Xander would make me bleed.
He’d give me pain.
Enough so that he’d walk away thinking I’d learned my lesson.
Though he’d be wrong.
I walked closer to the bike, admiring my handiwork. Air was slowly hissing from the tire wound. Everyone knew this was my knife. It was evidence impossible to deny or explain away. No plausible deniability. No easy forgiveness.
Perfect.
Some distant part of me recognized the fucked-up nature of what I was doing—deliberately sabotaging something important to someone I respected, someone I would die for without hesitation. But that rational voice was drowned out by the desperate need to know I was still a living, breathing creature.
A fucked-up creature.
But not a dead one.
I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling wrong inside. Each of us withdrawing in our own ways, seeking relief that we couldn'tfind. Something was shifting in our carefully balanced unit.No, it fucking had shifted. And maybe we could never restore what we used to be.
I bent down and ran my fingers over the knife handle. How long would I have to wait before Xander saw the damage? The anticipation alone was enough to quiet the chaos in my head, at least temporarily.
“It’s your fault,” I whispered to the knife. “You wouldn’t make me bleed.”
“You’re a goddamn mad man,” Kane’s voice floated to me. I stood up, turning to face my pack brother.
“Says the guy hurling power tools,” I quipped.
“He’s going to kill you,” Kane responded simply.
“I’m betting on that,” I said under my breath, feeling like I’d just crashed down to Earth after another failed 900.
I no longer felt cold.
The shivering had stopped.
The promise of Xander’s revenge made me feel nice and toasty.
12
KANE
{One month ago}
The persistent drip of oil hitting the cardboard beneath the car was beginning to scratch my brain in a maddening way.
Each drop sounded too loud.
Each dark splash was a new stain that reminded me I was failing.
This should be a simple fucking problem and I couldn’t fix it.
I lay flat on my back on the creeper, shoulders cramping from hours spent in the same position, staring up at the labyrinth of metal and rubber that refused to cooperate. Today, the underside of the 1988 Porsche had become my entire world—a world currently mocking me with that steady, infuriating leak. I’d taken the damn thing to a certified mechanic last week, and the bum had advised I ignore the problem, because it was likely one single seal that would require taking the whole damn engine out.
But I was stubborn. I’d check every gasket—and there were a fuck ton in a 911—until I stopped the leak. I couldn’t fix much else in my life, but I could fix this.
The ’67 Shelby still sat in the corner of the garage, untouched. I had the damn part now, but… there was something eating at me. I hadn’t hunted for the Holley carb. I hadn’t gotten down in the muck and mire to earn it. Otto had just handed me the damn thing in a box, and I’d swiped my card to pay. It was a fucking ridiculous mental block, just another sign that I was daily dancing with insanity.
I reached up, swiping my oil-soaked cloth over where oil gathered the heaviest. A rebellious droplet splattered onto my face, adjacent to my left eye. It traced a trail down my face. Didn’t know if it was me or the car crying.
