TWELVE
P hillip walked Poison over to his bike. Shit, he’s never seen anyone so out of it. He saw it the moment she had stepped off the stage, and the crowd stormed her, overwhelming her. She looked like a deer staring into the barrel of a hunter’s rifle.
He impulsively flew down the stairs, pushing and bumping through the crowd to get to her. His boss would have his head for doing it a second time, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about his assignment, and he sure as fuck didn’t care what the consequences of his impulsiveness would be. All that mattered was getting her to take a normal breath again.
He halted abruptly, his hands gripping her shoulders with a gentle urgency, turning her to face him.
“Breathe, Little Viper,” he murmured, his voice laced with concern, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes, usually sharp and full of fire, were glazed over, staring blankly through him. Her breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps, like a bird trapped in a cage.
“Poison,” he said, his voice rising with the desperation he tried to keep at bay. “I need you to breathe for me. Please.” His fingers dug slightly into her shoulders as he shook her gently, trying to pull her back from wherever her mind had taken her. “Deep breaths, just like that,” he almost begged, the words coming out rough, betraying the helplessness clawing at his insides.
Seeing no other way, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping her in a protective embrace. Her body was stiff against him at first, her shallow breaths warm against his chest. He held her close, his hand stroking her hair, his touch as tender as he could manage. He whispered soft reassurances into her ear, anything to help guide her back to the present. Slowly, he felt her muscles begin to relax, her breathing evening out as she sagged against him, her forehead resting on his chest. When he felt her finally exhale deeply, he let out a breath of his own.
Gently, he eased her back to arm’s length, bending down so he could look her in the eyes. The blankness was gone, replaced by a flicker of awareness. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Now, did you drive here?”
She shook her head, and for the first time since he’d grabbed her, he felt a surge of gratitude for the simple act of her responding. It was a small sign that she was coming back to him. Without another word, he bent down and scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, carrying her over to his bike. He placed her on the back seat with the care one might use with something fragile and irreplaceable.
Rubbing the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling of helplessness that gnawed at his gut. He hated it—hated feeling like there was nothing he could do to fix what was going on inside her.
He climbed onto the bike in front of her, reaching back to pull her arms around his waist. He held them there with one hand, ensuring she was. “Hold on, Little Viper.”
She tightened her grip around him, her cheek resting against his back, the warmth of her skin seeping through his jacket and shirt. It was a small comfort, but it was enough to ease some of the tension that had coiled tight within him.
With a roar, the engine came to life beneath them, and he took off into the night. The wind whipped past them as he sped through the city streets, but his focus was singular: getting her to the safety of her apartment.
He could feel her hold on him, steady and secure, and it reassured him more than he could put into words. As they approached her apartment, the world around them seemed to blur, the city lights fading into the background. All that mattered was her—getting her home, holding her close, and being there.
Killing the engine, he dismounted and helped her to the ground. With his arm around her waist, he walked her to the building. Fire spread through his body as she leaned into him for support.
The elderly doorman swung the door open with a swiftness that belied his years, his eyes immediately locking onto her pale face. Without a word, he hurried over to press the elevator button, his concern etched deep in the lines of his weathered face. Phillip gave him a brief, grateful smile as they stepped into the elevator, but his mind was elsewhere, his attention fixated on the panel of buttons. His brows knit together in confusion—he realized, too late, that he had no idea which floor her apartment was on.
Sensing his uncertainty, the doorman leaned into the elevator, as he pressed the button for the third floor. “Apartment three-eleven,” he rasped.
The elevator doors began to close, but the doorman swiftly reached out, holding them open. With a serious expression, the old man fished a small key from his pocket and handed it over, his hand lingering for a moment as if reluctant to let it go.
Phillip stared at the key, turning it over in his hand. “How?” he asked, the single word heavy with unspoken questions.
“I always keep her spare key separate over the weekends,” the doorman explained, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve seen things, but never this.”
“Thank you,” Phillip said, his voice tight with emotion as he pulled Poison closer, feeling her lean into him. The doorman’s words carried a weight that Phillip wasn’t ready to unpack, but the man’s trust and foresight weren’t lost on him.
“Just take care of her. She’s a good one,” the doorman added.
“I will,” he promised as the doors finally slid shut, cutting off the doorman’s worried gaze. The elevator began its slow ascent.
He tightened his grip on her, feeling the slight tremble in her body as they rose. There was so much he didn’t know, so much he wanted to understand, but for now, his focus was on getting her home, getting her safe.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened on the third floor. He would get her inside, make sure she was okay, and then—only then—would he let himself breathe. The promise he’d made to the doorman echoed in his mind as he stepped into the hallway, his arm still securely around her.
