Chapter 27
Adora
“Why do you think you’re playing all these pranks on him, Adora?” Dr. Monroe asks in a gentle voice, raising one thin eyebrow.
I bite my lip. Look around the room. Avoid her fucking all-knowing, prying eyes. I don’t know if I’m ready for the truth. But I give an answer anyway.
“Maybe I just want a childhood do-over,” I say, pouting a little. “Maybe I just need to release some tension. Laugh a little. And he’s the perfect target for those pranks.”
Dr. Monroe hums, like she doesn’t believe me. “You don’t sound so sure of yourself,” she says, watching me closely. She inhales deeply before continuing. “What does he do after you play your pranks?”
I look at her, a little confused, and shrug. “He doesn’t do any—” I start, but stop abruptly and purse my lips.
“Go on,” Dr. Monroe encourages, leaning forward.
I sigh and throw my head back. “He flirts,” I admit. “Shamelessly.”
“In other words, he gives you attention. Do you want his attention?” She asks, taking her glasses off and tilting her head.
Outrage flares in my chest. “If I wanted his attention, I’d just ask for it,” I snap. “He’d be thrilled. Over the fucking moon!”
She narrows her eyes. I widen mine. She knows something. Something I’m not ready to admit.
“But,” she starts with that gentle tone of hers, “if you asked for his attention directly, how would that make you feel? Would you feel like you lost something?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. Close it. I have no idea how to answer that. Dr. Monroe doesn’t rush me. She just waits me out, watching me try to unscramble all the thoughts running wild inside my brain.
Finally, I sigh and look away from her.
“If I asked him for anything — if I asked him to talk about anything concerning us — he’d know for sure then,” I whisper, staring at an abstract print on her wall.
“He’d know for sure that I’m still in love with him.
” My voice is so quiet it’s barely audible.
“That I’m still pathetic. That he still has some kind of power over me.
That ignoring him for months was actually just me trying to protect myself. ”
“You’re not pathetic, Adora,” Dr. Monroe says after a few seconds of silence.
“Feelings are just feelings. They don’t turn us into anything, and they’re always valid.
It’s okay to love him. And it’s also okay to protect yourself from him.
You just have to do it in a healthy way — to set your boundaries, and stick to them. ”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” I snap, a surge of frustration bubbling up. “How can I love someone who did that to me? Who broke me so completely? How can I ever look at him and not remember?”
Her eyes meet mine, unwavering. “Love and trust aren’t the same. You can love someone deeply and still not trust them.”
She leans back in her chair, takes a slow breath, and studies me for a moment before speaking. “You’re in a tricky situation, being so close to him physically right now. My previous advice stands. You should create distance between the two of you again.”
Her gaze sharpens. “But since you said you can’t, then turn it into an opportunity. A chance to practice control. The pranks feed your impulses — they give you a rush, a momentary high. But they also help you avoid the bigger picture and your real feelings.”
Her voice softens. “You need to figure out what you want, and how to deal with that. Deliberately. You need to make conscious choices.”
I chew on my lip. My mind races. “He said… he said he loves me.” My voice comes out small. “That he didn’t mean it. That he lost control. But… how do I know if he’s saying that because he’s desperate? Because he hates the guilt?”
Dr. Monroe gives me a small, sad smile. “It’s possible guilt is driving him,” she says. “But that’s not your job to figure out. Your priority is you and your healing.”
“That’s true,” I murmur, looking down at my hands. “I just can’t stop making excuses for him in my head,” I whisper. “That what he did was his trauma speaking. That maybe it wasn’t really him. That maybe he didn’t lie.”
“Trauma is an explanation,” she says quietly. “It’s not an excuse.” Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Does it really matter if he lied or not? Your hurt is real, Adora. That’s not a lie. His trauma is his to deal with, not yours. You can’t heal him, only he can do that.”
I twist my hands together, nails biting into my palms. “I know that. What I don’t know is how to stop loving him.”
Dr. Monroe inhales, considering her next words.
“Sometimes love doesn’t fade just because someone hurt us,” she says.
“It lingers, and that’s okay. But loving someone doesn’t mean you have to go back.
You can love him and still choose yourself.
You can grieve what you lost without reopening the wound. ”
She hesitates, then adds softly, “You don’t owe anyone forgiveness. Or another chance. Not just because you still feel something.”
I swallow hard, the knot in my throat almost painful. “I thought love would be enough to save us,” I whisper. “But it wasn’t.”
