The kiss happens fast. One moment we’re dancing, laughing, and then his lips are on mine. I melt into it at first, the need to feel something, anything, pressing me into him. But then the clarity slices through the haze. The taste of cheap cologne and beer, the feel of someone I don’t know against me, it doesn’t reach the ache I’m trying to fill.
I pull away, breathing hard. “No.” My voice is rough, ragged, almost a growl, and he raises his eyebrows, confused.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice gentle now, curious, not judging.
I shake my head, and the shame hits like a punch. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t need this. My stomach twists, guilt and self-loathing folding me in half. “I…” I can’t even form the words. “I can’t.”
He frowns but doesn’t push. Instead, he steps back, giving me space, a small kindness in a world that feels like it’s collapsing.
I stumble out of the club, ignoring the stares, ignoring the warmth I just abandoned. The cold night air hits me like a slap. My hoodie sticks to me, damp with sweat and rain. My knees feel weak. The alcohol buzz is thick now, cloying, and I hate it. I hate that I needed it, that it didn’t work, that I almost let myself go completely.
I keep moving, aimless, heart hammering in my chest. Every light on the street feels sharp, cutting, reminding me of everything I’ve lost. The city hums around me, indifferent, and I feel like a ghost, a shadow of who I used to be.
I pass a trash can and nearly fall to my knees, retching, my body rebelling against the poison I’ve poured in. I taste bile and whiskey and regret. My hands shake violently, and I press them to my face, wishing I could scrub away the mess I’ve become.
Somewhere, far down the street, a car horn blares, and my pulse spikes. My vision blurs, thoughts jumbling together. I should be ashamed. I should be careful. I should go home. But I can’t. I won’t. Not yet.
I think about Alaric, about Phoenix, about every mistake, every moment I let myself slip. The guilt claws at me, harder than any hangover, harder than any self-inflicted pain. I can’t drink this away. I can’t dance it away. I can’t forget him, can’t outrun the ache, can’t stop needing him.
The guy from the club had been a distraction. A temporary, hollow reprieve. I’d kissed him, let the alcohol blind me, and now I feel like I’ve just confirmed what I already know—I want Alaric. I want him in a way no random night, no heat, no booze, no reckless flirtation can ever replace.
The street is empty. The neon from the club fades behind me. I stumble, swaying as my body refuses to obey. My mind is a jumble, a chaos of longing, shame, and guilt.
And then I see the headlights.
Blinding. Coming toward me fast. Too fast.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat. My legs don’t move. My body doesn’t respond. All I can do is stare, my hands pressed to my chest, my stomach dropping as the light consumes me.
Everything narrows to a point of white-hot panic, my heart hammering in my ears, every mistake, every misstep, every longing flash before me in fragments.
I can’t think. I can’t move. I can’t fix this.
And then?—
17
Alaric
The lights are soft and warm in the dining hall, bouncing off crystal glasses and polished silverware, making everything feel gilded and unattainable. I sit stiffly in my chair, the tailored suit feeling heavier than usual, constricting, like my father’s gaze. Molly is across the table, talking quietly to her husband, and I catch her eye every so often, a small nod, a flicker of sympathy. She knows. Somehow, she always knows.
Kyle sits next to me, his elbow brushing mine when he reaches for the bread basket. I stiffen, fighting the urge to pull away, to shove the plate toward him instead of letting him touch it. My stomach twists in knots every time his fingers brush mine, and I keep my eyes on the centerpiece, pretending the flower arrangement is more interesting than the man beside me.
“Relax, Alaric,” Kyle murmurs, voice smooth, too smooth. “We’re just here to enjoy the evening.”
I want to snap at him. To say,I’m not here to enjoy anything with you,but the words lodge in my throat. I force a smile instead, polite, strained, the kind you use when the worldexpects you to be agreeable. My father is watching, I know, and any misstep would be a performance he’d dissect later.
The speeches start, the usual fanfare about charity and community. My father sits at the head of the table, exuding control, cold and calculating, and I can feel his eyes on me, even when he’s speaking to someone across the room. Kyle leans toward me, whispers something I don’t even hear, and I stiffen again. I know he thinks I’m going to melt into this scene, let the cameras catch our “happy” smiles, and play the part. I don’t.
Molly’s hand brushes mine under the table. She gives a tiny squeeze, a silent reassurance, and I allow myself a moment to inhale, to ground myself in her presence. She doesn’t judge. She doesn’t ask me to perform. She just sits beside me, steady, and that steadiness is all I have.
The appetizers arrive. I pick at the salad, ignoring the rich aroma of roasted chicken and herbs. Kyle starts a conversation with someone near him, laughing too loud, leaning back in his chair, and I feel the bile rise in my throat. The movement of his lips, the casual charm—it’s all wrong, and I can’t stop the disgust curling through me. I swallow it down with forced calm, focusing instead on Molly’s laughter across the table, soft and real, and the little reassuring squeeze of her hand.
My father clears his throat, a subtle signal for me to sit up straighter, to smile more, to participate in this little pageant. I do what I can, nodding at the right moments, answering the right questions. Kyle chuckles at the appropriate joke, and I want to throw the glass in his face. I don’t.
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, keeping my voice steady. “Yes, of course. That’s an excellent point.”
The waiter passes by, refilling glasses. Kyle’s hand brushes mine again as he reaches for the water. I don’t pull away, but I don’t move closer either. I feel the tension coiling tighter aroundme, a spring ready to snap, but I clamp it down. Icannotexplode here. Not in front of my father. Not with the cameras. Not tonight.
