I’m twenty-two years old and I’m starting to fall into my role in this world of blood and power and secrets. I’ve done things I’ll never come back from. And still—still—I’ve built my entire fucking life around a girl who was never mine to begin with.
It shouldn’t be like this. She’s supposed to be someone I protect, not someone who makes me feel like I’m coming apart at the seams every time she breathes.
But nothing I’ve tried stops the ugly, gnawing thing in my chest whenever she looks at me like I’m the only man in the room. Or the way my body reacts when she wears those short skirts, laughing like she’s daring the whole world to watch her.
My hand’s still curled around my phone. I thumb it open, almost without thinking. Maybe it’s muscle memory, or maybe just masochism, but her Instagram glows in the dark.
And there it is.
Still fucking there.
Her lips a breath away from his. His hand in her hair. Her body pressed into someone else’s like she belongs there.
I take a screenshot and zoom in on the asshole's face before running it through a few different security systems. Facial recognition spins in the background while I take another long pull of vodka. This time, it barely burns at all.
I watch the little wheel spin and spin until the results flash on the screen.
JASON MCGEE. 25. Student. Low-level runner.
Of course.
Ofcourse, he’s one of ours.
I know guys like him, weak and opportunistic. Just smart enough to toe the line, and just dumb enough to think he’s safe. He saw Lily and didn’t think twice. Thought she was some party girl, some pretty thing he could touch without consequence.
He doesn’t know.
He hasno fucking ideawho he’s messing with. But he’s about to find out.
Downloading and saving his information, I toss back the rest of the bottle, swallow the fire whole, and let it settle like poison in my blood. My hands are shaking when I shove my phone into my pocket.
Tomorrow, I’ll find him.
Tomorrow, I’ll remind him exactly what it means to touch what doesn’t belong to him.
But tonight…
Tonight, I’ll drink until the raw, desperate thing inside me quiets. Until her face stops swimming in front of mine. Until I stop hearing her voice in my head, soft and broken and whispering my name like a prayer.
Because I can’t unsee it—her mouth on his, her body against his, like shechosehim.
Because I know I shouldn’t want her like this, not with this much heat in my chest and blood on my hands.
But I’m so goddamn tired of pretending I don’t.
Somewhere between the third drink and the bottom of the bottle, I must’ve called Owen. Don’t remember what I said—only static, the sound of my own voice cracking like glass.
When I wake, it’s to a dead phone, a pounding skull, and a water bottle sweating on the bedside table.
Jason McGee lives in a shitty complex near the Thames—peeling paint, broken intercom, and overflowing bins beside the front door. The kind of place people go to disappear. By the time he stumbles out of his flat the next morning, I’m already leaning against the hood of my car, arms crossed, waiting.
He doesn’t see me right away. Too busy squinting against the sun, wearing last night’s shirt, like he doesn’t remember how he got home. Stubble blooms across his jaw and everything about him just solidifies my belief he’s human trash who doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as Lily.
I track him silently, footfalls light, shadowing him down the street. He stops to light a cigarette, his hand trembling like he’s still half-drunk.
Perfect.
“Morning, Jason.”
