"Do you think he'll do it?" Asher asks finally. "Fix things with her?"
"I don't know." I watch him work. "But I know that if he doesn't, we're all going to lose her. And I can't—" I stop. "I can't lose her, Ash. I can't lose any of you. We're supposed to be in this together."
"We are." He secures the bandage with tape, sits back. "Even when it's complicated. Even when it hurts. We're still together."
"Then we need to make Xavier see that." I stand slowly, testing my weight. "Before it's too late. Before we lose her for good."
18
XAVIER
The water is scalding.
I stand under the spray and let it burn, let the heat turn my skin angry red, let the pain ground me in something physical instead of the emotional wreckage I've been drowning in for months. My knuckles are bruised from where they connected with Zay's jaw last night—split skin over bone that throbs in time with my pulse. My ribs ache from where we hit the floor. Everything hurts in that specific way that comes from fighting someone you love.
But the worst pain is the one that has nothing to do with my body.
Valentina.
Her name is a wound that won't close, a constant ache beneath everything else. I close my eyes and she's there—the way she looked when I saidget out, the devastation on her face when I called her a liar, the sound she made when I saidno longer mine.
I destroyed her. Zay was right about that. I destroyed her in front of seventy people because I was hurt and scared and too fucking proud to see past my own pain.
My hand moves without conscious thought, wrapping around my cock. It's already half-hard—has been since I woke up from dreams I can't quite remember but know involved her. Always her. Even when I'm furious, even when I'm broken, my body wants her with a desperation that borders on pathological.
I stroke myself slowly, head tilted back under the spray, and let myself think about her. The way she looked that morning in the kitchen when she stripped for us—completely bare and completely unashamed, power radiating off her in waves. The way she took control, the way she made each of us fall apart with methodical precision. The way she looked at me like I was something worth fighting for.
The way I threw it all away.
My hand moves faster, grip tightening, and I hate myself for this—for getting off while she's God knows where thinking I hate her, thinking I'll never forgive her, thinking she destroyed everything. But I can't stop. Can't stop chasing the memory of her skin against mine, her mouth on me, the sounds she made when I was inside her.
I come with a strangled groan that's half-pleasure, half-grief. Watch it wash down the drain with the water and feel absolutely nothing except emptiness and self-loathing.
"Fuck," I breathe, bracing myself against the tile. "Fuck."
I finish showering on autopilot—soap, shampoo, the mechanical motions of someone going through the motions of being human.When I finally shut off the water and step out, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look like hell. Months of drinking has left me hollow-eyed and gaunt, dark circles so deep they look like bruises. My hair is too long, hanging in wet tangles around my face. I look exactly like what I am: a man who's been trying to drown himself in bourbon and failing.
Time to stop failing.
I dress slowly, carefully—jeans, t-shirt, the leather vest with the Raiders patch. Armor. Reminder of who I'm supposed to be when I'm not falling apart. Getting out of the shower is harder than it should be—my legs are weak from months of neglecting PT, the muscles I worked so hard to rebuild atrophying from disuse. I brace myself against the wall, take careful steps across the bathroom tile. Everything feels fragile, unsteady, like I'm made of glass held together with spite.
But I'm functional. That's something.
I make my way downstairs carefully, one hand on the railing, each step deliberate. My legs shake with the effort—Valentina would be furious if she could see how much ground I've lost, how much progress I've pissed away. I find Asher and Zay already in the living room. Zay's on the couch with his shirt off, fresh bandaging wrapped around his ribs. Asher's at the window with coffee, looking like he hasn't slept.
They both turn when I enter, wariness in their expressions and something else—concern, maybe, at the way I'm gripping the doorframe for support.
"I'm calling a council meeting," I say before either of them can speak. "Now. Get everyone here."
"Xavier—" Asher starts.
"I'm sober. I'm functional. And I'm done hiding while everything falls apart." I look at Zay. "You were right. About all of it. But I can't fix everything at once. So I'm starting with what I can control."
Zay studies me for a long moment, then nods. "I'll make the calls."
Thirty minutes later, the safe house living room is full. Not the whole club—just senior leadership. Jackie, looking exhausted and worried. George, watching me with that calculating expression that makes me want to punch him. A handful of others who've been holding things together while I drank myself stupid.
