glove box. I don’t apologize. I don’t explain. I just shift into drive and take off.
I can feel her gaze like static on my skin as we peel out of the parking lot. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. Probably doesn’t want the answer. Smart girl .
The city bleeds past us as the Mercedes picks up speed. I know every street, every alley, every way in and out of this city. It’s my kingdom, and she’s moving through it like a tourist who accidentally wandered into the lion’s den.
When we stop outside her building, I kill the engine, but neither of us moves at first. The silence stretches, thick with everything we’re not saying.
She finally unbuckles her seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride,” she says softly, not quite meeting my eyes.
There’s something brittle in her voice. Controlled. Distant. Like she’s already halfway out the door in her head.
“You’re welcome,” I murmur, watching her too closely, like if I look hard enough, I’ll figure out what the fuck she’s thinking.
She pauses, hand still on the handle. “You know, all of this would be a lot easier if you just told me everything?”
My jaw tightens. “I told you before…”
“Yeah, yeah,” she huffs. “You don’t want to incriminate anyone else.”
That gets her eyes on me—sharp, tired, guarded.
“You don’t get to push, Cassidy.”
“I’m not pushing, I’m just…” She huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, but it’s humorless. “Nevermind.”
Her fingers tighten on the door, like she’s bracing herself for something. Or maybe just for staying a second longer than she wants to.
I lean back in my seat, watching her carefully. “You don’t need to be scared of me.”
My words land hard, causing her face to flicker with something unreadable. “I’m not scared of you,” she grumbles, pushing the door open. With one final glance over her shoulder, she pins me with words I didn’t expect to hear from her. “Maybe it’s you who’s afraid.”
She gets out without another word, the slam of it hitting me harder than it should. I watch her walk to her building, every step stiff with purpose, like if she stops moving, I might pull her back in.
I shouldn’t want her like this.
But I do.
I sit there, gripping the wheel while her words echo in my chest. I’ve never been afraid of anything, not even the promise of a blade against my skin or a bullet to my flesh. But for the first time ever, I feel the simmer of something much more fragile work its way through my veins.
I ’ve been sitting on Cassie’s words for two days now.
Letting them fester. Letting them claw through the armor I’ve spent years building around myself.
Fear isn’t something I’m familiar with—not in the traditional sense.
I’ve walked into shootouts without flinching.
I’ve stood face to face with men who wanted me dead and didn’t blink.
Fear, for me, has always been something other people felt. Civilians. Targets. Victims.
I’m neither of those, so what I’m feeling right now is alien. I know I need to trust her, but I also need to be sure I’m not setting myself up for failure.
I spot her the second she steps out into the cold, wind whipping at her coat as she battles the change in weather. Her eyes scan the street like she’s hoping I won’t be here. When she sees the SUV, she stiffens.
Good .
The window beside me glides down, and for a second, her gaze snags mine—wide-eyed, guarded. She tugs her coat tighter like it’s armor. I wonder if she realizes how readable she is when she’s trying not to be.
Slowly, she crosses the pavement, like she’s weighing every step. I keep my expression neutral, but I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. She’s nervous. She should be. Hell, I was nervous when I got the letter this morning.
“We don’t have a meeting, Axel,” she calls out, voice sharp as the wind slices between us.
“Correct,” I answer, deadpan. But I can’t help the faint amusement tugging at me. Feisty. I like that. She doesn’t understand yet that control doesn’t always need to be shouted. Sometimes, it just waits, anticipating the next move.
“So, what are you doing here?” she asks, clinging to the SUV when a gust nearly knocks her sideways. I roll my eyes and pop the door open, guiding her to the heated seat with more care than I probably should show.
“I take it you haven’t heard?” I mutter once the door thuds shut.
“Heard what?” There’s fear in her voice now. Not for herself, but something in her tone says she’s already anticipating the worst.
“I have an arraignment in two weeks.”
Her eyes go wide. “No! They can’t!”
I watch her scramble through her bag like a woman possessed. She’s panicking, movements rushes, lips moving faster than her thoughts.
“Well— ”
“Cassie.”
“I mean, technically they can?—”
“Cassie.”
“But they have to notify your attorney and?—”
“Cassie.”
“Shit.”
There it is. That moment when the storm of her thoughts catches up to her, crashes into the wall of reality.
I hand her the letter. The bold black date screams off the page and she shakes her head, blinking hard.
I know that look. It’s someone trying to rearrange a picture that’s too distorted.
She doesn’t want to believe it. She doesn’t want it to be real. But it is.
