Chapter 31
By the third day, I start feeling like I can’t breathe.
Not because anyone has touched me. Not because anyone has raised a hand or a voice or looked at me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
No.
That would almost be easier to understand. This is worse in a quieter way, because everything around me is technically done out of love.
Protection. Care. Safety. And my body is still reacting to it like it’s a cage.
That’s the kind of thing no one warns you about when you survive someone like Cal.
They tell you about fear. About panic. About nightmares. About the obvious stuff.
They don’t tell you what happens when safety starts wearing the shape of old danger. They don’t tell you what it feels like when the people trying to protect you accidentally brush up against the same bruised places as the man who taught your body that being watched is never neutral.
That someone always wants something. That eyes mean control. That questions mean suspicion. That someone knowing where you are can turn into someone deciding you don’t get to leave.
And the cruelest part of all of it is that I know, logically, that this is not the same.
I know Joker is not Cal. I know the club isn’t a prison. I know no one here is trying to own me or strip me down into something smaller and easier to keep.
But logic and trauma are not the same language. And right now my nervous system is apparently fluent only in panic.
It starts small. Everything does.
A brother offering to walk me from the clubhouse to the parking lot when all I’m doing is grabbing something from the truck.
Shadow appearing out of nowhere when I step onto the back porch with my coffee and then pretending he was “just passing through” even though there is absolutely no reason for him to be hovering near the porch at seven-thirty in the morning.
Blaze casually asking where I’m headed when I grab my shoes like he isn’t trying to calculate whether I need backup just to walk to the playground area with Lexi.
Dom muttering something about “route visibility” when I mention maybe taking Lexi out for ice cream later in the week, like he’s already mentally calculating whether the local shop is too exposed now.
Cain checking the front gate twice in an hour.
Mac quietly asking if I need anything from town because “one of the guys is already headed that way.”
Emma trying to make it sound casual when she asks me to text her if I move from the women’s room to the common room with Lexi during the afternoon chaos.
None of it is cruel. None of it is unkind. That’s what makes it so hard to explain why every tiny little thing is starting to scrape me raw.
Because they are trying.
They are trying so hard to keep me safe, and every time one of them checks where I am or asks where I’m going or subtly redirects me away from doing something alone, my body responds like I’m back in that house.
Back under cameras. Back under rules. Back under someone else’s watchful eye.
It’s not rational.
I know it’s not.
That doesn’t stop the claustrophobia from creeping in anyway.
By the time it really gets bad, it’s late afternoon and all I want in the world is ten minutes to myself and maybe one stupid, normal thing I can do without someone tracking it like a military operation.
Lexi is napping in our room, my room, his room, both, neither, I don’t even know what to call it anymore because at this point I sleep in Joker’s bed more often than I don’t and the clubhouse has gone into that weird in-between lull where half the people are resting and the other half are scattered doing whatever they do when they’re not all in each other’s business.
I’m standing in the kitchen staring at the coffee pot like maybe caffeine will somehow fix my mental state when Joker walks in from outside.
The second I see him, my whole body does that awful, traitorous thing it always does.
Relaxes first.
Then notices the cut on his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the phone in his hand, the focused look in his eyes, and tightens all over again. Because lately, even when he’s the person who makes me feel safest, he’s also become the face of all the rules.
All the adjustments. All the changes. All the quiet, constant management of my life. And I hate that.
Not him.
Never him.
Just what this is doing to us.
He sees me and immediately shifts direction. He’s halfway across the room before I’ve even figured out whether I want him close or need space. “You okay?” he asks.
It’s such a normal question. Such an innocent one. And somehow it feels like pressure anyway. Like one more set of eyes on me. One more person checking my temperature. One more reminder that I am being monitored even by the man who touches me like I’m something holy.
I hate that thought the second it appears.
Still, I can’t stop it. “I’m fine,” I say.
The lie comes too fast. Too clipped.
He clocks it immediately. “No, you’re not.”
That should comfort me. It doesn’t. Instead, something tightens harder in my chest.
Because there it is again.
That awful feeling of being read before I’m ready. Seen before I’ve decided what I want to show. Known too closely when I already feel like I have no privacy left anywhere.
He steps closer. “What’s wrong?”
