Page 125 of Double Standards

Her eyes snap up, red-rimmed and furious. “You blame me?”

“What?”

“You said it—‘You’ll be the death of me.’” She’s on her feet in an instant, standing toe-to-toe with me, her expression tight with pain and rage. “That’s what you just said.”

Shit. Did I actually say that out loud?

She crosses her arms, hands clenched at her hips, waiting for an answer.

“No, Cassie.” I shake my head, eyes fixed somewhere beyond her. The bottle presses to my lips again. “I don’t blame you.”

I throw my head back and take a long pull, mouth filling with whiskey. I hold it there a second, then swallow it down, piece by burning piece. The silence stretches between us, heavy and raw.

Suddenly, Cassie rips the bottle from my hand. Her eyes are glassy, her lashes thick with unshed tears, but her grip is sure as she lifts it to her lips and knocks back several swallows.

I stare, caught between admiration and exasperation.

“What?” she snaps, eyes blazing. “I’m not allowed to drown my shit too?”

She stumbles back to the couch and slumps into the worn leather, the bottle rising to her mouth again like it’s the only comfort she has left.

“Why won’t you leave the house, Axel?” Her voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“I have no reason to,” I lie, eyes on the floor.

“No.” Cassie shakes her head, voice threaded with quiet concern. “You’ve been wallowing.”

“Wallowing?” I scoff, biting back the urge to lash out.

“I know grief better than anyone, Axel.”

“No one died. I’m not grieving,” I snap, snatching the bottle from her hands more forcefully than I intend.

Her expression tightens, but she stays calm. “No one died, no. But you almost did. Grief isn’t just for the dead. It’s for what you lose. And you lost something that night, didn’t you?”

I stare at her, the words sinking in. I don’t answer—not at first.

I hadn’t thought of it like that. Hadn’t realized the walls I’ve built around myself were mourning something I couldn’t name. My home became a cage, but it also kept the fear at bay. Out there, in the world, I’m exposed. I’m vulnerable. And I can’t handle that—not until I find the bastard who pulled the trigger.

“You’re scared it’ll happen again,” she says quietly, more a statement than a question.

“I’m afraid someone will come after you just to get to me.” Guilt claws at my chest, thick and unrelenting. Her hurt, her worry, it echoes louder than my own thoughts. And when I speak again, it’s not for me. It’s for her. To ease what I’ve inflicted.

My voice drops to a whisper. “I heard you,” I admit.

She blinks, confused.

“When I was in the hospital,” I say, lifting my eyes to meet hers. Those big, beautiful, worried eyes. “I heard you, Cassie. Every time you talked to me. Every time you cried. I heard all of it. I tried to reach you... I tried to?—”

Fuck, this is impossible.

Her green eyes widen, startled by my admission, swimming with disbelief and something softer. Something that might kill me if I let it.

“Axel?” she breathes, her voice barely a whisper as her hand settles gently over mine. She offers me the bottle, and I take a long, punishing swig of whiskey.

“It’s not safe with me,” I mutter, the words scraping out of me like broken glass. I pass the bottle back with shaking fingers. “You’ll never be safe, not as long as you’re near me. People will come after me—through you. And I can’t fucking let that happen.”

She doesn’t speak. But her silence burns. It simmers with fury and pain. Still, she listens. That’s more than I deserve.