Not because I’m broken.
But because something inside me isn’t numb anymore.
And that’s almost worse.
CHAPTER 8
ROJA
I’ve never been good at softness. Hell, I barely know what to do with silence unless it’s tactical. But now I find myself drifting back to that place—the Coil—like some damn tide I can't fight. Maybe I don’t want to.
I show up again after her shift.
I don’t ask.
I don’t plan it.
I just find myself walking the slick streets beneath jaundiced neon, weaving past idling delivery drones and yawning storefronts until the Coil rises up in front of me like it was waiting. Like she was.
Her set’s just ended. The music inside still pulses faintly, a residual heartbeat left behind after the performance has died. I catch a glimpse of her through the crowd, sweat-slicked skin glowing under low lights, her chest rising and falling like she just danced out the last of her soul. She sees me this time—eyes catching mine through the bodies and haze.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile.
But she walks. Through the corridor. Up the narrow stairwell.
And I follow.
Her door creaks open like it remembers me. She steps inside without turning around, and I close it behind us, letting the dim light cradle us both. It smells like warm skin and dust and something sweet—spiced oil, maybe. Her perfume.
She still doesn’t speak.
She turns to face me and leans back against the wall, lips parted, pupils wide. The curve of her collarbone gleams under the single overhead lamp. Her fingers flex at her sides like she’s bracing for impact or aching for contact—maybe both.
My boots are heavy on the floor as I step closer.
She watches me. All fire, no fear.
We’re a breath apart when I pause. I raise one hand, brushing her jaw with the backs of my fingers, dragging them down to the hollow of her throat. Her breath catches—not soft, but sharp, electric.
Still, she says nothing.
I give her a beat. Two.
She doesn’t say no.
She surges forward.
Her mouth hits mine with force, teeth catching my lip, tongue hot and demanding. She’s all hunger, all need, and I meet her there, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She pulls at my jacket like it offends her, like it’s standing between us and what we both came here for.
She yanks me toward the bed, stumbling backward. Her laugh is low, wicked, barely sound at all, and it stokes something sharp in my gut.
Clothes hit the floor in quick succession—boots thudding, fabric tearing, a curse whispered into the space between us. My belt clatters against the wood floor as her hands slide up my torso, nails grazing scars and old breaks, mapping me like territory she intends to mark.
And mark me she does.
When I lift her, she wraps around me without hesitation, thighs clamping tight around my waist. I press her back to the wall, and she bites my shoulder through the cotton of my shirt. The sting of it rips a sound from me—feral, low.
I don’t wait.
