Chapter 13 #2
"Wasn’t intentional?" Dale interrupts smoothly. "Then tell me why, of all nights, you left with him? Right before the final Chosen ceremony?"
She doesn’t seem angry as I look at her, just honest.
My thoughts spin, flashes of that night rushing back. The secrecy. The urgency. The way Hayden had pulled me away before I could even think to protest.
I never stopped to think what that could mean for Dale, either. I mean, she was his chosen. Considering the pressure my family put on me, I can only imagine she’s under pressure just as much.
“I’ll be honest, it created a lot of problems for me, Martine,” She says lightly, not like she’s upset, really, but like she needs to tell me this, “My parents aren’t happy that Hayden didn’t go through with it, and now I’m going to be assigned to someone else.
It doesn’t look the best, considering I’m a founder’s heir. ” She shrugs.
"It wasn’t—" My voice falters.
Dale studies me, then tilts her head, watching the realization dawn on my face. "I know it wasn’t your fault. These aren’t the kind of men who don’t give us much choice."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
“I mean, you completely missed the ceremony," she continues, her voice almost amused. "And that means they never got to bind you to anyone."
A strange sensation curls in my stomach, part unease, part something I don’t want to name.
"So he’s not bound to you?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dale’s lips curl at the edges. "No."
I freeze, suddenly terrified of the calm that washes over me from her words. Shouldn’t I be terrified of Hayden? Instead, why am I suddenly calmed by the fact that he’s not bound to Dale?
She leans back, stretching like she’s enjoying dragging this out. "He took you, and in doing so, he kept you from Archie and left me with no one."
I stare at her, my mind racing. I can’t fight the sympathy that crosses my face.
"So what does that mean?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dale exhales, her smirk widening. "It means Hayden Herron is still waiting to claim what’s his, and I’m certain it’s not me."
I shift uncomfortably, eyeing Dale with a mix of curiosity and unease. "How do you know so much about me?" I ask, careful to keep my tone light, though the question lingers in the air between us. "I mean, no offense, but it’s a little…unsettling."
Dale’s lips curl into something between a smirk and a secret. She leans in, lowering her voice as if sharing a confession. "Ford and I were close, Dex as well," she murmurs, punctuating it with a slow, knowing wink.
The air in my lungs turns sharp.
Ford. Dex.
The names alone crack something deep inside me, sending me spiraling before I can stop it.
Images flash through my mind, too quick, too raw; Dex’s laughter, the way he ruffled my hair like I was still a kid, the weight of his absence so crushing I can barely breathe.
The grief is instant when I think of Ford, unbearable, clawing at my throat like a scream I refuse to let out.
I blink rapidly, swallowing hard, willing myself not to break down in front of her. Not here. Not now.
Dale watches me, but she doesn’t press. Maybe she sees it, the way I’m fraying at the edges, the way the mention of him is enough to unravel me. Perhaps she knows that some wounds aren’t meant to be reopened.
I force out a breath, gripping the edge of the table to steady myself. "Right," I murmur, my voice barely holding, "that makes sense."
But it doesn’t. None of this does.
Before I’m able to pry for more, she’s packing her cigarettes into her purse and standing to leave. Looks like my third degree is up.
I ask her to borrow a pen and some paper, and then we exchange a quick cheek kiss and go our separate ways to class. Dale is a senior like Hayden. Or Hayden was. I know the Bonesmen don’t really have to attend class. Binding themself to that mausoleum cleared them for life.
The day passes in a haze. I go through the motions, taking notes, answering questions when necessary, nodding along to conversations I barely hear. But it’s all background noise, muffled beneath the weight pressing on my chest.
I slide into my seat in Literature it’s something they walk toward, step by step, without even realizing it. How they think they have control, but really, they’re being swallowed whole by forces bigger than themselves.
Usually, I’d be engaged. I’d have something to say. But my mind is somewhere else.
I stare at the board, pretending to listen, but the words don’t stick. I’m finally back at Eulogia, but I can’t seem to enjoy my classes. My body pressed down by the weight of what happened to my brothers, my connection to Archie, and the constant obsession I’ve developed with Hayden.
