I brace harder against the tile, my throat closing. I’ve felt more with him in the last few weeks than I have in years, and I shoved him away like it meant nothing. Like I didn’t need him. Like I wasn’t terrified that maybe I do.
Steam curls thick, mixing with the sting in my eyes until I can’t tell sweat from water, grief from longing. My chest heaves but it’s not the pain that wrecks me, it’s the memory of him whispering trust me and me not knowing how.
I shut the water off and stand there dripping in the quiet, my heart hammering, my skin flushed raw. I drag a towel over myself slowly, every bruise reminding me of what I’ve lost and what I still want.
When I’m dry, I drag on sweats and a clean hoodie instead of the jeans I first reach for. The soft fabric tugs across sore ribs, the drawstring biting when I knot it tight, but comfort wins out over armor tonight. My hair clings damp against my neck as I run the towel through it one last time, then toss it onto the chair in the corner.
The room feels too small, walls closing in, the weight of the night pressing from every angle. I shove my feet into wornsneakers and pull the hood up, as if it could hide the storm still rattling through me.
I step out into the hall, the floorboards creaking underfoot, and head toward the balcony doors. The clubhouse is quieter now, laughter muted in the bar below, a murmur of voices fading down the hall. When I push through the door, the air hits me sharp and cool, carrying smoke from someone’s cigarette downstairs and the salt tang drifting in from the coast.
The balcony rails are cool under my palms when I grip them, leaning forward just enough to stretch sore muscles. The second floor gives me a clean sweep of the lot, bikes lined up in rows, the night wrapping everything in hushed blue shadow. Out here, I can breathe again.
The door clicks behind me. Quinn steps out, a six-pack of Harlots Ale hooked in one hand. She cracks two, sets one on the rail in front of me, and leans her hip against the edge.
“Hell of a night,” she says. Her tone’s flat, but her eyes are softer than I’ve seen them in weeks.
I take the bottle, swallow deep. The beer’s bitter, but it cuts the taste of blood still stuck in my throat.
“Riot was family,” I rasp.
Quinn nods, steady. “That’s what makes it hurt more.”
We drink in silence for a moment, the city humming under us. Then she tilts her head. “You thinking about him?”
I stiffen. “Who?”
Her mouth curves the barest hint. “Don’t bullshit me, Kat. You know I’m talking about Dante.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m… torn.” I say, and even as I hear it I know it’s not the whole truth.
“No.” Quinn shakes her head. “You’re not torn. You’re afraid. And that’s fine. Fear reminds us we’re alive. It’s what we do with it that matters.”
The bottle is slick in my grip. My heart is louder than the street noise below.
“You’ve fought in cages, back alleys, and in uniform halfway across the world. You made fear work for you then, and you can make it work for you now. This is no different.”
I tip the bottle, watching the liquid catch the light. My mind runs the reel: Dante’s mouth at my throat, Dante’s voice saying Trust me, Maya, Dante walking out because I made it impossible for him to stay. The way he put his body between mine and death.
“I don’t know how to balance both,” I admit. “The club and him. What we did tonight and the way he made me feel like I could breathe for the first time in… I don’t even know.”
Quinn leans her hip against the rail and studies me. “You balance both by remembering who you are. You can love a man and love this patch. You don’t have to deny your heart to prove you’re loyal.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers, the gentlest nudge. “If you’ve got feelings for him, Kat, then go get him. Don’t waste time pretending you don’t. We don’t get forever. We get tonight and the next day and the one after that, if we’re lucky.”
Something breaks loose inside me. I nod once, sharp. “You’re right.”
I push off the rail and turn for the door, the decision already made.
I don’t wait for morning. I grab my helmet, head downstairs, and fire up my bike. The engine’s roar cuts the night open. The fear’s still there, rattling in my chest, but I gun the engine and ride toward the only thing that makes sense anymore.
20
DANTE
The clock throws its red glow into the dark. 2:14 a.m, reminding me it’s too late to be awake, but too early to call it morning and start the grind. My apartment feels like a cage. It’s too quiet, too small. I should be out cold, but I haven’t slept much in days. Not since Katana cut me off without a word.
Instead, I’ve got old fight tapes rolling on mute across the flat-screen in front of me. The footage is grainy, but studying angles, stances, the rhythm of violence I know better than my own heartbeat offers me comfort. Kind of.
