Chapter 15
Nyxa
There’s something freeing about knowing no one expects you to crumble anymore.
Morning finds me tangled in the sheets, my body still heavy with the memory of him. Last night lingers in the quiet places and for once, the memories don’t make me want to disappear. They make me feel real.
I don’t know if that means anything to him. But it meant something to me.
It’s not love. He made that clear. But it’s something, and right now, something is more than I’ve ever had.
The days start to fall into rhythm.
I help the Candies with errands and even get pulled into the clubhouse’s book club by Eve and Maeve. They’re loud, nosy, and full of stories I didn’t ask for, but I like it. I crave it.
Belonging.
Sometimes, I catch myself laughing. Like I used to before the world stole all the air from my lungs.
New prospects came in, young, eager, and cocky. One of them tries to flirt with me while I’m helping Soul carry some inventory into storage.
“Need help with that, sweetheart?” one says, throwing on a smile that’s all teeth and no substance.
Before I can answer, Soul chimes in from the other end of the hallway. “Careful, Prospect. That one bites.”
The prospect just laughs. “She can bite me anytime.”
I shoot Soul a look. He’s grinning like a damn fool.
“I’m Prez’s property,” I say, loud enough that it echoes.
Dead silence. The prospect stiffens, color draining from his face. Soul lets out a bark of laughter.
“Oof. Rookie mistake. You’ll learn.”
The poor guy stammers out an apology, fumbling to back away like I just turned into a grenade with the pin pulled.
Saying those words out loud hits different. Because I didn’t say it to get them off my back. I said it because part of me wants it to be true.
I want to be his.
Even if he doesn’t believe in love, even if he won’t say it back, I’d wear his name like armor.
Later, while folding laundry in the room, I find myself holding one of his shirts again. The one that says President’s Property across the back in bold white letters.
It’s soft and worn and smells like him.
Maybe it’s time to wear it again. So no one else tries to claim what isn’t theirs and maybe to remind him I already know where I belong.
My phone buzzes and I smile before I even answer. “Hey, trouble.”
Her laugh crackles through the line. “Look who’s suddenly all sunshine and sass. What’d they spike your coffee with over there?”
“Maybe just a little peace of mind.”
“Ohhh,” she draws out dramatically. “Someone finally got laid.”
“Di!” I choke, laughing.
“What? Don’t act innocent. Your voice has a whole new octave of ‘I’ve seen heaven.’ Spill.”
“I’m not spilling anything,” I say, tugging a dishrag off the counter. “Besides, North would kill me.”
“Oh, so it’s North now. Not Prez. Not ‘the intimidating asshole who doesn’t do love’?”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “He’s still all of that.”
“And you’re still avoiding the question.”
“I’m fine. We’re… fine.”
“That’s vague. Suspiciously vague. I want juicy details. Is he romantic in the sheets or all growl and grunt?”
I laugh again. “I plead the fifth.”
“That means yes. God, I knew it. I knew he had a tongue that could write poetry.”
“Denise!” My cheeks are on fire.
She snorts. “Girl, please. I’ve seen the man. If he isn’t writing symphonies between your thighs, I’m starting a riot.”
“Okay, you need to hang up and go touch some grass.”
“Touch North, you mean.”
I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “I’m not giving you any more details. You know I don’t talk about that stuff.”
She softens. “Yeah, I know. Just had to try.”
There’s a pause, one of those comfortable silences that only comes when someone’s known you too long.
“You happy?” she asks finally.
I don’t answer right away. I glance at the shirts I’m folding. “Yeah,” I breathe, “for the first time in a long time… I think I might be.”
“Good,” she says. “You deserve it. Just remember, if he ever hurts you, I know people.”
“You are people.”
“Exactly.”
We both laugh.
“I’ll call next week.”
“You better. And give North a pat on the back for me. Or a slap on the ass. Whichever feels more appropriate.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“You adore me.”
I smile. “Always.”
When I hang up, the smile lingers. For the first time in years, someone is asking about me just because they care, and I’m not hiding anymore.
The knock on the door makes my stomach twist. I glance at the time and curse. I got so wrapped up in the call and the morning chores I didn’t realize the hour.
The therapy sessions have been helpful, more than I ever want to admit. Maeve has this way of asking questions that don’t just peel back layers… they expose wounds I didn’t even know I was hiding.
I let her in, and we settle into the living room. It’s warm, safe, and home.
“You seem brighter,” Maeve starts, watching me like she always does, calm, curious, never judging.
I nod. “I think I am. I laugh now, don’t flinch as much as I used to and I sleep.”
She waits. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just gives me space.
“I even… trust him,” I admit.
Her smile is soft. “North?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how, but I do. I shouldn’t. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know what kind of world this is. What kind of man he is.”
“But?”
I shrug, staring down at my hands. “He doesn’t look at me like I’m weak. Or like I’m broken. He… sees me.”
Maeve leans in slightly. “And how does that make you feel?”
“It terrifies me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m starting to feel like I belong here. Like… like I want to stay.”
She’s quiet again. Then leans back in the armchair. “Would that be so bad?”
“I never planned to.” Especially since North told me he’s not someone who does relationships. “I thought this was temporary. A stop between disasters.”
“But now?”
“I don’t know. It feels like more, and I hate that it does.”
“Because it gives someone power over you.”
“Exactly.”
Maeve studies me carefully. “Nyxa, do you think you love him?”
