Chapter 12
Twelve
Noir
The blood’s still warm.
It creeps in slow, sticky rivers down his ribs, pooling at the edge of the mattress like it’s trying to slip away.
Like even it doesn’t want to be here. I don’t flinch.
Don’t gag. Don’t even blink. Shit like this stopped feeling dramatic a long time ago.
It’s not poetic. It’s not deep. It’s just a body now—meat and muscle and bone cooling in the dark.
Another message.
Another problem erased.
I crouch, pressing my blade to the skin above his sternum, dragging it slow. Skull—jagged, rough, cut deep enough to scar the room even after the body's gone. This part’s never about the corpse. It’s about whoever finds him. Whoever starts to connect the dots. Whoever knows who this guy worked for.
I wasn’t planning to hit him tonight. Was just tailing the bastard. Tracking him. Seeing where he went, who he spoke to, what doors he unlocked. Waiting for something better. Something bigger.
But of course the fucker spotted me.
A glance over the shoulder that lasted half a second too long. A twitch in his hand like he knew I was there. Like instinct kicked in and told him something wasn’t right. He started moving faster, reaching for whatever piece of false comfort he kept stashed in his jacket.
I didn’t wait.
Couldn’t.
One wrong move, one call, and the whole thing would’ve gone sideways.
So I took him out. Fast. Quiet. Before he could raise the alarm.
Now he’s laid out on a piss-stained mattress in the same shitty motel from the other night.
Same cracked walls. Same flickering light.
Same place Blair’s probably curled up a few units over, breathing soft and steady while I clean house.
He was one of Dagger’s mid-level guys. Flashy. The type who thought designer belts and rented wheels meant untouchable. But now he’s got a skull carved into his chest and a duffle bag slumped at his feet—one more cracked tooth in the jaw of Dagger’s crew.
Another message. Loud and fucking clear.
I unzip the bag. Pink pills shimmer under cheap light. Packaged in holographic pouches like party favors. Cyanide dressed up in glitter and gloss. Pretty, lethal and too fucking familiar.
I dump them into my own pack, double-check the seals, then sling it over my shoulder.
It was never about the drugs.
It’s about the debt.
And how deep I’m willing to dig it into Dagger’s spine before he snaps.
Because someone like Dagger? He doesn’t move without strings tied to every limb. He’s got connections, leverage, layers—always playing three games at once. But every game’s got a weak point.
And I know exactly where to cut.
Taking out one of his mid-level guys won’t break him. But it’ll slice into the supply line.
Hard. And when the next shipment doesn’t land where it’s supposed to? When product goes dark and money stops flowing? Whoever’s waiting on the other end—whoever he’s in deep with—is gonna notice.
They won’t come looking for the guy cooling on this mattress.
No, they’ll come for Dagger.
That’s the plan.
That’s always been the fucking plan.
Rip out the roots. Shake the tree. Force the wolves to circle in tighter until they’re nipping at his throat. Make the wrong people nervous. Make the right ones furious. And when the flames start licking at his feet, I’ll be close enough to watch him burn for what he did to her.
To Brynn.
I glance at the digital clock on the busted dresser.
1:57 a.m.
Perfect.
I wash up in the bathroom sink, wiping the handle clean before I leave. Gloves off. Hoodie up. Blade tucked back in my boot. It’s raining now—drizzle that smells like old concrete and earth. I head down the stairs and across the back alley toward where I parked.
But I don’t make it.
Because she’s there.
Blair.
She doesn’t see me at first.
Hair down in soft waves—pink crashing into purple like a bruise in the shape of a girl. Damp. Loose. Like she just stepped out of the shower or someone else’s bed. Either way, she wears it like a warning.
And that fucking shirt.
His.
I know it’s Dagger’s the second I see it. Oversized, worn soft, hanging off her frame like it wasn’t made for her, and it wasn’t. Because it’s not mine. She’s swimming in it. Drowning in it. The way it hangs, the way it falls past her thighs—it’s his cut, his style, his brand of fucking possessive.
It’s like watching a ghost wear someone else’s skin.
