Page 17 of Hymns of the Broken

“I didn’t say you were,” I reply, careful to keep my tone even. Soft. I’m constantly measuring my voice, slipping it through the filter that keeps his temper from catching flame.

His gaze holds mine for a beat, then flickers away. “Are you really not even thinking about how this could go? What if something happens? What if I’m here wondering—” He stops mid-sentence, jaw flexing. “If I have to imagine—” Another sharp cut-off. His hand drags across the back of his neck before he forces the words out quieter. “I didn’t mean that. I just… I’m scared, okay? I’m scared you’re gonna get out there and forget about me. Find someone better.”

My chest tightens, a familiar ache settling in. It’s the one that comes when he twists worry into a chain.

He’s good at this. Always has been. Knows exactly where to place the blade, so I can’t tell if it’s meant to wound or keep me close.

“I’m not going out there to find someone,” I say, barely above a whisper. “This is for me.”

He nods as if it costs him something. “I know. I know that. I’m sorry. I want you to go—I do. I’m happy for you.”

But the crack in his voice betrays him, the tremor beneath the apology giving away what’s underneath.

“I’ll wait for you. No matter how long it takes. I’ll be here.”

I don’t know what to say in response to that.

It’s not a promise.

It’s a noose

And he’s waiting to see if I’ll wrap it around my neck willingly.

***

Blake insisted on driving me with the excuse of it’d be a "proper goodbye".

He loaded my bags into the trunk like a supportive boyfriend. Kept one hand on my thigh during the drive. Kept talking like I was going to war and he was the grieving widow being left behind.

Now we’re standing in the parking lot of the tour pickup spot at an old warehouse that’s been converted into a staging area for the bands. Equipment cases litter the ground, vans idle, buses hiss, gear runners shout across the chaos, radios clipped to their belts, barking orders and updates over the din.

And standing in the middle of it all—the devil himself.

He’s dressed in a black band t-shirt with the sleeves completely ripped off, revealing a sleeve of tattoos that travel down his toned arms to his hands. The sides of his shirt are sliced open almost to his waist, and the thin fabric clings to his chest. Every movement exposes his inked ribs and sharp lines, making you stare first and breathe later. He’s wearing ripped jeans and black high-top Converse sneakers. His eyebrow piercing and black lip ring shine in the sunlight like a beacon.

Guys with piercings and tattoos have always been a weakness for me.

A cigarette is hanging between his fingers while he talks to a tall guy with a nose ring and no patience. Bandmate, probably.

I try not to look, and I fail. I tell myself I’m only looking because he’s going to be a thorn in my side.

God, he’s so arrogant, and now I’m practically going to be living with him.

Blake notices and tightens his grip on my waist.

“So this is it,” he breathes, the warmth in his tone manufactured and practiced. “This is your big moment.”

I nod, forcing a smile like I’m not hyperaware of Jasper standing just twenty feet away.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

I try not to cringe as he leans in and kisses my temple. His hand slides from my waist to my lower back. It’s so possessive and obvious that it makes my stomach roll.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jasper watching and then moving, heading straight for us.

He’s walking right across the lot like he’s heading for something that already belongs to him.

My stomach flips, and my pulse trips over itself, for an unknown reason.