They stepped onto the third floor, and he led her to her apartment, unlocking the door and helping her inside.
As they entered, a surge of helplessness washed over him again, knowing he couldn’t erase what she felt. Yet, as he guided her through the threshold, he glimpsed a flicker of color returning to her cheeks, a subtle sign that perhaps the worst was behind her.
Setting her down gently on the couch, he wrapped her in a plush blanket, a feeble attempt to shield her from the lingering chill of the night.
Moving to her kitchenette, he brewed a pot of coffee. The rich aroma mingled with the faint scent of her perfume, creating an oddly comforting blend in the air.
As he handed her a steaming mug, their fingers brushed briefly, igniting a spark of electricity that lingered in the space between them.
Not allowing his mind to head in that direction, he made himself comfortable in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, cradling his own cup of coffee.
With each sip, she seemed to regain a measure of strength. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as she nestled deeper into the warmth of the blanket. He watched her closely, his heart heavy.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he inquired softly.
She leaned forward and placed her empty cup on the table between them before crossing her legs and fidgeting with her fingers.
“It’s nothing,” she murmured without looking up at him.
“Poison, you and I both know that wasn’t nothing.
You had a fucking panic attack, and a bad one at that,” he whispered, his shoulders slumping as that helpless feeling took hold of his throat again. “How often do they happen?”
She didn’t answer him. Turning the blanket between her fingers, she stared at her hands—her knuckles a faint shade of purple. And he ran a hand over his face.
“Minke,” he begged, leaning his forearms on his knees. “How often?”
She tilted her head back, a phantom smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Fuck she was beautiful. Even with the ghosts still dancing in her eyes, still vulnerable. He would do anything to get the light back in them—to see her smile and have her say some witty shit that made him laugh.
“I haven’t had them in years,” she finally answered.
“What triggered this one?” He sat as frozen as a statue, afraid he might spook her or trigger another attack.
“I…” Her voice broke, and she had to clear her throat before continuing. “I got some news last night. I had my first attack in years last night, but not as bad as this one.”
“Has that got anything to do with the cut on your lip?” he pressed and made a silent promise to kill whoever the fuck was responsible for her pain.
She shook her head. “Not directly, no.” She pointed at her lip. “This was just an open challenge. He got a lucky
shot in.”
“I’m not going to pry,” He leaned back in his chair. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”
“Thank you,” she muttered, looking at her hands again.
He rose out of his chair and took the mugs to the kitchenette. Stopping behind the sofa, he bent down and hugged her. He didn’t know why; he just needed to hold her. Pulling her head into his chest, he kissed her hair, holding her a moment longer, and straightened.
Shit, he was in over his head. This should never have happened. He should take a step back. But he didn’t want to. Women were trouble , that voice said again, forcing him to take a step toward the door.
“Call me if you need me,” he said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze.
“Stay,” she murmured, grabbing his hand and tugging it to her.
Every ounce of restraint and control left his body at the plea in her voice, and he allowed her to pull him to the couch—climbing over the backrest.
He sat next to her, pulled her into his arms, with her back against his side, and draped his arm around her shoulders.
“Get some rest,” he whispered against her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breathing evened out after a while, and the rhythm lulled him—his eyes struggling to stay open. He had tried everything to convince himself to leave. He told himself it would be best to sneak out, but he had never felt so much at ease. Darkness beckoned him closer, and he felt himself drifting toward it.
“How did you get into fighting?” she whispered, her eyes still closed. He had been sure she was asleep.
“Like most of us did,” he answered, that fucking voice telling him to be cautious, but he didn’t want to be.
“That’s not an answer.” She straightened and turned to face him, seeing straight through his bullshit.
She continued when he didn’t answer: “You don’t have to give me the details. Just the reason. Was it revenge? Debt? Self-preservation?”
Taking a steadying breath, he stared out the window on the far wall, memories flashing like a movie in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t remember a life without fighting in it.
“Debt,” he finally answered, his voice quiet but steady. The single word hung between them, loaded with meaning that neither of them needed to unpack just yet. “You?”
“Self-preservation,” she stated bluntly, no hesitation, no need to soften the truth. It was a fact, plain and simple, and it told him more about her than any lengthy explanation could have. “Your turn.”
He looked at her, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise.
“For what?”
“To ask a question. We barely know anything about each other,” she replied, her tone casual, but there was an openness in her gaze that invited him to delve deeper.
