Chapter 2
Nyxa
The cut is heavy, warm, and rough on my shoulders. His scent clings to it, smoke, leather, that settles into my skin and makes me feel like, for the first time in years, I’m not prey.
I breathe in deep. My lungs stretch wider than they’ve dared to in months. It's not just air. It’s a certain kind of quiet. Like silence after a storm.
North didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. He dropped his vest on me like a shield and stepped away like he hadn’t just made the whole damn room stop breathing.
Now, every eye is on us. On me.
My skin crawls under their stares. Myka taught me what happens when men stare too long. When they smile or whisper.
I keep my head low, steps soft behind him. North moves like a loaded gun, silent, coiled, dangerous. He doesn’t look back, but I know he feels me there. Knows I’m following.
But this time... it feels different.
His shoulders are tense. Hands curled at his sides. He’s walking like he’s holding back from tearing something apart. Or someone.
And that terrifies me.
What if I’m next?
Myka always blamed me when he was embarrassed. When he got shown up. Even if I hadn’t said a word. Especially when I hadn’t.
When North halts, I don’t stop in time. I bump into his back, and I catch my breath.
He exhales sharp through his nose.
I freeze.
Then he turns.
His eyes, cold, grey, unreadable, land on me like a brand. I brace for a blow that doesn’t come.
“Keep your head up,” he says. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Now go get your shit.”
The words hit harder than they should. Shame. He says I shouldn’t have it. But I’ve been drowning in it for years. It clings to me like Myka’s sweat.
I swallow and my hands start to shake.
He watches me too closely. Sees more than he should. Then his eyes flick to the side.
“Di,” he calls. “Walk with her.”
“Hey, sunshine. Let’s go get your things.” Denise’s voice cuts in, softer than I expected.
Sunshine. No one’s called me that before.
We walk in silence. My heels crunch against gravel. My legs feel hollow, like they’re made of glass. I’m not sure I can trust them.
“He doesn’t do that for just anyone,” Denise says as we near the bungalow. “North. He doesn’t… claim things he doesn’t mean to keep.”
“Probably just needed to make a point,” I murmur.
She tilts her head. “Maybe. But I think the point was for him.”
Inside the room I shared with Myka, it smells like sweat and stale beer. The walls feel too close. The bed makes my stomach twist.
I grab the only things that are mine: a bag of clothes, my toothbrush, and the little cash I kept hidden in the back of the drawer. Then I stop, look around the room, and leave everything there.
Denise stands near the doorway. Watching. “You might wanna change,” she says gently. “North’s taking you downtown. Riding in that skirt might get someone killed.”
I glance down. Right. Myka’s favorite. Tight, short, black.
I dig through the bag. Leggings and a worn, soft tee. My fingers fumble and the shakes are worse now. The drugs are fading. My mind is clearer than it’s been in days. Clear enough to remember.
How did he know I was high? That I’d been used. That Myka never… My face burns because I did. With North.
One touch. One small, almost cruel gesture. And I came so hard it knocked the air from my lungs. I shouldn’t think about that. It was about power. Not pleasure. Right?
Denise hands me a folded piece of paper. “My private number. Use it if you need to.”
My fingers tremble as I take it. I haven’t had a phone in so long, I forget what freedom feels like.
“Thanks,” I whisper. It’s all I can give.
She nods. “You’re not alone, Nyxa. Even if it feels like it.”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t believe her. I’m worth nothing and my life is just a cruel joke.
A knock makes me freeze. Everything inside me tenses. My breath stops. Shit, if Myka gets in here it’d end so bad for me.
“That’ll be him,” Denise says quietly. “I’ll wait outside.”
I change fast. Braid my hair. Grab my toothbrush. The only thing that’s just mine.
I reach for North’s cut, hesitate, then press it to my face and breathe in. Safety shouldn’t smell like this. But it does. I drape it over my arm, not my shoulders. It’s not where it belongs. It’s not mine.
I step out and slam into him.
Again.
North exhales through his nose. The same way Myka did before he hit me.
“Sorry,” I whisper, head down. I hold out the cut. “Here.”
He doesn’t move. Not until I lift my eyes. His gaze is molten. Quiet rage. Not at me, I hope. He takes the cut, then places it right back over my shoulders. “You got everything you need?” he asks.
I lift my toothbrush.
He huffs something that might be a laugh. “Let’s go.” He grabs my hand. His skin is warm. Rough. I follow. Like always. But this time, I don’t feel like I’m walking into hell.
The bikes wait. Tornado and Rook are already on theirs. North straddles his and hands me a helmet.
I hesitate.
Myka hated when I touched him. Told me I didn’t deserve to be seen on his bike. That I made him look weak.
North doesn’t say a word. He waits.
I climb on. Careful and distant. I don’t wrap my arms around him. I wouldn’t dare.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
The engine growls to life. The vibration climbs through my thighs, into my ribs, up my spine. He rides fast. Like something’s chasing us. Maybe it is.
The hotel we stop at is quiet, clean and normal. I don’t trust it. He gets the room key without fuss. Leads me upstairs and opens the door.
One bed.
I freeze.
“I need to make a call,” he says, already stepping out. “Make yourself at home. We leave in the morning.”
The door shuts.
And I dash to the bathroom right to the sink before vomiting my soul out. Everything spills out, acid and fear and memories.
I cry. Silently. On my knees. Until my ribs hurt. Until the only thing left is shaking. Then, I get in the shower. Let the water burn me clean. Tears mix with steam. I scrub hard like I can erase the past. Like I can start over. But I’m not a fool.
When I step out, a t-shirt waits on the counter.
His.
I pull it on. It hangs low on my thighs. Smells like him. And god it calms me.
I slowly walk out.
North’s there, sitting on the bed. Hands tight in front of him like he’s holding back a war. He looks up, meets my eyes and I shrink.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
He blinks. “For what?”
I gesture to the shirt. “For using this.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “I gave it to you. Didn’t want that fucker’s scent anywhere near me.”
He stands, paces once, then stops. Just before leaving, he throws over his shoulder, “I need to hear your voice.”