Page 72 of Overdose

I should’ve fucking killed him. Right then.

Should’ve buried my fist in his face and made him bleed for every fucking risk he took with Blair’s life.

But I didn’t.

Because as much as I wanted to end him, I knew—deep down—I couldn’t. Not without losing her. Not without crossing a line she’d never come back from. Because no matter how bad he fucked up, no matter how much she hates him right now... she still cares.

And if I took him out, even for her, I’d be the one she’d never forgive.

So I didn’t kill him.

Not for him.

Forher.

Even though he doesn’t fucking deserve it. Even though, without knowing it, he put her fucking life on the line.

Blair and I have been holed up in her motel ever since. Noir’s been crashing in his car outside or disappearing into the city to track whatever crumbs he can find. Doesn’t matter. Every second we don’t get Dante his product is another second the noose tightens around my fucking neck.

The first duffle of Cyanide pills Noir tried to recover was a goddamn wash—half of them destroyed from sitting too long underwater. Useless. The second batch? He burned it. Fucking burned it. Said it was drunk. That it was after Blair pushed him away on the fire escape. All we’ve got now is the third bag, and it’s not enough. Not by a fucking long shot.

But he’s trying. I’ll give him that.

When I told him Dante’s the one behind Brynn’s overdose—when I laid it out clean and said he was the reason Blair’s being hunted now—something in him cracked. He gave me everything he had. Every dollar. Every contact. Every fucking ounce of guilt he’s been carrying around.

Still isn’t enough.

I stalk the alley behind the garage, boots grinding gravel as I head toward my bike. The sky’s that dead grey-blue that means morning’s close, but not close enough to matter. The air tastes like metal and regret, and the burn behind my eyes has nothing to do with sleep.

I light a smoke anyway. Don’t even want it. Just need something to do with my hands so I don’t wrap them around someone’s throat.

I try Ruck first—the guy I stationed outside Blair’s door. One fucking job. Watch her. Keep her safe.

Phone rings twice.

Voicemail.

I grit my teeth. Hit redial. Nothing.

Pull up Blair’s number.

Me

You up?

I watch the screen like it owes me something. It stalls.Sending…

Doesn’t deliver.

My gut sinks. Heavy. Cold.

Her phone’s never off.

Not unless something’s seriously wrong.

I call. Straight to voicemail.

I hiss through my teeth, throw my leg over the bike, keys already in hand. Dial Ruck again.