Page 124 of Double Standards

Cassie.

Her fear that night cut deeper than any bullet. Her scream, her heartbreak—it became mine.

Movement stirs in the dark. Shuffling. Just enough to raise every hair on the back of my neck.

Barefoot and shirtless, jogging pants slung low on my hips, I descend the stairs in silence. I hear the faint scuff of shoes in the office, and then—movement. A shadow breaks across the doorway.

Instinct overtakes thought. I raise the gun, finger twitching at the trigger.

“It’s me!”

Flicking on the light switch, I’m met with a pair of bottle-green eyes. Her hands lift slowly into the air. No threat, just surrender. Her eyes are wide, lip trembling. She looks thinner, like life’s been carving pieces out of her one day at a time. The soft angles of her face are more pronounced, exhaustion swimming in those green depths.

I can’t stop the heat that flares in my chest. I drop my aim and flick the safety back on with a sharp click. Cassie steps forward, cautiously, like she’s walking into a lion’s den.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I could’ve fucking killed you,” I snap.

“You wouldn’t,” she challenges.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I take a step toward her, tucking the Glock into the back of my waistband.

“Trigger brought me.” Her eyes shift past me toward the door. I glance over my shoulder and find nothing but the closed slab of black wood.

“He shouldn’t have,” I growl, brushing past her on my way to the office.

I need a drink. A strong one.

“Axel.” She says my name, and fuck, I’ve missed the way it sounds from her lips.

My hand hovers over the lamp beside the drinks cart, freezing again when she adds softly, “Trigger’s worried.”

I spin on my heel, bottle already in hand. “Trigger?” I echo. “Or you?”

She doesn’t answer. Just steps farther into the room, letting the quiet stretch between us.

“You’re wasting your time,” I mutter, turning back and pouring a heavy splash of whiskey into a glass. I take a swig straight from the bottle before handing the glass to her. I don’t know why. Maybe because I know she’s not leaving. Not yet.

“Can I?” she asks, gesturing to the chesterfield near me.

“Knock yourself out,” I grunt.

The leather creaks beneath her as she perches on the edge of the couch. She’s hesitant, nervous. Like she’s afraid one wrong move will set me off. But right now, nothing she does could make me regret letting her in. Her safety is my weakness, and if I can’t protect her, who the hell can?

I’m not trying to make myself a hero. I’m not. But it’s undeniable—she draws out the better parts of me, the ones I’ve spent years trying to bury. And right now, I fucking hate that. I lean against the arm of the couch, swigging from the bottle like it might drown the ache in my chest, like it could smother the part of me that still gives a damn.

“Axel?” she starts, voice small.

“Don’t.” I cut her off before she can dig too deep, before she asks something I’m not ready to answer. The silence that follows is thick, filled only by the sound of her uneven breathing.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I mutter, rubbing a hand down my face.

“You won’t,” she whispers, her eyes dropping to her lap.

The quiet eats at me. When she came by the other week, the day I got back, and as much as I wanted to open that door, to pull her into my arms and forget everything else—I couldn’t. She reminded me of what I almost lost. Of what still feels so damn fragile.

Sending her away was the only thing I could do. Maybe it was cowardly. Maybe it was stupid. But it felt like the only move I had.

You’ll be the death of me.