Page 113 of Double Standards

And then I walk out, because it’s the only thing I can still control in this chaotic mess.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Isit in the dark, the bottle half-empty and warm in my hand. Cassie’s voice still echoes in the walls long after the front door slammed. Even days after she turned up at my doorstep and I forced Hunter to deal with her. Like she was some kind of nuisance to me.

But she wasn’t. She isn’t.

She never was.

She was the only light I had left. And I treated her like a burden. Like her pain wasn’t mine to carry, like I wasn’t the reason behind every unanswered call, every sleepless night. I could hear it in her voice—the hope, the ache, the confusion—and still I stayed silent, tucked in the shadows like a goddamn coward.

I keep telling myself I’m protecting her. But all I’m doing is ruining her.

She was already part of me. Long before I ever let myself admit it. And now, even though I pushed her away, she’s still in every breath. Every silence. Every slow death of a day that passes without her.

She showed up with that fire in her eyes and concern in her voice. And I repaid it with coldness. Distance. A check, like shecould be bought off and sent on her way. Like what we had meant less than the war I’ve been fighting in my own goddamn head.

I should’ve opened the door.

Should’ve pulled her into my arms and told her she was the only thing keeping me tethered to this wreck of a life.

Instead, I broke her.

And now I’m breaking too.

I rest my head against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might cave in and do me the favor of crushing me. My knuckles are raw from the wall I punched when she left.

I heard it all. Every desperate question. Every crack in her voice. And still I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t show my face. Because if she saw me like this—barely holding on, every part of me wired to destroy—she’d understand why I had to let her go.

Why she’s safer without me.

The door creaks. I don’t look.

Trigger’s boots hit the floor with his usual rhythm, only it sounds angry. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“Get out.”

“No. You don’t get to send Hunter to do your dirty work and then sit here sulking like some martyr.”

I drain the rest of the whiskey, letting it scorch my throat. “She’s better off.”

“She’s shattered.”

Max steps into view, calmer but no less pointed.

“For fuck’s sake,” I groan, my voice raw with irritation as I press a hand to my side. A sharp, hot pain cuts through me, the kind that radiates from the inside out—deep, aching, relentless. My fingers curl over the edge of the kitchen counter as the stitches along my abdomen pull, biting into already tender skin. It's a searing reminder that I'm not healed, not even close. Every movement is a landmine. Every breath feels like punishment for surviving.

The wound is still fresh beneath the gauze, angry and swollen. I can feel the heat radiating from it, the dull throb that never quite fades. Painkillers are sitting on the table across the room, untouched. I don't want them. Ineedto feel this—to remember exactly what got me here. What I lost. What I almost lost.

Having Trigger here is one thing. He's all fury and growl, simmering under the surface, but at least he doesn't talk much unless he's trying to scare the shit out of someone. His presence is a constant storm cloud in the corner of the room, but I know how to handle that kind of weather.

But Max? Max doesn’t waste time unless he has something important to say. The guy speaks in silence most of the time—grunts, nods, shrugs. So when he shows up and actually opens his damn mouth, it’s not a social call.

He’s come here for one reason.

And I already know I’m not going to like it.

He plants himself across the room like he owns the place, arms crossed, weight balanced on his heels. Waiting. Watching. He won't leave until he gets it out—and worse, until Ilisten.