I know he means it gently. I know he’s not interrogating me.
But all I hear is:
What are you doing?
What are you thinking?
Why aren’t you acting right?
My grip on the counter tightens. “Nothing.”
His jaw shifts. “Raven.”
And there’s my name in that tone. Low. Steady. Not angry. Still enough to make my spine go rigid anyway. Because there are some sounds your body learns to fear before your mind has time to argue.
I set my mug down harder than I mean to. “I said I’m fine.”
Joker goes still. Because now he knows I’m not just off.
I’m on edge. Badly.
His eyes narrow just slightly. “Angel, talk to me.”
That should break me in the softest way.
Instead, it does something worse. Because he’s still trying to soothe and steer and guide me through this, and all I can feel right now is the wall of it.
The structure. The supervision. The invisible net around every movement I make.
I laugh once. Short and humorless. “What do you want me to say?”
His brow furrows. “The truth would be a start.”
That one lands wrong. Not because it’s unfair. Because it’s too close to the bone. And before I can stop myself, before I can take a breath and think like the person I want to be instead of the one trauma keeps dragging to the surface, the words are already coming out.
“The truth?” I repeat. “The truth is I’m tired.”
He doesn’t move.
I keep going anyway. “I’m tired of every time I step outside someone magically appearing like I’m about to sprint into traffic.”
His expression shifts. Only slightly. Enough.
I should stop.
I don’t.
“I’m tired of needing an escort to go from one side of the property to the other like I’m incapable of walking on my own.
I’m tired of every single thing I do becoming a conversation about routes and exposure and visibility and whether or not I’m allowed to leave the goddamn building without someone shadowing me. ”
The second the word allowed leaves my mouth, I see it hit him.
His face doesn’t change much. That’s the worst part. It just stills. Hardens a little around the eyes. Enough to tell me I’ve already landed somewhere painful and I’m not done yet.
But now that the words are out, I can’t seem to stop them.
Because fear does that. Because once it finds an exit, it doesn’t care what it destroys on the way out.
Joker’s voice is quiet when he finally says, “You think I’m doing this because I like it?”
“No,” I say too fast. “I think you’re doing it because you think you have to.”
“Because I do.” There’s no hesitation in it. No apology. Just hard, flat certainty.
And for some awful reason, that makes my pulse kick even harder. Because that’s what control always sounds like when it thinks it’s justified.
I know that’s not fair.
I know it.
Still, my body is already halfway into panic and my mouth is now officially operating without adult supervision. “You don’t get to decide everything for me just because you’re scared.”
The room goes dead quiet. Not empty. Not silent in the literal sense.
I can still hear the old fridge humming. A bike outside. Somebody laughing faintly down the hall.
But between us?
Dead quiet. Because that one landed too. And this time I see the anger flash in his eyes before he reins it back so fast it almost hurts to watch.
“Is that what you think this is?” he asks. His voice is lower now. Rougher. Controlled in a way that tells me he is trying very hard not to say the first thing that comes to mind. “That I’m making decisions because I’m scared?”
I fold my arms tighter over my chest, like I can physically hold myself together if I lock my own body down hard enough. “I think you’re making decisions without asking me.”
His jaw flexes. “Because someone got a picture of you in town.”
“I know that.”
“Because a detective with a hard-on for dragging you home is physically close enough to smell.”
“I know that too.”
“Because if something happens to Lexi—”
“Don’t,” I snap.
His mouth shuts instantly. Too late. Because there it is.
The name. The one thing neither of us can touch right now without setting the whole room on fire.
My breathing is too fast now. My skin too tight. My heart pounding so hard it’s making everything feel unreal around the edges.
And God, Joker is trying.
That’s what makes this hurt so much. He is trying so hard to be patient, to hold the line, to keep me alive without turning into a wall I have to climb over. And I am still reacting to him like he’s the enemy.
He takes one careful step closer. Not crowding. Not aggressive. Just enough that I can feel the shift in the air. “Raven.” My name in his mouth is rougher now. Worn thin by restraint. “You need to breathe.”
That should help.
Instead, it makes me want to scream. Because there it is again. That awful, awful sensation of someone trying to regulate me from the outside. Trying to guide me down. Steady me. Manage the fear.