Emma was a lifetime ago.Different city, different version of me.Before the club.Before I learned that caring about someone just gives the universe another target.
We were together for two years.Lived together for one.She was good, too good for me even then, but she didn't see it that way.She thought she could fix me.Thought love was enough.
It wasn't.
I was working security at the time, shite hours, dodgy people.I got in with the wrong crowd.Started doing jobs I shouldn't have.Emma didn't know the half of it, but she knew enough to be scared.
She told me to stop.To walk away.To choose her over the money, the danger, the pull of something darker.
I didn't listen.
And then one night, I came home and she was gone.Just...gone.She left a note that said she couldn't watch me destroy myself, that she loved me but love wasn't enough to save someone who didn't want saving.
She was right.
I never saw her again.She moved on quickly—too quickly.And not with anyone random, but with my brother, the man I looked up to when I was younger, the person I saw as someone I admired.Instead, he took my woman and acted as though he did nothing wrong.
Now, they’re both dead.
I thought I'd made peace with it.Thought I'd buried her deep enough that she couldn't hurt me anymore.
But tonight, last night, with Enya pressed against me, looking at me with those blue eyes that saw too fucking much, something cracked open.
And Emma's ghost crawled out.
I stand abruptly and pace the small room like a caged animal.My fists clench and unclench at my sides.I want to hit something.Want to break something.Want to rewind time and shove that name back down my throat before it could ruin everything.
Because it did ruin everything.
Enya won't want to see me again.She won't want me near her.And I don't blame her.I wouldn't want me either.
But Christ, the thought of never seeing her again, never hearing that sharp tongue, never feeling her look at me like I might be worth something...it makes my chest tight.
Which is fucked.
I barely know her.One night.A few hours.That's nothing.It shouldn't matter.
Except it does.
It matters more than it should, and I don't know what to do with that.
* * *
I don't sleep.I don't even try.When the sun's fully up and I hear movement in the clubhouse—voices, footsteps, the clang of someone making breakfast—I emerge from my room like I haven't just spent the last few hours spiraling.
Pyro's in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a chipped mug.President of the Fury Vipers, built like a brick shithouse, and covered in burn scars he never talks about.He looks up when I walk in, takes one look at my face, and raises an eyebrow.
"Rough night?"
"Something like that."
He grunts and slides the coffee pot toward me.I pour myself a cup, not bothering with milk or sugar.I just need it black and strong enough to keep me upright.
"Church at noon," Pyro says."Need you there."
"I'll be there."
"You good?"
