Page 61 of Bitter When He Begs

“I didn’t want to die,” I say quietly. “I just… didn’t want to feel like that anymore.”

“I know,” he says. “And that’s what scares the shit out of me.”

We fall silent again. The wind picks up, cool and sharp. I tuck my hands deeper into my pockets, grounding myself with the weight of his words.

“I don’t even remember the first time I took one,” I admit. “It was after the fracture. They prescribed it, and it helped. Then it kept helping. And then I couldn’t imagine not needing it.”

Killian hums. “That’s how it always starts.”

We stand there for a long time, both of us watching the lake like it’s going to offer us some kind of fucking absolution.

“I keep thinking if I were stronger, I wouldn’t have needed anything,” I say after a while. “That if I were really who people think I am, I would’ve gotten through it alone.”

“That’s bullshit,” he replies flatly. “Addiction doesn’t give a fuck about how strong you are. It doesn’t care about stats or muscles or how many fucking touchdowns you throw. It gets in your head and rewires everything. Makes you think the only way to exist is by numbing it.”

I nod, even though I hate that it’s true.

“You guys think I’m this cold asshole who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but Roman,” he adds casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.

I huff a laugh. “You kinda are.”

“Yeah, probably,” he says, lips quirking. “But I still care about you fuckers. You’re my people. Even when you’re dumb as shit.”

I don’t say thank you. We don’t do that. Instead, I nod and murmur, “Same.”

Killian turns and gestures for us to go, but then he pauses. “Don’t make me watch another person I care about spiral. Because if you do, I’m taking your starting position and pretending you never existed.”

I laugh as I throw my keys at him. It’s hoarse, but it’s real.

By the time we pull back into the driveway of the Sin Bin, it’s already dark. The porch light’s on, someone’s playing music in the living room, and the smell of something burnt wafts out the front door.

Home.

Killian kills the engine and doesn’t say anything as I get out. But before I can close the door, he grabs my bicep and mutters, “Next time you’re slipping, you come to me. Don’t make me find out after the fact.”

I nod once. “I will.”

He waits a beat, then smirks. “Good. If you don’t, I’ll make sure your next piss test gets flagged just for the hell of it.”

“Jesus fuck, Kill,” I mutter, flipping him off as I walk inside. But my chest feels lighter than it has in days.

Sage

Roman’scameraisapiece of shit.

I’ve told him this so many times, and yet here I am again in his rec room, kneeling next to his disaster of a setup, trying to fix something that shouldn’t even be broken in the first place.

“This thing belongs in a museum,” I mutter, twisting a knob that refuses to budge. “Or the fucking grave.”

The fucker snorts, lounging back against the couch and watching me with a lazy smirk. “And yet, you’re still fixing it.”

I glare at him over my shoulder. “I have a weakness for lost causes.”

“So that’s why you’re still hung up on Luca.”

I choke on nothing and force myself to keep moving. “First of all,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “fuck you.”

Roman chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head. “Fair.”