Page 19

The door swings open, and time grinds to a halt. My vision narrows to a pinpoint focus on the scene before me — Saylor perched on Byron's couch, takeout containers spread between them like it's fucking date night. I stand frozen for a second. This is the same Saylor who texted me earlier claiming she needed a night with her roommates. The same Saylor whose taste still lingers on my lips from last night.

My lungs constrict, throat tightening as if someone's wrapped invisible fingers around my windpipe. The betrayal hits in waves — first shock, then confusion, finally settling into a smoldering anger that burns low in my gut.

Saylor's face transforms when she sees me — eyes widening, color draining from her cheeks, her body recoiling as if struck. She looks everywhere but at me, her gaze darting around the room like a trapped animal seeking escape. Byron's reaction is slower but more direct — surprise melting into cold anger, jaw tightening, shoulders squaring. Ready for confrontation.

The rational part of my brain screams at me to back away. Close the door. Walk out. Deal with this betrayal when we're not all trapped in the emotional minefield of Byron's apartment. But something darker takes control — a petty, wounded pride that refuses to be the one who retreats.

I've spent my life living up to people's worst expectations of me. The entitled Connolly brother. The arrogant know-it-all. The guy who takes whatever he wants without consideration for consequences. Why stop now?

"Cade?" she whispers, stunned.

"Saylor."

I step into the room, making my presence unbearable to the both of them.

The door closes behind me with a soft click that echoes like a gunshot in the tense silence. I cross the room with deliberate slowness, each footstep on the worn carpet a declaration of war. The empty couch opposite them beckons, and I lower myself onto it with casualness, stretching my legs out before me as if I've been invited to this little dinner party.

Byron's glare could cut diamond. A muscle jumps in his jaw, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his thighs. Saylor has her body turned away from me completely, presenting only her rigid profile, shoulders hunched as if attempting to physically shield herself from my presence. The curve of her neck, the line of her jaw — features I've traced with my fingertips, my lips — now angled away. It's quite funny, isn't it?

Seconds tick by, stretching into God knows how long. The only sound is our breathing — Byron's short and sharp with anger, Saylor's quick and shallow with anxiety, my own measured and deliberate. I let the silence grow, thicken, become its own entity in the room. A small, mean part of me — a part I'm not proud of — savors in this shit. I enjoy seeing their discomfort.

"What's going on here?" I finally ask, my voice cutting through the quiet like a blade — deceptively soft, controlled.

"You need to leave." Byron's response is immediate, loaded with venom and warning.

I cock my head to the side, looking at the profile of my little hater. "Is that what you want, Saylor?"

Her name in my mouth seems to physically impact her, a visible flinch rippling across her shoulders. Still, she won't turn. Won't speak. Won't even acknowledge the question. Her gaze remains fixed on the floor, as if the worn carpet is going to save her.

Her silence fuels something ugly inside me. The Cade I've been trying to evolve beyond claws his way to the surface — the version of me who lashes out when hurt, who inflicts pain rather than admitting vulnerability.

"So," I say, leaning back deeper into the cushions, "did Saylor tell you?"

Her entire body goes rigid, breath catching audibly. The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Still, her eyes remain glued to the floor, fingers twisting in her lap.

Byron's eyes move between us, the first flicker of uncertainty joining the anger on his face. "Tell me what?"

I shrug, meeting his hard gaze. "She doesn't want you back, man."

Byron's attention snaps to Saylor, who seems determined to win a staring contest with the carpet fibers.

She's silent, frozen.

"You know why?" I ask, my voice dripping with mock concern, every word calculated to hurt the both of them.

Something finally snaps inside her. Saylor's head whips toward me, eyes blazing with a cocktail of emotions so complex I can't begin to decipher them. Anger, certainly. Fear, possibly. Something else that looks dangerously like heartbreak.

"What the fuck is your problem?" she hisses, each word sharpened to a point.

A twisted satisfaction blooms in my chest at having finally captured her attention. At forcing her to acknowledge me, to stop pretending I don't exist in this excruciating triangle we've created.

"Just clearing the air," I say with a shrug, maintaining eye contact now that I've finally earned it.

I reach across the coffee table with deliberate slowness, plucking her curry container from its place. Without breaking eye contact, I take a bite, the spices hitting my tongue with familiar heat.

"Not spicy enough," I comment, as if to acknowledge how she promised to make her spicy curry for me. And I can only assume that Byron is trying to smooth things over with her by buying her favorite dish. Degrading it brings me pure fucking joy.

Their glares bore into me — former enemies temporarily allied against a common threat. The irony isn't lost on me.

"Now I understand why you always hated him," Byron says to Saylor, not shifting his gaze from my face.

"That's not the case anymore," I counter, matching his stare with equal intensity. "Is it, Saylor?"