Black leggings painted on like a second sin, a crumpled five-dollar bill clutched in one hand as she heads toward the vending machines outside the main office like it’s just another night.
She looks like everything I fucked up and everything I still want.
I take one step forward, and she turns.
Instant. Like she felt me.
Her whole body goes still. Then something shifts— snaps . That calm-before-the-storm tension ruptures, and her expression twists into rage. Pure, blistering, venom-laced fury.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Blair—”
She storms toward me like she’s ready to rip me in half. Fire in her steps. Fury in her throat.
“What, are you seriously stalking me now?” she spits. “Didn’t get your way, so now you’re lurking around my motel like some obsessed psycho?”
“Stalking? No—fuck, I wasn’t?—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. I swear?—”
“Right, 'cause you’re so honest,” she snarls. “You’d never keep shit from me, right? Never twist it all until I can’t tell what’s real?”
“Blair, listen?—”
“FUCK YOU,” she screams, voice cracking under the weight of it. “I know everything, Noir. I know everything .”
She jabs her finger into my chest like she wants it to punch through.
“I know you knew her. I know you were with her. That you fucking lied to me. About everything .”
Her breath’s coming hard now. Shaking. Wild. But it’s not grief—it’s fury. The kind that burns straight through your lungs.
“You fucked me. Lied to my fucking face. You pretended I was just some girl you met at a party that you actually liked. You made me feel like—like you actually gave a shit about me. But you never did. No, you just saw my sister when you were with me. Touching me. Nothing but lies the whole fucking time.”
I freeze. Like something just got knocked loose in my chest.
My lips part. No words come.
I try to speak, but she cuts me off before I can even catch a breath.
“You fucking used me!” she snaps. “You used me in this sick little war you’ve got going with Dagger. Like I was nothing but a pawn. Like I wasn’t even real to you, just the shell of the girl you fucking lost.”
Something hot and sharp detonates in my gut.
“I used you? Oh that's fucking rich. You think he’s the good guy in this?” I growl. “You think Dagger’s some fucking saint? That he didn’t fucking lie to you? That he didn’t sell her the same shit he sells you? He’s the fucking reason she’s dead!”
She smirks. That kind of smirk that’s all hurt and venom. Kissed teeth. Red-rimmed eyes. Tears streaming down her face but still full of fire.
“God, you’re fucking stupid,” she hisses. “He might not have wanted her the way you did, but he cared. He cut her off when he saw what it was doing to her. He told her no. Tried to stop her from going deeper.”
“No—”
“But that’s typical fucking Brynn, right?
” she snaps, voice sharp enough to cut. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer.
She stole his goddamn phone, Noir. Went behind his back.
Hit up his contacts like she was invincible.
She got herself in that deep because she couldn’t stop.
Not for him. Not for me. Not even for herself. ”
She laughs, bitter and shaking. “But you know what really pisses me off? From what I hear, there was one person—one fucking person—who maybe could’ve pulled her out of that spiral. Just one. And where the fuck was he?” Her eyes burn. “Nowhere. He was such a bitch, he couldn’t be fucking bothered.”
Her voice is shaking now, but every word lands like a slap.
“So now, Dagger may not be a fucking saint, but he didn’t kill her. She did that to herself. And you—you needed someone to blame, so you picked him.”
It hits like a punch. Sudden, and brutal. I can’t breathe.
Fuck.
I stagger back a step, something jagged tearing open in my chest. My hands twitch at my sides like they’re looking for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing but air and consequences.
I see Brynn but not the way I want to remember her.
Not the flirty smirk or the neon-slicked skin or the way she used to dance like her body belonged to the bass.
I see her twitching. Sweating. Nodding off mid-sentence.
I see the glassy look in her eyes when she swore she was fine, when I knew damn well she wasn’t.
And underneath that, I see my mother.
Face-down on the floor. Lip split from a fall she never remembered.
Burn marks on her arm from a glass pipe she forgot was still hot.
Me, six years old, trying to scrub dried blood off cracked tile before the landlord came up to scream again.
Trying not to cry because if she woke up to tears, she'd blame me for ruining her high.
I couldn’t save my mother.