“Fair enough,” he conceded, turning his whole body toward her, his arm resting on the back of the couch as he considered his options. There were a hundred things he could ask, a thousand layers to her that he wanted to peel back one by one. But one question bubbled to the surface, the curiosity too strong to ignore. “How on earth did you end up at a video game company?”
He watched, caught off guard, as a blush crept over her face, slowly spreading to tint her neck and ears. It was a stark contrast to the hardened exterior she usually presented, and for a moment, he was stunned by how it softened her, made her seem almost vulnerable. Her smile widened, and he found himself leaning in, eager to hear the story behind that blush.
“You want the short or long version?” she asked, her voice tinged with a playfulness that he hadn’t heard from her before. All traces of the earlier ghosts in her eyes, gone.
“Oh, if there’s an option, it must be a good story,” he teased, feeling the tension that had gripped them earlier begin to ease. The air between them felt lighter, the darkness that had clouded her eyes just minutes ago lifting. He was captivated by the change in her, the way she seemed to shed the burdens she carried, if only for a moment. “Long version, please.”
She settled back against the cushions, her smile widening further as she prepared to tell him. The blush remained, but it only added to the intrigue, making him more eager to hear every detail. As she began to speak, he could see the memories playing out in her mind, each one bringing a new spark to her eyes, a new layer to the person he was just beginning to understand.
She chuckled, her fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on the backrest of the couch, an inch away from his fingers, and he had to resist the urge to take her hand.
“Well, it all started when I was just a kid, barely old enough to reach the keyboard. I had a knack for electronics, from alarm systems to computers. My brother, Jonathan, gave me my first computer when I was eleven.”
Her gaze drifted to a distant memory, a flicker of nostalgia dancing in her eyes.
“I learned to code practically before I could tie my shoelaces. Soon enough, I discovered the thrill of hacking into Wi-Fi routers and gaming servers and playing all those fancy games without spending a dime. We didn’t exactly have the luxury of buying games back then. Shit, I’m sure my brother even stole the computer from somewhere.”
A wistful smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she got lost in the memory.
“Jonathan, he always believed in me. He saw potential where others saw trouble. He encouraged me to pursue my passion, to turn my skills into something more than just a hobby or something illegal. So when the opportunity to join VirtuaCraft came knocking, I knew it was my chance to honor his memory, to make something of myself.”
Her gaze met his, filled with determination and a hint of vulnerability. “And here I am, living out his legacy, one line of code at a time.”
“The game?” he asked.
“Shadow Strike is a tribute to him.” Her smile faltered, and he hated the sadness returning to her eyes as she looked away.
Cupping her chin, he pulled her forward and placed a soft kiss on her lips—sighing internally at the warmth of her mouth. But he forced himself to pull back, to break the kiss and focus on her.
“Your turn.” He smiled, placing his hand on hers, and traced the lines in her palm.
“Your tattoo,” she began.
“Which one?” Taking off his suit jacket, he rolled up his sleeve to show the map of tattoos snaking up his forearm.
She ran her fingers over the intricate design, from his wrist to his bicep, sending a chill down his spine and fire through his veins.
“I was talking about the one on your throat,” she said, touching her fingertips to his neck, and he swallowed hard against them. “What’s the meaning behind it? You have a glass statue of it in your apartment.”
Smiling, he answered: “The cracked skull signifies the mortality we all dance with within the underworld, a nod to the close calls and the lives that have brushed past death. It’s a reminder of the fragility of life and the strength found in surviving against the odds,” He moved her fingers higher to where the black lotus sprouted. “The black lotus blooming from the ruin represents beauty and power rising from destruction. It’s a symbol of rebirth and the potential to flourish even in the darkest of times,” He moved her hand to the middle of his throat. “And the scorpion, emerging ready to defend or attack, embodies my spirit—guarded, resilient, and potent. The scorpion’s presence indicates a willingness to fight, protect, and stand steadfast in the face of adversity. It marks a balance between danger and protection.”
“It suits you very well,” she whispered as if lost in thought.
“Do you have any tattoos?” he asked, hoping to draw her attention away from the pit she seemed to be standing at the edge of again.
“Just one.” She smiled, turning her back to him.
She slid the strap of her top down her shoulder as she pulled her hair to the side, revealing her shoulder blade.
He traced the outline of a semicolon, the comma curving to the left—the full stop bursting open into tiny little birds soaring into the sky.
His stomach lurched. He knew the meaning behind the tattoo without asking. The semicolon meant the author had the choice to end the sentence but decided to continue, just as she must have contemplated ending her life’s story but chose to continue instead. The thought of potentially having lost her before he even met her grabbed his heart in a painful twist.
Without thinking, he leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on the ink, forever etched into her skin.