I know this pattern.I can trace it blindfolded.I’ll be shoved to the side, discarded like trash, and forgotten by tomorrow.
It doesn’t matter how different this feels with Wolf.Jag always wins.
How many times do I have to be replaced before I stop being such a goddamn pushover?When will I learn?
Now.
Not tomorrow.
Not after I’ve picked myself off the floor again.
I want everything Jag Rath touches to stop bleeding.I want the stains he left on me to finally stop spreading.I’m done standing on the sidelines of my own damn life, swallowing it down when I should be screaming.
I want this pattern to end.Now.With Wolf.
So I pull on my big girl pants and draw my line.
“You can’t have it both ways.”My entire body clenches against the hurt.“You can’t chase me and entertain him.”
He stares at me for an aching moment, each breath dragging his chest higher, stretching the fabric tight over the sharp, sculpted map of his body as if every muscle was hewn to test my restraint.
Finally, he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Goodnight.”I turn, open the door, and step inside.
When it closes behind me, I slump against the wood, fists balled at my sides, eyes stinging.
I’ve been here before.
On the edge of something that could’ve been beautiful, but never had a chance.
I don’t know what scares me more.
Knowing he’ll eventually let Jag in.
Or that the weakest parts of me still want to let Jag in, too.
The next morning, I drop Dove at the mechanic shop just after dawn.Carl and Jasper nod at me like we’re all pretending this setup is normal.Like I didn’t spend half the night thinking about her on skates, Jag’s tattoo, the mysterious car, and her painful—albeit well-deserved—rejection.
The streets are empty.Sitka’s always quiet at this hour.The tattoo parlor looms, the door already propped open with a cinder block.
Inside, the lights are on.
And so is Declan.
“Okay, so this wasn’t here on Sunday, right?Like, definitely not here.I was off yesterday, came back this morning, and boom—bam—bam!A new room.Just… There.Like it grew overnight.Like a mushroom.Or an alien pod.I don’t know, man.This reeks of the Anunnaki.No tire tracks.No receipts.No weird guys in reflective vests.And the construction?Pristine.Like too clean.No dust, no noise complaints, not even a rogue drywall screw on the floor.I think it’s an invasion.Did it happen last night?Or 4000 years ago?Are we missing time?What day is it?”
“Morning, Declan.”I brush past him.
He vibrates, tweaking hard off his fifth or tenth cup of coffee.The aroma of burned beans trails him as he follows me, spewing conspiracy theories I no longer hear.
Because standing where my workstation used to be is a room.Framed out.Walled up.Closed off.A godsdamn room.
New sheetrock hangs on new studs, the tang of sawdust and fresh wood cutting through the musty air.
Perplexed, I run my fingers along the edge of the doorframe, the unpainted drywall, the cleanly mudded seams.A room made of high-grade shit that doesn’t match the rest of the shop.
I open the heavy door and step inside, finding everything exactly how I left it last night.
