Page 11

The bar fight last night. The sound of glass shattering. The weight of the mug in my hand as it connected with someone’s skull. The sick, electric thrill and bliss I felt when the bigger guy hit me back, his fist slamming into my ribs hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

I remember liking it so much that I hit him back harder, wondering whether he tasted the same dark euphoria as blood spurted from his nose.

I close my eyes now and rub my wrists together, feeling the faint ache where the cuffs were earlier. The ghost of pressure still lingers. It settles me. Grounds me. Makes me feel real again.

I deserve this. I always do.

Because I ruin things. Because I push until something breaks. Because I don’t know how to exist quietly in a world that demands restraint. Because, somewhere deep down, I think pain is the price of being alive.

I know how it looks from the outside.

Rich kid with problems. Too much money. Too much freedom. Too much anger and nowhere to put it.

But the anger isn’t new. It didn’t come with the money, the name or the power. It’s old, ancient, and it’s been sitting in my chest since I was a kid who learned too early that some doors never open again once they close.

And the worst part?

I know I’m dangerous like this.

Not because I want to hurt people, but because when I spiral, I don’t care enough not to. Empathy flickers in and out like a bad signal. Guilt comes late, if it comes at all. And by the time it does, the damage is already done.

I stare at the crack in the wall again, and it looks a lot like me.

❧

I hear the lock click. My eyes crack open slowly, tracking the bars as they swing wide. The officer stands there, sizing me up before sighing as if I’m yesterday’s trash.

“Lucky day, Petrov,” he drawls, unimpressed. “Bail’s been posted. You’re out.”

I don’t ask how. I know.

They give me special treatment: a decent stall to freshen up in and a fresh shirt, since mine’s bloodied and wrecked. My belongings come back: phone, wallet, watch.

I check the time. It’s 1:32 p.m. I’ve been here for eleven hours. Guess this one was a hassle to sort out, and I know I’m going to get an earful from my father.

When I step out, the hallway feels too wide and bright. The air hums differently here, as if freedom’s some rare gift.

And then I see him.

Tristan stands near the front desk, one hand in his pocket, the other typing on his phone. Always composed, always in control, annoyingly untouchable.

Fourteen-year-old me spotted him like this once, from a distance—heart slamming, already hooked. Now? He’s on a low taper fade instead of long locs that are tied up. He’s much more filled out now, muscles bigger, more tattoos hiding beneath the suit he’s wearing.

He looks… different.

Older. Harder. Still devastating.

He’s such a wet dream incarnate. One I’d gladly drown in, no resurfacing.

His gaze lifts, locking onto mine, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

He straightens as I approach.

“Let me guess,” I say lightly, stopping in front of him. “My father’s gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, his jaw sets as he assesses me, peeling back layers, his eyes settling on my bruised knuckles, then back to my face. His eyes have always been hard for me to read, so I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t see concern in them, but I see anger shimmering.

“Follow me,” he says roughly and starts walking.