I couldn’t save Brynn.
Fuck, why didn’t he say anything? Why the fuck didn’t he just tell me the truth instead of letting me go on thinking he had her taken out, thinking he wanted her dead for selling on his turf?
Why the fuck let me turn into this?
And Blair—fuck. Blair.
What I did to her—fuck. I didn’t mean to. Not really. Maybe at first, yeah, I got close to make Dagger bleed. She was his soft spot, and I wanted to shove a knife right through it. But I didn’t plan to use her like that. Not all the way. Not like I did.
I let it happen.
I let her fall into the mess I was making, let her get high on the chaos I was feeding her, and all the while I told myself I was doing it for Brynn. For revenge. For justice.
But the truth?
I fucked up. I used her. Treated her like a weapon in a war she never signed up for. I saw the signs. The way she chased that high, the way the light in her eyes flickered just like Brynn’s used to. I should’ve pulled her out then. Should’ve saved her. I wanted to.
I tried to.
But I was too deep in my own guilt. Too twisted up in payback and pain to see I was dragging her down right alongside me.
And somewhere in the wreckage, I started caring.
Started craving her.
It stopped being about Dagger a long time ago, but I didn’t change fast enough. Didn’t fix what I broke.
And now she looks at me I know she’s about to walk away, and fuck I deserve it.
I should’ve walked away the second I felt something. The second she said my name like she meant it.
But I didn’t.
Because I’m a selfish fuck. Because I wanted her to see me. Because some sick part of me thought maybe if I could keep her close, I’d finally make up for the fact that I let Brynn slip through my fingers.
And now? Now she knows what I am. What I’ve done, and I don’t know if there’s anything left to salvage.
I look at Blair and everything inside me fucking fractures. She’s not just some girl. She’s not just a mirror of what I lost. She’s more. And I used her anyway.
“I didn’t mean to—” I start, but she shakes her head.
“No. Don’t you fucking spin it. You wanted to fuck me, and you knew the whole time you were lying. Hiding shit. You knew exactly what starting this with Dagger would do—you meant to light that fuse. Don’t act like you just tripped into it.”
Silence crashes between us. My throat’s tight. My chest is worse, and for a second, I just fucking stand there, watching her cry in Dagger’s T-shirt, hating me in every possible way.
She steps back. Wipes her face. Her voice is quieter when she says, “You didn’t lose Brynn, Noir. You let her go.”
That one tears me open.
Because she’s right, and now? Now it’s too fucking late.
I’ve been burning everything down in Dagger’s direction for no reason. I've got three bodies in my rearview. Two pill drops destroyed. A third one hanging off my shoulder.
All for fucking nothing. Because Dagger didn’t kill her.
I did.
By doing nothing.
I move without thinking. Past her. Toward the parking lot.
“What? Nothing to say now?”
“I’ve got something I need to take care of.”
My jaw’s tight enough to snap. But I can’t fight with her anymore. Not now. Not with this weight slamming down on me.
So I don’t say a word.
I just fucking leave.
Down the stairs. Out into the rainy night. I toss the duffel in the trunk of my Camaro—bright blue, souped-up, under glow flickering like hellfire. The kind of car that screams run, motherfucker, before you even think.
I slam the trunk shut. Slide into the driver’s seat. Grip the wheel like it might anchor me to the ground.
But I don’t start it.
Not yet.
I look up through the windshield, and there she is. Blair. Standing in the motel doorway, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tight around herself. Crying. Silent, wrecked tears sliding down her face as she turns and walks back to her room like someone with nothing left.
It fucking guts me.
Shatters something I didn’t think I had left.
I slam my fist into the wheel. Once. Twice. The horn blares, cuts off. My knuckles split open. I breathe hard through my teeth.
Because tonight was supposed to be the night I finish the job.
Now I don’t even know who the fuck I am without her.
I put the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life—loud, angry, like it knows what I’m about to do.
I hit the gas, and peel into the dark.
Toward the clubhouse.
Toward the man I’ve been trying to destroy.
Because if I don’t tell him—if I don’t fix this— I might lose Blair for good.