“Axel, I need you to sign something,” she says suddenly, like flipping a switch. Now she’s all business; fast, and focused, her fingers flying through her phone.
“I’m not signing shit.”
“You are.” She thrusts the screen at me. “Here.”
I scan it quickly. It’s all legal crap that I don’t bother to read. I don’t like being told what to do—even less when I feel cornered.
“What is this?”
“Confirmation that I’m your attorney.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I curse under my breath, but she keeps pressing, those green eyes silently pleading.
“I can’t represent you if you don’t sign it. And the court knows it. Whoever’s behind this? They know you haven’t assigned a lawyer yet.”
I sigh, jaw clenched. She's not wrong, and I hate that. I hate being in anyone’s pocket—especially someone who thinks they can manage me.
She rests her hand on my arm. “Trust me.”
Trust . It’s a dangerous word. Sharp around the edges, like glass you think you can hold onto until it slices deep.
People throw it around like it's nothing, but I know better.
Trust gets you killed. Or worse—it exposes you.
It leaves you vulnerable, makes you dependent on someone who might not catch you when you fall.
I’ve seen what trust costs. I've paid the price in blood, silence, and scars no one ever sees.
So when she says it— “Trust me” —I don’t hear comfort. I hear a loaded gun.
And still… I’m tempted to pull the trigger.
Slowly, deliberately, I sign the document, my finger etching a name that’s already heavy enough.
As I hand the phone back, I hold on just a second too long, leaning in close, close enough to smell the perfume on her skin. It’s sweet, addictive. Pure .
She tries not to react, but I feel her breath hitch.
“If you fuck me over,” I growl, low and close, “You won’t live to see the next day.”
I let go. Her fingers shake when she lifts the phone and taps send.
“You have a copy,” she snaps, tone clipped.
I mutter something else, mostly to keep from saying what I really want to. Like how the sight of her makes my skin itch in ways I don’t understand. How I hate that she rattles me without even trying. It’s in the way she looks at me—calm, steady, like she sees too much. Like she’s not afraid.
And maybe that’s what fucks with me the most.
Most people shrink when I walk into a room. Cassie doesn’t. She lifts her chin, meets my gaze head-on, like she’s daring me to flinch first. And I should hate that. I should shut it down. But instead, it twists something in me—something sharp and primal. Something I don’t have words for.
So I keep my mouth shut. Because if I open it, I might say something reckless. Or worse, honest.
And honesty? That’s just as lethal as trust in my world.
The car rolls to a stop in front of her building, tires crunching over the uneven pavement.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The silence stretches thin between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
Then, with a breath that sounds more like a sigh, she reaches for the handle, fingers curling around it like she’s bracing herself.
I catch the flicker of hesitation in her eyes reflected in the window. She doesn’t look at me. Just stares ahead, jaw tight, shoulders squared like armor.
“It’s locked,” I tell her flatly, already stepping out. I round the car and open her door.
She stares up at me as I hold my hand out for her, and for a second, I see the indecision flicker in her gaze. It’s quick, but it’s there—that moment of hesitation, like she’s weighing something bigger than just taking my hand. Like she’s wondering what it means if she does.
But then her fingers slip into mine. Like she’s not sure stepping out means safety or walking straight into something worse.
It’s a simple gesture, almost insignificant, but it punches the air from my lungs. Her hand is smaller than mine, cold from the wind, but steady. It feels right—strange, but right. Like we’re standing on the edge of something neither of us has a name for.
I guide her out, careful not to pull, just offering support. As soon as her heels hit the pavement and her feet are planted on solid ground, time seems to stall. Everything around us fades—the city noise, the traffic, the whole damn world.
I guide her out, not pulling, just offering my steady, silent support.
The second her heels hit the pavement, something shifts.
It’s like the city holds its breath. The screech of tires, the honk of a cab, the chaos of New York.
It all dulls to a low hum. Just background noise.
Everything narrows to this moment. Her feet on solid ground.
My hand still on hers. And a silence that crackles like a live wire between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
My hand tightens around hers, not to hurt, just to remind. “Fuck me over…” I say again, voice like gravel. A warning she’ll feel long after she walks away from me .
“I heard you the first time,” she replies, eyes flicking away—too fast, like she’s afraid of what she might give away if she holds my gaze a second longer.
She lets go and walks to the entrance, shoulders stiff, and pace confident. She doesn’t look back.
Good .
Because if she did—if she turned around, even for a heartbeat—she might see the way my control fractures the second her back is to me. She might see the way my hand twitches at my side, desperate to grab her, to drag her back where I can see her, where I can own the space between us again.