Chapter 6 #3
I toss my keys onto the counter and they clatter against the marble like a gunshot in the silence. I don’t bother turning on the lights, I just move on instinct, dragging open the freezer door and reaching for salvation.
My hand closes around the neck of a half-empty bottle of vodka, frosted glass slick in my grip. I twist the cap off with a practiced hand and drink straight from the bottle. The burn is familiar—sharp and punishing, but still not enough.
I brace my elbows on the counter and let my head hang, eyes squeezed shut, my breath uneven.
This can’t go on.
God, it can’t.
I’m twenty-two years old and I’m starting to fall into my role in this world of blood and power and secrets. I’ve done things I’ll never come back from. And still—still—I’ve built my entire fucking life around a girl who was never mine to begin with.
It shouldn’t be like this. She’s supposed to be someone I protect, not someone who makes me feel like I’m coming apart at the seams every time she breathes.
But nothing I’ve tried stops the ugly, gnawing thing in my chest whenever she looks at me like I’m the only man in the room. Or the way my body reacts when she wears those short skirts, laughing like she’s daring the whole world to watch her.
My hand’s still curled around my phone. I thumb it open, almost without thinking. Maybe it’s muscle memory, or maybe just masochism, but her Instagram glows in the dark.
And there it is.
Still fucking there.
Her lips a breath away from his. His hand in her hair. Her body pressed into someone else’s like she belongs there.
I take a screenshot and zoom in on the asshole's face before running it through a few different security systems. Facial recognition spins in the background while I take another long pull of vodka. This time, it barely burns at all.
I watch the little wheel spin and spin until the results flash on the screen.
JASON MCGEE. 25. Student. Low-level runner.
Of course.
Of course, he’s one of ours.
I know guys like him, weak and opportunistic. Just smart enough to toe the line, and just dumb enough to think he’s safe. He saw Lily and didn’t think twice. Thought she was some party girl, some pretty thing he could touch without consequence.
He doesn’t know.
He has no fucking idea who he’s messing with. But he’s about to find out.
Downloading and saving his information, I toss back the rest of the bottle, swallow the fire whole, and let it settle like poison in my blood. My hands are shaking when I shove my phone into my pocket.
Tomorrow, I’ll find him.
Tomorrow, I’ll remind him exactly what it means to touch what doesn’t belong to him.
But tonight…
Tonight, I’ll drink until the raw, desperate thing inside me quiets. Until her face stops swimming in front of mine. Until I stop hearing her voice in my head, soft and broken and whispering my name like a prayer.
Because I can’t unsee it—her mouth on his, her body against his, like she chose him.
Because I know I shouldn’t want her like this, not with this much heat in my chest and blood on my hands.
But I’m so goddamn tired of pretending I don’t.
Somewhere between the third drink and the bottom of the bottle, I must’ve called Owen. Don’t remember what I said—only static, the sound of my own voice cracking like glass.
When I wake, it’s to a dead phone, a pounding skull, and a water bottle sweating on the bedside table.
Jason McGee lives in a shitty complex near the Thames—peeling paint, broken intercom, and overflowing bins beside the front door.
The kind of place people go to disappear.
By the time he stumbles out of his flat the next morning, I’m already leaning against the hood of my car, arms crossed, waiting.
He doesn’t see me right away. Too busy squinting against the sun, wearing last night’s shirt, like he doesn’t remember how he got home. Stubble blooms across his jaw and everything about him just solidifies my belief he’s human trash who doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as Lily.
I track him silently, footfalls light, shadowing him down the street. He stops to light a cigarette, his hand trembling like he’s still half-drunk.
Perfect.
“Morning, Jason.”
He jumps like he’s been shot and nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to turn around. “Yo—uh—who the fuck—”
I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him hard into the brick wall behind him.
The cigarette flies from his hand, bounces across the footpath, and disappears into the drain.
His head snaps back, eyes wide. And then I see it—recognition, sharp and sudden, cutting through the fog of whatever chemicals he drowned in last night.
“Hey, man—”
“Don’t speak.” The words come out low, measured. The kind of voice that makes people start praying. “Not yet.”
He blinks, his breath misting in the cold morning air, his lungs working too fast. “What the hell is this?”
I lean in. Close enough to smell stale booze on his breath. Close enough to count the burst blood vessels in his eyes.
“You touched something that doesn’t belong to you.”
His brows knit in confusion. Then he laughs—a wet, nervous sound. “Look, if this is about that girl—”
My hand closes around his throat like a noose and his eyes bulge.
“Say her name again,” I snarl, “and I’ll break your fucking teeth.”
He claws at my wrist, rasping. “I didn’t do anything, man. She was all over me—”
Wrong answer.
“I don’t give a fuck if she gave you a goddamn lap dance before stripping naked and throwing herself in your lap. You don’t touch her. You don’t look at her. You don’t breathe in her direction.”
His face turns a deep, furious red as he chokes. I hold him there, just long enough to feel the panic set in. Then I ease up enough for him to wheeze in a breath.
“Understand?”
He nods, frantically. “Yeah. Okay. Jesus. I’m sorry, O’Malley.”
I release his throat, and he slumps against the wall, rubbing his neck. But the second his eyes flick to the side—like he’s considering running—I grab his right arm and twist it behind his back.
He yelps. “Fuck—okay—wait—”
I lean in, voice cold enough to frost glass. “I said, stay away from her.”
And then I jerk his arm higher until I feel the joint strain. He screams.
“Please—Matt—shit—”
His elbow pops first—a wet, sickening crack—then the bone gives way with a sharp snap.
Jason howls, dropping to his knees, clutching the mess of his arm against his chest, snot and spit and tears streaming down his face.
“Jesus Christ—my fucking arm—”
I crouch in front of him, my heart pounding, and my breath shallow.
“You’re lucky it’s just your arm,” I whisper, leaning in so he can feel every word scrape down his spine. “You go near Lily Davis again, and next time it won’t be something you walk away from.”
He’s crying now—ragged little sobs, nodding over and over like some broken marionette. Pathetic. His fear should calm me but it barely dents the rage humming in my blood.
I push off him, rising to my full height, my shadow swallowing his crumpled form on the floor. Then I spit—sharp and final—right beside his cheek.
“Stay the fuck away from her. Or I’ll make sure no hospital on earth can piece you back together.”
I turn, walk back toward the car, and don’t look back.
Jason’s screams echo behind me—raw, animal pain swallowed slowly by the hush of the morning streets. My hand throbs where it met bone. My arm’s deadweight now, radiating sharp pain with every step. But I barely feel it. Not compared to the fire still crawling under my skin.
I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door. The sound ricochets through the car, rattling something loose inside me. I grip the wheel with my good hand, the leather cracked and sun-faded beneath my fingers.
I should feel better.
I should feel justified. Like I’ve done what needed doing, defended what’s mine.
But the truth is, the anger is still there, sizzling in my veins like battery acid. Because it’s never just about scum like Jason McGee. It’s about Lily—her dark eyes wide in the dark glow of that club, lips parted, body pressed close to men who don’t deserve to look at her, let alone touch her.
It’s about wanting her so badly it steals the air from my lungs and knowing that wanting her is the one thing I can’t allow myself.
It’s about the ache, the pull, and the way she destroys me with a single look and doesn’t even know it.
I drop my head against the steering wheel, forehead pressed into the leather until it creaks beneath the pressure. My arm throbs. My knuckles are swelling, the pain sharp and unrelenting.
But I swear to God, I’d keep breaking every bone in my hand if that’s what it takes to keep her safe.
Even if the only monster she ever needed saving from… is me.