We’d impressed the CEOs for Cirque du Sang enough to sign the contract, but that had been a goddamn miracle. There was no way we could perform on a scale of that magnitude while we were each barely holding onto sanity.
The second rum bottle was nearly empty, just a finger's worth of amber liquid sloshing in the bottom as I paced the kitchen. Three hours of drinking and I still couldn't shake the feeling crawling under my skin—that restless, gnawing sensation that something wasn't right. I ran my hand along the butcher block island, fingers catching on the deep gouges Nitro had left behind during his last tantrum. I could still hear the sound the blade made as he drove it ever deeper into the countertop, just to rip it out again.
Even in the low light, I could trace the history of his rage across the expensive wood. Replacing it made no sense; we’d learned that twice already. The last time we’d fixed it, Nitro and his knife wreaked havoc within a week.
The compound was too damn quiet tonight, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And my thoughts were an ugly place to be. The others were out, each seeking their own form of oblivion—fighting, fucking, racing—anything to quiet the chaos in our heads. I'd chosen alcohol, but it wasn't working as well as I'd hoped.
I pulled another full bottle down from the open shelving above the coffee bar and set it next to the two I’d already murdered. When I yanked open the freezer door, the rush of cold air hit my face like a slap and sobered me slightly. Not for long though. I refused to let my buzz fade. The light inside illuminated rows of perfectly spherical ice molds. This was the only way to enjoy a drink. Regular ice melted too quickly, diluting good liquor. I plucked one frozen sphere from its tray, the ice immediately slick against my warm palm. I ran hot, always had. Lately, I rarely dropped below ninety-nine point five degrees.
My crystal tumbler waited on the counter. I dropped the ball of ice into it, watching it settle with a satisfying clink against the bottom before I poured the last of the Bacardi followed by thefreshly opened Caroni. The glassy orb began to float, suspended in amber, catching the dim kitchen lights in fractured patterns. I swirled the glass, mesmerized by the movement, the gentle percussion of ice against crystal.
Mesmerizing shifted very quickly to melancholy.
I wasn’t the kind of guy who got down in the damn dumps. Yet, adrenaline highs faded all too quickly these days, leaving me in a noxious bog of self-pity and emptiness until the next time something got my blood pumping.
How long had this feeling been building? Days? Weeks? My pack had all been off-balance lately, snapping at each other over nothing, retreating to separate corners of the compound like wounded animals. I couldn't put my finger on when it started or why. But there was no denying that things had changed, and not for the better.
Kane, more reckless than usual. Not paying attention in the shop. Losing his shit and breaking expensive parts. Digging through Otto’s salvage yard with zero care for self-preservation. Asshole got pinned under a pick-up last week. Bastard’s lucky he didn’t break anything.
Nitro, picking fights with shadows and ruining furniture with precise knife throws. He kept pushing me to my limit, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep from killing him. I could take his head between my bare hands and squeeze. Squeeze until his goddamn eyeballs popped.
Asher, back in the ring letting some idiot beat the agony away. I almost preferred the smell of gasoline and smoke over the sight of him coming home with split knuckles, black eyes, and a hollow look. I had a feeling that’s where he was right now. How many ribs would be cracked this time? How bad would his face look?
And Fallon… Fallon who was spending too many nights at those exclusive clubs he thought none of us knew about. I couldonly imagine the cash he’d dropped, trying to feel something. I hoped, at the very least, he was getting to fuck. When was the last time any of us sunk our dicks into a woman? When was the last time we satisfied that part of ourselves?
I wasn’t any better off than the others. Drinking alone in our kitchen after midnight, chasing sleep or peace or some other bullshit I couldn't name. And whatever I ran after, full speed with my lungs burning, always got away from me.
Something more was coming for us. Something was changing. I could feel it like pressure before a storm, so intense my bones ached, and I fucking hated it.
I lifted the glass to my lips, tipped my head back, and downed the rum in one long swallow. The alcohol burned a delicious path down my throat, settling with familiar warmth in my belly. For a brief, blessed moment, the noise in my head quieted. I savored that silence, eyes closed, before slamming the tumbler down on the counter with more force than necessary.
The sound of cracking glass was sharp in the quiet kitchen. I opened my eyes to see a fracture in the crystal, the line of it running from the bottom of the tumbler to its rim.
"Everything's so goddamn breakable," I muttered, picking up the glass again to examine the damage. The crack caught the light. I turned it in my hand, feeling the sharp edge where the glass had begun to separate. Months ago, I should have sliced the shard down my wrist. I should have ended it, and I wouldn’t feel this bad now.
I pressed my thumb against the glass and traced the fracture until I felt a sharp sting and the first welling of blood. When I pulled my thumb away, crimson was spreading in the damage. It was almost beautiful. Intricate highways mapping out the ridges of my print.
The macabre beauty it fashioned didn’t change facts though.
Still a ruined glass.
Still no longer useful.
Five hundred dollars for a set of six, and this was the fourth I'd broken this month. Fallon would give me that look—eyebrow raised, mouth tight with judgment—when he noticed. He'd say something cutting about respect for quality craftsmanship, and I'd want to punch that aristocratic expression off his face. I didn’t give a fuck if he monitored our spending. I’d break every glass in the fucking house if I wanted to.
I rubbed my thumb over the crack again, pressing until I felt the edge bite once more into my skin. The pain centered me, brought me back to the moment, away from the churning thoughts that had kept me awake.
Feeling this way didn’t make sense.
We were at the top of our game—the stunts were perfect, the money was flowing, the world was at our feet.So why did everything feel wrong? Why did the very air feel charged with change?Lightning, existing in a pregnant storm cloud, waiting to strike.
I thought of the five of us, of the bonds that held DemonX together. Were they cracking too, like this overpriced piece of glass? The thought sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the ice melting in my palm. My pack brothers had been my salvation a long time ago. They’d be the death of me if they left.
Lifting the glass higher, to eye level, I stared. My reflection distorted in the curved surface of the tumbler—fragmented by the crack I’d made. Is that what was happening to us? To me? And, like with this stupid glass, was it my fault? I’d always been the tip of the spear. I’d always been the point of the arrow. Hell, I’d been the first one to dream up DemonX.
So… if we were beginning to truly break… wasn’t that because of me? I wasn’t holding us together anymore.
Rage flooded me.
