The room settles into a quiet that feels heavier than before. Maybe it’s tension… Maybe it’s the question lingering at the tip of my tongue like a bomb. I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. “What happened?”
“The accident?” he questions, the tease in his voice gone.
I nod, and Safra exhales, his nose, eyes flicking towards the ceiling.
“I lost control,” he finally says after a moment of silence. “Driving too fast, thinking too little.” I couldn’t help but stare at him, at the bruises, the stitches, soaking up the exhaustion carved into his face—and all I can think of is how close he came to dying. How many times I wished he’d disappear from my life, to only be shown what that would feel like. Only to be punched in the face with the realization that I would reallynotlike that. Like ever.
“You’re an idiot,” I mutter. “Daddy’s money not only bought you an education but a license.”
Thiago’s mouth curves, faint but genuine, his gaze clashing with mine. “You stayed?”
I swallow hard, feeling the pressure in the air close in on us, and running my tongue over my teeth, wondering what to say. Knowing that if I say nothing, I might as well confess to him what I feel inside. And that would never happen. “Don’t feel too special. It was an order from Ezra.”
He huffs out a laugh, though it sounds more like disbelief. “Ahh… Look at my meu principe only following orders when they involve babysitting me.” He winks. “Was the kiss included in his order?”
My eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I mutter, standing to grab my school jacket from the chair. “He said someone had to make sure you didn’t choke on your own arrogance while unconscious.”
Thiago smirks, eyes half-lidded. “And you volunteered?”
“More like was drafted,” I shoot back. “Talking about Ezra, he should be pulling up any minute with my replacement.”
He sits up, wincing in pain when he does. “Wait…. What?”
As if on cue, tires screech, and loud rap music shakes the windows. The sound slicing through his ragged breaths, Thiago’s brow furrows. “Guess that’s the replacement.”
I nod, tugging the jacket on. “Yep, have fun with Elijah. Heard he’s quite the charmer.”
Safra’s mouth parts to speak, the words dying on his lips with the knock on the door. I turn my back on him, walking over and pulling it open. Elijah stands there, grinning like he owns the night, hands shoved into his jeans pockets.
“It's time,” he chides. “Break a leg.”
The insinuation in his words makes a scowl form. I don’t bother addressing him or looking back. I simply follow orders, mindlessly walking towards Ezra’s car and slipping into the passenger seat.
“How is he?” Ezra asks, watching me put on my seatbelt. I glance to the door,the engine growling beneath us.
“Awake and back to his usual self.”
Ezra's lips stretch into a polished smile, relief evident in his features. “Good… good.”
With that, he places the car into drive and peels out of the parking lot without another word.
We head towards the locker room, and the smell of blood and sweat is thick enough to taste. The music vibrates through the walls, and the air hums with anticipation and cheap cologne. Ezra walks ahead, silent with his gaze locked on his screen.
“Why do I need to lose tonight?” I finally ask the question that has been plaguing my mind since the words left his lips.
He stops, his hand running through his silky strands. “Because there’s someone asking a lot of questions. Plus, Peter bet a lot of money on the asshole fighting.”
I frown. “Why would Peter bet against his own?”
Ezra's jaw flexes. “Because it’s chess, Zayden. And Greyson wants you to lose. He’s got money riding on it—and something else.”
“What else?”
Ezra hesitates, thumb tapping his phone screen. “You. If you lose, you’re his. Peter agreed. And no, I don’t know what that means. Just… don’t win.”
My pulse matches the hum of the bass, hard and fast. “So that’s it?” I ask. “I’m being sold off for a bet?”
Ezra’s flat expression doesn’t change. “We’re keeping the peace. You win tonight, you won’t get close to Greyson, and we need that.”