The professor pivots to Nietzsche, tying his ideas into the discussion.
“Amor fati,” he says, underlining the phrase on the whiteboard.
“The love of one’s fate. Nietzsche believed that rather than resisting what we can’t control, we should embrace it.
Own them. Accept that everything, even suffering, is necessary. ”
My chest tightens.
Own it? Accept my suffering?
Classmates start debating the idea, with some agreeing and others arguing that resisting fate is what makes us human. Normally, I’d be in the middle of it, picking apart every angle, but I just sit there, my fingers tapping absently against my arm.
Because what if fate isn’t something to embrace?
What if it’s something to run from?
Loss looms at the edges of my mind, a constant, unwanted reminder.
Everywhere I turn, I see pieces of them, my brothers.
The path we used to walk to class together.
The library where we studied late into the night.
The coffee shop where Dexter always ordered something ridiculous just to annoy Fordham.
It’s unbearable, the way the campus still breathes with their presence while they are gone.
And I’m still here.
I stop in the middle of the hallway, my breath hitching in my throat. My vision blurs as I press my back against the cool wall, trying to ground myself. The grief doesn’t come in waves anymore; it crashes all at once, sudden and suffocating.
I hate this. I hate that they’re gone. I hate that I’m still here, still functioning, still moving forward while they are not.
I’m trying, failing, to shove these feelings back down, behind the wall that’s protected me ever since I witnessed their death. I want them sealed away again, locked tight in the impenetrable box I forced them into the moment it happened.
But they’re spilling out, ugly, loud, and alive. My eyes burn. My throat closes. I gag.
The blood’s still there in my mind, bright and thick.
And the lilies, God, the smell of them. So sweet and suffocating, like death dressed up for a funeral.
A hand touches my arm gently, breaking through my spiral. “Martine?”
I blink rapidly, turning toward the voice. It’s some guy, I vaguely recognize him, a classmate of Ford and Dex’s, a fellow Bonesman. He looks hesitant, uncertain. Dashell Cure, I think.
“I just wanted to say…I’m really sorry about your brothers. They were great guys.”
The kindness should soften something in me. Instead, it makes the grief curdle into anger.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He lingers like he expects me to say something more. Like he thinks I should cry and let him pat my back and nod solemnly as if that will somehow make any of this better.
“I mean it,” he continues. “It must be tough. If you ever need to talk—”
I snap before I can stop myself. “I don’t.”
He flinches slightly, and guilt tugs at the edges of my frustration, but I don’t take it back.
I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want condolences from people who didn’t know them, who never saw them outside of the polished version they presented in public.
They don’t know what’s been lost. They don’t know what it means to live in the shadow of their absence.
The guy mutters another apology and quickly steps away, disappearing into the stream of students moving through the hallway. I stand there for another few seconds, wiping at my damp cheeks before I take a slow, shuddering breath and push forward.
I don’t have time to fall apart. I don’t have time to go back to our apartment, to sit in the silence of everything they left behind, and I don’t have access to any of their things at the Bonesmen’s house.
There’s still another class. There’s still the rest of the day to get through.
I keep walking.
I don’t call him, and Hayden doesn’t call me. But I know he knows every detail about my day. Every time I pass a Bonesman, their eyes are locked on me.
Somehow, I make it through. The classes blur together, the weight in my chest never fully lifting. I go through the motions and let the words of my professors wash over me without sinking in. I just need to make it to the end. Just need to keep moving.
And then, finally, it’s over.
As I step out of the last building, the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the campus. My heels click softly against the pavement as I make my way toward the gates.
That’s when I see him.
Hayden is leaning against his car, parked just in front of the entrance, his usual air of casual arrogance wrapped around him like a second skin. A new car this time. A vintage black Mercedes gleams in the golden light, polished and perfect, but he looks just slightly undone.
His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing the lean, toned muscle beneath. His dark blonde hair is a little messy, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. A cigarette hangs between his lips, the ember glowing faintly as he takes a slow drag.