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It played such a huge part in our relationship before I was kidnapped; it’s difficult to train my brain to think it’s going to be anything else. Zade is a flirt, and while he’s made plenty of sexual remarks, he hasn’t made a single attempt to seduce me.

“And then I get angry,” I continue, frowning into my Merlot. “I lash out at him and say horrible things, and he just fucking takes it.”

“Baby girl, it’s going to take a while for you to work through your trauma. You have PTSD, as anyone would. Don’t rush yourself.”

“I think it’d be easier if I wasn’t in love with him,” I admit, circling my finger around the glass. It creates a soft sound that is soothing to the turmoil in my head.

“I still feel attraction, ya know? Like every time he touches me, I want to enjoy it. I just can’t. He hasn’t even made any advances. Nothing sexual, but that’s where my head immediately goes, and then I’m right back in that house with Xavier.”

“Did you talk to Zade about him?”

I take another gulp of Merlot before responding, “Yes. After we agreed to work together, we sat down, and I told him everything. Well… not everything. Not the gruesome details. But he knows the CliffsNotes of what I went through, and he explained how he found me. Talked about some brotherhood and told me all about Max.”

A sadness cloaks her sage eyes, and I can tell she’s anxious because she starts fiddling with her nose ring.

“Yeah, he… saved me, too. From Luke.”

I reach over and grab her hand, squeezing tightly. Zade told

me what happened with Daya, but I was waiting for her to bring it up to me first. If there’s anything I understand, it’s not wanting to relive certain things.

We’ve all been suffering in very different ways, yet the source of our pain is the same.

The Society. Claire.

Daya was the decoy to draw me out of Parsons Manor so Rio and Rick could kidnap me. Of course, Luke was the one to put her through hell, but none of that would’ve happened if it wasn’t for Claire leading Max to believe that Zade killed his father, and then putting a target on my head. One that Max immediately jumped on, angry and intent on getting revenge.

“I’m so sorry, Daya. I’m so sorry he did that to you.” My voice cracks by the last word, an unexpected rush of tears blurring my vision.

Daya covers her face, trying to hold in her own tears. “Goddammit, Addie,” she snips without heat. “Don’t you dare make me cry.”

But it’s too late, a sob hiccups from her throat by the last word. I scoot my chair closer to her and pull her into a hug; my own demons be damned. Her arms circle around my waist, and we both let go.

Grief pours out through the cracks while we hold each other, like two pillars falling together, both incapable of standing without the other’s support.

By the time we pull apart, snot is running down my splotchy, red face, and I just know mascara is running down my cheeks. She’s got drool on her cheek and makeup circles around her eyes. With how bloodshot they are, coupled with her dark brown skin, her light green eyes are almost startling.

Regardless, we both look ridiculous, and immediately we burst into laughter, which fades into another round of tears. In the end, neither one of us can tell if we’re laughing or crying, but it feels good either way.

“My head hurts now,” I croak, wiping my blackened tears away, and then I grab a tissue and loudly blow my nose.

“Drink more wine, it’ll make it worse, but at least you’ll be buzzed.”

I laugh, taking a sip as she also blows her nose.

“Where is Zade, by the way?” she asks.

“I don’t know, actually. After our training session, he dipped out pretty quickly, saying he had to take care of something. He didn’t say what it was about, and I was too sweaty and mentally exhausted to care at that moment.”

We both shrug it off. He could’ve realized we ran out of toilet paper and needed to replenish for all I know. I think if it were anything important, he would’ve said.

For the next hour, Daya and I finish off the bottle of Merlot and I’m pleasantly buzzed. I also decide that I’m going to have to be very careful with drinking from now on. It feels a little too nice, and I refuse to use it as a crutch.

I’d rather work through my trauma the healthy way. You know—by murdering Claire with my bare hands.

We’re in the middle of laughing over a stupid video someone posted on social media when the front door bangs open, and two voices are snapping at each other.

One is Zade’s. The other is a girl’s.