Silence falls over the room, and my mind drifts to the words from today’s note.
You’re worthy. Those words echo in my head.
They’re right, aren’t they? I am worthy.
Of a love that doesn’t hurt. Of healing.
Of moving on. And maybe Ghost is worthy of those things too.
He doesn’t see it yet, but he needs to let go. He’ll see it eventually.
I draw in a long, steady breath and look back at Dr. Monroe. “I think I might be ready to ask him about his time in prison,” I say, my voice trembling. “To finally have all the information, and stop wondering.”
Dr. Monroe nods, brows knitting slightly. “Just make sure you’re choosing this because you want to,” she says. “Not because you feel like you owe him something. And be ready for a potential spiral, like we talked about. You know you can call me if you feel it’s an emergency. We’ll talk it through.”
Ghost
“Who the hell did you send me after, Ghostie?” Viv’s voice crackles through the phone, full of snark.
“These people aren’t a cult. They’re just five losers living in tents in the middle of a forest. Well, I guess they were eight, before the others met the Vultures. But still, Ghostie, what the fuck?”
“I had a feeling that would be the case,” I sigh, leaning back in my chair. I drum my fingers on the desk, thinking it over. “Murder–suicide then?”
There’s a pause, followed by the sound of Viv lightly sucking her teeth.
“Myth and I were thinking suicide pact,” she says.
“Their setup — the cheap tents, almost no bare necessities — it’d be believable to the cops.
Plus, you know, all the weird snake shit.
They’ve got small statues made of bones and other fun stuff like that.
Some bowls filled with blood. Weird shit.
” She chuckles. “But murder–suicide would work too.”
“Good. I’ll let Bones know and send reinforcements your way,” I say, already thinking through the next moves.
“Nah.” Viv huffs. “We don’t need any more muscle. We got this. Although…” She drags the word out. “If you want some new, live toys to play with during interrogations, you should send Fang over. Myth and I agreed we aren’t touching the deadly noodles. They don’t have many, but there are some.”
I raise my brows, interest sparking. I can already see it — the scene forming in my mind. “I definitely want that. Text me your exact location. Fang will leave immediately.”
“Purrfect, Ghostie,” she chirps, and hangs up.
I toss my phone on the desk and let out a long breath.
Mama ripped into me earlier today. She’s pissed that I’m going after Adora.
Doesn’t like it. Wants me to leave her alone.
I had to spend an hour reassuring her that I’m not planning anything sinister, that there’s no need for her to slap sense into me.
She only calmed down after I repeated over and over again that I’ll keep going to that fucking therapist. Keep working through the broken pieces of me.
The rest of the day was shit too. Because there were no pranks. Not one fucking prank. And I know Adora doesn’t have any planned. Not for tonight, not for tomorrow. Not for any of the next few days. I don’t like that. I’m missing something, and I don’t know what it is.
Fuck. How can I make her believe I love her?
That it’s not a lie? What the fuck can I say that I haven’t already said?
I can barely get those daily notes out of me.
There’s no romantic bone in my entire body.
I can describe a thousand bloody, painful ways to die, but fuck me if I can spit out a single feeling in a shitty, poetic way.
I can’t avoid it. I’ll have to ask Bones for help.
I groan in frustration, crack my neck, pick up my phone again. Check that Viv sent the coordinates. Then I get up and leave the office in search of Fang. He’s somewhere around here. Half the club’s at the clubhouse tonight.
I find him on the back porch, shooting the shit with some of the brothers.
“So, if Superman wanted to hook up with you, would you accept?” I hear Five-Star ask, and the question’s so ridiculous, it stops me in my tracks.
“Nah.” Mindfuck waves a hand, dismissive.
“That guy’s dick would kill any human. That’s just science.
I still don’t understand how Lois Lane survived him.
It’s not realistic. It all comes down to energy transfer.
One uncontrolled reflex, one fraction of a second too fast, and — bam! — you’re done for.”
He raises his brows, eyes suddenly bright. “Now Batman, on the other hand… I love pussy, but Batman is Batman.”
“I think I’d give Superman a chance,” Five-Star says thoughtfully, taking a drag of his beer.
“He’d turn you into a bloodstain on the sheets,” Mindfuck replies, deadpan.
“Oh!” Five-Star exclaims. “Sex when a woman’s on her period — yay or nay?”