I sigh, disappointment crushing me yet again, and begin to pick pieces of pastry off the croissant, popping the occasional bit in my mouth to appease Maggie.
Diesel joins us, pressing his obligatory kiss to the top of my head, before taking his seat on the other side of Kade, who frowns at the kiss, but chooses not to comment. “What time we heading out today, Pres?” Diesel asks, scooping sausages onto his plate.
“Soon as,” Kade mutters.
“Another run?” I ask lightly, though my voice barely makes the jump across the table.
Diesel hesitates. It’s tiny, but I see it—see the way his eyes flick to Kade before he reaches for bread. That’s when I notice his knuckles. Split. Swollen. Fresh. Just like Kade’s. He moves them out of sight, but it’s too late.
“Or something else?” I add, my tone neutral, bordering on cold curiosity.
“Not sure what you mean, Edes.” Kade drinks his coffee like it’s an answer. “What are your plans today?”
“I have a busy day,” I say, brushing crumbs from my fingers. “Therapy, then the bank. And some other things to sort.” The pause doesn’t go unnoticed, not by him anyway.
I feel his eyes land on me again. Heavy. Searching. “I’ll get Rabbit to drive you,” he says.
I smile, polite but distant. “No need. I’ve been getting around fine without help.”
His cutlery hits the plate, loud enough to jolt several men into looking our way. “You’ve been going out alone?” His voice is quiet and dangerously calm.
I finally look him in the eye. “Do you care?”
I stand, but his hand wraps around my wrist, gentle enough not to bruise, but firm enough to stop me. “Of course I care,” he mutters.
The words should mean something, but right now, they feel hollow. Like everything else between us lately.
I look down at his knuckles, battered, angry, stained by things he will never confess to me. “Have a good day, Kade,” I whisper, pulling free. “Taking care of business.”
And then I march out of there without looking back.
I don’t get far before his voice halts me mid-step. “I haven’t finished.”
I turn slowly, keeping my expression blank. “I have therapy at nine.”
His brow twitches, surprise leaking through the hard exterior. “Therapy for what happened?”
“It’s my last session.” I force my voice not to shake. “But you’d know that if you were around.”
His expression sharpens, cold and defensive. “Jesus, Eden, stop complaining. You’re starting to sound like a fucking broken record.”
I give a hollow, sad smile, that doesn’t reach my eyes. “And we wouldn’t want that would we?”
The clinic waiting room smells faintly of peppermint and old radiators. Normally, I’d pick at my cuticles or scroll on my phone, but today I just sit.Still.Calm on the outside, even though my insides feel bruised and tight.
When my therapist, Helen, opens the door and smiles, I rise automatically.
“Eden,” she says gently, “last session. Come on in.”
Last session.Last of many things.
I sit on the sofa, smoothing the hem of my t-shirt while she settles opposite me with her notebook balanced on her knee.
“How’ve you felt since last week?” she asks.
I shift. “Okay.”
“That doesn’t sound convincing.”