The words hang in the air like smoke, acrid and choking. Each passing second ratchets the tension higher, a rubber band stretching toward inevitable breaking.

"She doesn't want to be with you anymore," I tell Byron, abandoning pretense for blunt cruelty. "Accept it and move on."

"This is exactly why you hated him," Byron says to Saylor as if I'm not sitting right here. She can't look at him though, and that alone squeezes my heart. "Look at him. He is just––"

"What?" I taunt, hating the tone coming out of his mouth, hating that the girl I'm starting to fall for ran back to her ex. "I'm what?"

"Get the fuck out of here."

I glare at him, anger simmering in my bones. I shake my head without realizing it, and then Byron is at my feet, knocking the curry out of my hands. The curry container goes flying, the contents arcing through the air in slow motion before splattering against the far wall. Orange sauce drips down, pooling on the carpet below.

I remain perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. His chest heaves with emotion, fists clenched at his sides, body vibrating with barely contained fury as he looms over me.

With deliberate calm, I rise to my full height, using those three extra inches to maximum effect. Looking down at him makes me almost laugh.

"She wears her sexy lingerie for me now," I say.

Pain explodes across my face, bright and clarifying. The impact of his fist against my jaw comes as no surprise. I taste copper as my teeth cut into the inside of my cheek. The second blow catches my cheekbone, sending fresh shockwaves of agony through my skull.

I don't raise my hands to defend myself. Don't attempt to block the third hit, or the fourth. Each punch lands with increasing force, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil churning inside me.

It's a strategy I perfected growing up with Sandy — sometimes it's more effective to absorb the blows than to fight back. Each hit I take and don't return only escalates Byron's frustration, makes him feel increasingly out of control.

Saylor's voice cuts through the haze of pain, high and desperate, begging us to stop. The situation takes on a dreamlike quality, as if I'm watching it happen to someone else from a great distance. What did she expect? This collision course was set the moment she decided to lie to me, to sneak behind my back for a secret meetup with my best friend.

In some twisted way, I'm doing Byron a favor. He needs this outlet for his rage — needs to physically punish me for my betrayal, needs to feel like he's defending what was once his. And I deserve this beating. I don't deserve his kindness, his patience, or his friendship. He should kick my ass for being the piece of shit friend that I am.

My foot catches on the edge of the area rug, sending me staggering backward. I lose balance, crashing to the floor with bone-jarring force. Instead of stopping, Byron follows me down, raining blows against my face. Pain radiates from my ribs, my face, my shoulder, white-hot and all-consuming.

Through vision blurred with pain, I see Saylor grabbing at Byron's arm, trying to pull him away. Her face is in pure panic mode, tears streaming down her cheeks as she pleads for him to stop. He jerks his elbow back reflexively, without looking, catching her square in the face with a sickening thud.

Time stutters, fragments. A drop of crimson appears on her lower lip, bright against her skin. The sight of her blood infuriates me. I surge upward, catching Byron around the waist and driving him backward. We crash into the coffee table together, the wood splintering beneath his weight with a satisfying crack.

"Don't you ever fucking touch her again," I growl, hands fisted in his shirt, holding him pinned among the wreckage.

Byron struggles beneath me, his breath coming in pained gasps. The fight drains from his eyes, replaced by shock at the sudden reversal. Over my shoulder, I hear the front door open and close.

Saylor.

I release Byron and spin around, racing to the door. It swings open only to see her already halfway down the hallway, moving fast, one hand pressed to her bleeding lip. Byron scrambles to his feet, following me as I chase her.

"Get back in your house," I warn over my shoulder, "before I rip your fucking head off."

I don't wait to see if he complies. Saylor has already reached the stairwell, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I catch up to her at the landing, gently turning her to face me, pulling her into my arms.

She fights against me immediately, fists beating against my chest. "You asshole!" she cries, voice fracturing around the words. "Let me go!"

Blood pulses hot and fast through my veins, every sense heightened by adrenaline. The feel of her trembling against me. Even as my face throbs and my ribs scream in protest, I've never felt more alive than in this moment, holding her.

I want to kiss her. Want to claim her here, now, in this dingy stairwell. Want to wipe away any trace of Byron from her mind, her body, her memory. Want everyone — Byron, Hannah, our friends, the whole damn world — to know she's mine now.

The stinging slap across my already battered cheek brings reality crashing back. Her palm connects with my face, leaving a fresh burst of pain blooming where Byron's fist had already marked me.

"Leave me alone!" she screams, tears cutting clean tracks down her flushed face. "Just leave me the fuck alone!"

Each word lands like a physical blow, cutting deeper than any punch. I stand frozen, watching her stumble down the stairs, away from Byron's apartment, away from me.

Blood drips from my split lip onto the concrete landing, each drop a small surrender to the inevitable conclusion I've been avoiding since this began: some things, once broken, can never be put back together again.