That’s what this is.
Missing people, needinganythingfrom anyone—that’s weakness. It’s stupid, dangerous, and pathetic. And yet, here I am, getting too close to Roxy, involving myself with the local Russians and their messy world because…because I don’t want to feel so fucking alone anymore.
I should know better. Trust is a death sentence in this life. People aren’t lifelines; they’re weights tied to your ankles, ready to drag you down the second you slip. And yet, the ache ofloneliness gnaws at me every single day, chipping away at the edges of who I used to be.
It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder every second or choking on the painful reminder that there’s no one left to call. No one I can trust. Not anymore. Now, survival is my full-time job, and it’s exhausting. It’s clawing your way out of a grave someone’s always trying to shove you back into.
The sounds of the fight draw my eyes to the ring. A guy built like a brick wall—tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin—drives a smaller fighter into the mat. Roxy stumbles into the table, arms loaded with shots, her face flushed with booze.
“Come on!” she chirps, shoving a glass into my hand. “Drink up!”
The crowd erupts again as the tattooed guy slams his opponent to the ground like a ragdoll. “Max is up soon,” she points at the ring, her grin lopsided and sloppy. “I’m so excited.”
“Go support him, then.” I nudge her toward the ring. “I need some air. I’ll be back.” I set the shot down. As much as I want to drink, I want to be sober to deal with the fucked-up shit in my head.
She wobbles away, and I waste no time slipping through the crowd of drunk, sweaty bodies. Outside, the humid night air wraps around me, a sticky relief compared to the suffocating heat of the warehouse.
I lean against the rough brick wall, tilting my head back to stare at the stars, faint and distant through the haze of city light. My fingers find the thin gold chain around my neck. The metal is warm from my skin, a quiet comfort, even as the storm inside me rages.
The warehouse door slams open behind me, and I snap to attention, hand already on my knife. It’s automatic, muscle memory.
But it’s nothing—just some drunk, giggling couple stumbling out, too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else.
I exhale sharply, shoving away from the wall. The irritation crawling under my skin doesn’t budge. I should go back inside, watch Maxim’s fight, keep tabs on Roxy. But the thought of stepping back into that stifling, sweaty warehouse makes my throat close. Not yet.
My boots crunch against the gravel as I walk, the noise of the warehouse fading behind me.
Crunch.
I freeze mid-step, my breath catching.
The sound of gravel shifting behind me sends every nerve sparking. A flicker of movement edges into my peripheral vision. My knife is out before I even think, blade catching the faint light as I whirl, scanning the shadows.
Nothing.
Just dark shapes stretching long under the warehouse’s floodlights. Just me and my overactive, paranoid imagination.
I curse under my breath, forcing my grip to loosen on the hilt. Shit. I’m losing it.Get it together.
Turning back, I move to keep walking but slam directly into a wall.
No. Not a wall. A chest. A man’s chest.
“Boo.”
That voice. That goddamn voice. My stomach drops as the chill races through me.
Him.
I jerk back, blade ready, aiming for his throat.
But he’s faster.
His hand snaps out and clamps around my wrist, bone-grinding tight, twisting until white-hot pain shoots up my arm. Before I can blink, he’s spun me, my back slammed into cold brick with a force that cracks through my spine.
Air leaves my lungs in a strangled wheeze.
He’s too fucking fast. Too fucking big.
