Chapter 8
Nyxa
Iwake up alone.
The quiet is unreal. Not just the lack of yelling or heavy boots or a door slamming shut, but actual, pure silence. The kind that makes your breath feel too loud.
I sit up slowly, like I’m afraid to break the moment.
The sheets still smell like him. Padding into the kitchen barefoot, I pause when I see a note on the counter. My name isn’t on it, but I know it’s for me.
Vero will come up around 10 a.m. and she’ll take you out. Rook and DJ will come with. Go shopping for whatever you need.
That’s your card, pin code 4609.
You have my number saved in your cell phone.
I’ll be out all day. If you need me, call.
—N
Next to it is a mauve wallet, soft leather, delicate stitching. So pretty and feminine. I run my fingers across it like it might vanish.
Myka would’ve laughed at something like this. Called it useless. Weak.
I glance around the room, half-expecting someone to jump out and say it’s a joke but it’s not. I open the wallet. My ID stares back at me. So does my driver’s license and three hundred bucks in cash. I drop it like it burned me.
How?
Myka burned my documents. I watched him do it. Drunk, slurring, saying I didn’t need a past if I was gonna be with him forever.
There’s a folder next to the wallet. I open it with shaking hands. Birth certificate, school transcripts, dance awards and medical records.
My life.
Everything he could find, he brought back to me.
Tears sting my eyes. They fall before I can stop them. No one’s ever given me anything without expecting something in return. I swipe the phone. His number is saved under just N. I don’t know what to say. So I type the simplest thing I can manage.
Thank you.
I wear my leggings and steal another shirt from his drawer. It hangs off my shoulders, swallowing me whole, but it smells like him and feels safe.
At 10:01, there’s a knock on the door.
I open it and find a woman with long auburn hair, bright eyes, and a no-bullshit smile. She’s pretty, confident and the kind of woman I’ll never be.
“You must be Nyxa,” she says.
I nod, suddenly unsure of everything.
“I’m Vero. North asked me to take you shopping.”
Behind her stand two bikers, Rook, who grins like the devil himself, and DJ, who nods but says nothing.
“Let’s roll, hun,” Vero says, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “We’ve got a lot to do.”
The store overwhelms me, not because it’s busy but because I’m allowed to choose, to touch and try things on.
I grab a pair of jeans. Some leggings. Underwear. A few plain shirts. Socks and a pair of pajamas.
“That's it?” Vero asks, frowning.
“I don’t need much,” I mumble.
She rolls her eyes and throws in two more outfits, a zip-up hoodie, and a pair of joggers.
“You need comfort. You need backups. You need shit you don’t even realize you need yet.”
I smile a little. “I have sneakers. I’m good.”
“You planning on living in one pair of shoes forever?” she teases.
“I don’t plan on going anywhere.”
She stops, her gaze softening. “You don’t have to stay stuck either, y’know.”
I look down, throat tight. “One step at a time.”
She nods. “Alright. First step—getting you stuff that actually fits.”
She makes it feel normal. Like this is something women just… do. Not something I was punished for asking for. For the first time in a year, I feel like I’m allowed to exist, not just survive.
Exist.
Maybe even live.
I still feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But today? It didn’t. And that alone feels like a miracle.
Once we’re back at the hood, Vero offers to introduce me to the others, but I tell her I’m tired.
I am. Every part of me aches.
Back at North’s house, I clean. Cook. Do the laundry. Fold his shirts like they deserve respect. Leave the receipts for what I bought on the counter along with my wallet and phone.
I down more water and Gatorade like Cutter told me.
Then I crash onto the couch, tug a blanket around my body, and let my eyes close for just a second.
The door creaks open and I shoot up, forgetting the blanket.
I tumble off the couch, hitting the ground with a loud thud, then a low chuckle follows.
North walks over, grinning. “You fall for me already?”
I groan, grabbing the blanket. “Not funny.” I bite my tongue because I shouldn’t talk back.
He helps me up, that grin still lingering. “You good?”
I nod, cheeks burning.
He heads toward the hallway but stops at the counter. Two bags. The receipts. His brows knit together.
“That all you got?” he asks.
I don’t look at him. “I don’t need more.”
He mutters something, grabs the phone, and barks into it. “Yeah. When I told you everything a woman needs, I mean it. Get everything she might like. I don’t care what it costs. Bring it by tomorrow.”
Panic tightens my chest. I dart forward, gently touch his arm. “Please. What I brought is more than enough.”
He looks down at me. Like he’s weighing the truth in my voice.
“Tomorrow morning. First thing, Vero.” He hangs up.
“You need to forget whatever the fuck that bastard did to you,” he mutters. “This ain’t that place. You’re not that girl anymore.”
I want to believe it, but I don’t know how.
He heads to the bathroom.
By the time he’s out, dinner is ready. I sit at the table, unsure if I should start. He drops into his seat, takes a bite and pauses.
Then eats like he hasn’t all day.
I watch the way his eyes close after the first few bites. The way his shoulders drop. It’s a tiny win, but I hold onto it like it’s everything, because in my world, tiny wins are what you survive on.
After dinner, he doesn’t say much. I gather the plates, clean everything up, dry my hands on a towel, and hover for a moment in the quiet. I’m not used to this. Not used to a night that ends without fists, commands or punishment.
I move toward the bedroom and pause.
He’s already on the bed, a book in hand, shirtless, tattoos dancing along his chest under the soft light.
I clear my throat. “Um… do you want me to sleep on the couch?”
He doesn’t look up. “Do I look like I want to hear you fall on your ass again?”
I frown. “You laughed.”
He glances at me then. “And I will again. But you ain’t sleeping on the floor, or the couch. Or that deathtrap you call an armchair.”