“I don’t believe in love,” I answer too fast.
She raises a brow. “That sounds like fear, not certainty.”
I blink, and my chest tightens.
“Have you talked to him about staying?”
“No.” What if he says no? What if he’s just waiting to set me free when he thinks I’m okay?
Maeve frowns. “Do you want to leave?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Then tell him that.”
I snap my eyes up at her. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“Because this… all of this… it’s the first time I’ve had something good, and I’m scared that the moment I say I want it, it’ll be taken away.”
The tears well without warning, and I wipe them away fast.
“Nyxa,” Maeve says gently, “you’ve been surviving for so long you forgot what it feels like to live. But that’s what this is: living, wanting, hoping. Even when it’s messy.”
I don’t respond. I can’t.
I’m not afraid of North walking away.
I’m terrified he won’t ask me to stay.
I try to play it cool. Smile like nothing’s wrong. Move through the kitchen like Maeve didn’t just crack something open inside me and leave it bleeding on the damn floor.
“What would your future look like… if you decided to leave?”
That’s what she asks like it's a simple exercise. Like she isn’t detonating something deep inside my chest.
I laugh it off at first. “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. Like I believe it.
But Maeve’s silence says otherwise.
Now, the house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that crawls under your skin and picks at old wounds.
What if North tells me I’m free?
The thought slams into me like a freight train, and I freeze, fingers tightening around the mug I haven’t even sipped from. My hands shake. I lie to myself, say it’s low blood sugar. But I know better.
The fear is there, loud and sharp and choking.
He’s never promised me forever. He’s never promised me anything. And I’ve been so damn happy pretending this was enough that I didn’t realize I was banking everything on a man who’s said more than once that love isn’t something in his book.
My pulse thunders in my ears. The kitchen tilts sideways and I set the mug down before I drop it. I grip the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Maeve didn’t mean it like that. She was trying to help. Trying to make me think of my own future. She said it was healthy.
But it doesn’t feel healthy. It feels like betrayal.
To him. To me. To everything we’ve built between these walls.
I can’t imagine a future without him in it. I don’t want to.
But what if he does?
What if he looks me in the eye and says it’s time to go?
The thought is so vicious I lose my breath. My knees buckle, and I drop. My palms slap the cold floor and I curl forward, pressing my arms around my stomach, trying to hold myself together.
My chest heaves. I can’t catch my breath.
It’s like breathing through a straw, sharp, shallow, useless.
If he lets me go… where would I go? I have no home. No savings. No job. No plan.
Just him. Just this life he’s let me have for a little while. A borrowed existence. One I was stupid enough to believe might be permanent.
A sob breaks through and I gasp, trying to silence it, but it’s too late. My whole body trembles as the tears pour out, hot and endless. My vision blurs and the coffee I spilled earlier spreads like a stain, just inches from my hands.
I don’t even clean it.
I just stay there, knees on the tile, heart in my throat, mind spinning so fast I can’t keep up. Can’t breathe. Can’t stop imagining a door closing behind me.
Maeve said I should build something for myself. Find a path. Learn to stand on my own. But I don’t want to stand alone. And the fear of being told I have to guts me.
I press my forehead to the floor, trying to ride it out, the way she taught me.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
But it’s no use. I’m already drowning in the idea of being forgotten. Of being… nothing.
The first time I walk into the training gym for self-defense classes, I feel like an impostor. Not because I don’t belong but because this isn’t the version of me I’m used to.
This version isn’t caged. She’s not afraid of taking up space. She’s curious. A little shaky. But she showed up. I showed up.
“North’s orders,” Julie, one of the candies, smirks as she ties her laces next to me. “Mandatory for all the girls. Even if we never have to use it, we learn. A few minutes can make the difference.”
I nod, absorbing her words. They echo with weight I understand all too well.
Pain, I know. It’s carved into my memory, but this might be the first time my body learns something else. Strength.
New prospects come in. Each candy gets paired up, trained and flirty, throwing their weight around. Some girls tease, others stay chill. I get paired with a man named Jude.
He’s lean, but solid. Looks more quiet than cocky, but still grins like trouble. “You look like you could break someone,” he says as we square off.
“Only if they deserve it,” I shoot back.
“Good answer.”
We warm up. I’m shaky at first, trying to remember how to stand, how to hold my weight. But Jude’s patient. Not soft, not condescending. Just solid.
“Feet shoulder-width. Knees bent. Hands up like this—see?” He adjusts my wrist. “Fist loose. Thumb outside. Don’t break your own damn fingers.”
I nod.
We practice strikes: elbow to jaw, palm to nose, heel to groin. My muscles scream, but I keep going.
“Again,” Jude says. “Harder.”
I think of Myka: his laugh, touch, the pills, the leash.
I scream inside. And I hit.
The sound of flesh on padding echoes loud. My whole arm burns.
Jude steps back and whistles. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
“Too late,” I mutter.
By the time class ends, I’m drenched in sweat, breathing hard. But something inside me clicks into place.
I didn’t freeze.
I fought.
And when I walk out, North’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching me like he sees every bit of that fire I’m just starting to see in myself.
“Hit anyone?”
“Jude.”
“He still breathing?”
“Regretfully.”
He smirks and pulls me into his side. “Good.”
His hand lingers a little longer. His eyes burn a little deeper.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like prey. I feel like a fucking storm.