Broken by Silence, page 15
“No.” My voice cracks. “But I think it’s the only way for me to show you that I’m not him…”
The silence between us is heavier now, but it’s different than before. Not just fear. Not just hate. Something else, sharp and fragile, waiting to snap.
I don’t move. I let her sit with it. Let her decide whether she’ll walk in there with me or leave me to do it alone.
Either way, I know this much… I’ll walk out with ink under my skin and a reminder carved into me that I’m no longer Lorenzo’s son.
Chapter 22
Lottie
Istare at the glowing sign like it’s mocking me. A fucking tattoo studio. Out of all the places Roman could have dragged me, he picks this.
“You’re serious?” I ask, half a laugh, half shock.
“Dead serious,” he says. His voice is steady, but his eyes are restless, darting around like shadows cling to him and won’t let go.
I should turn around. I should get back in the car and tell him to find another driver, tell him to deal with his own ghosts.
But I don’t.
My feet move anyway, carrying me after him.
Maybe it’s because I don’t trust him not to do something stupid if I leave him alone. Or maybe it’s because part of me wants to see what the hell this is about.
The studio smells like disinfectant and ink, the kind of sterile-clean that makes the hairs on my arms rise. The buzz of a tattoo gun cuts through the air from behind a curtain where someone else is already under the needle.
Roman doesn’t hesitate. He strides up to the counter, pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, and lays it down flat.
The artist—a tall guy with sleeves crawling up both arms—glances from Roman to me, then back down to the paper.
I step closer, curiosity gnawing at me even though I don’t want it to.
It’s Medusa.
Snakes coiling viciously, sharp and alive, weaving down from the temple of a face that looks more haunted than monstrous. The lines snake from behind the ear along the side of a skull, trailing down the jawline, like her fury is etched straight into the bone.
“For the side of my head,” Roman says, tapping the paper. “Down my jaw. Big enough it can’t be missed.”
The artist whistles low. “That’s heavy work. Painful, too. You sure?”
“I want it to hurt.”
The words hit me harder than they should. My stomach knots, my chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Why that?”
Roman lifts his gaze to mine. There’s no arrogance there, no swagger, none of the boy who once made my life hell. Just something stripped raw. “Because she’s power. Because men tried to destroy her, twist her into something ugly, and she survived anyway. They made her a monster, but she owned it.” His voice lowers. “Every time you look at me, I don’t want you to see him anymore. I want you to see her. I want you to see you.”
It’s too much. My throat closes, words clawing up and dissolving before they reach my lips.
The artist doesn’t notice the war tearing me apart. He just nods, picks up the paper, and waves Roman toward the chair.
Roman sits down, tilting his head to the side to expose the line of his scalp and jaw. His fingers curl against the leather armrest, his body tense like he’s bracing for a bullet instead of ink.
The buzzing starts.
He flinches almost instantly. His fists clench so tight his knuckles turn white, his jaw locking hard enough I can hear the grind of teeth.
And against every screaming instinct inside me, I move closer.
“You don’t have to—” I don’t even know what I’m saying. The words stumble out, clumsy and fragile. “Do you want me to…hold your hand?”
His eyes flicker open, pinning me in place. Even through the strain of pain, there’s a softness in them I’ve never seen before. Vulnerability, bare and unguarded.
“Not my hand,” he says quietly, breath catching as the needle scrapes his skin. He pats his thigh. “Here. Sit. It’ll…help.”
My chest lurches. “Roman—”
“I won’t touch you. Swear it.” His voice cracks, and the rawness of it scrapes down my spine. “Just… please. The weight helps. Keeps me grounded.”
Every memory of his father is screaming at me to say no.
Little Bird…
Every ounce of distrust I still carry for him digs its nails in deep. But then I see his fists trembling, the tendons in his forearms straining like he’s holding himself together with sheer will.
I see him choosing this pain, carving my shadow into his own skin, desperate to rewrite the face I see when I look at him.
I don’t know why I do it.
Maybe it’s pity… Maybe it’s something else. Something I can’t admit yet. But I ease down onto his lap, stiff and rigid, ready to spring away at the slightest move.
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.
The buzzing continues. The artist works steady, dragging the needle down his temple toward his jaw, and Roman doesn’t move. His fists loosen. His shoulders drop. He doesn’t test the boundary, doesn’t risk the trust I’ve given him. He just lets me sit there, a silent anchor, while the snakes begin to take shape.
I sit there too, trembling, the sound of the gun vibrating in my bones. I want to hate him for this. I want to scream at him for making me part of this moment, for tethering me to a memory he’s choosing to create.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time in years, I see Roman not as the boy who tried to break me, not as the echo of his father, but as someone shaking beneath chosen pain, desperate to show me he can be different.
The hours drag.
The buzzing is relentless, broken only by the artist wiping away blood and ink with practiced swipes. Roman doesn’t speak. Neither do I. I just feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath me, grounding in its own strange way.
At some point, Claire slips inside. She doesn’t say a word, just leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on Roman.
Roman doesn’t even glance her way. He keeps his focus forward, jaw tight, eyes half-shut like he’s lost in the rhythm of pain.
I steal glances at him when I can. His skin reddening under the ink, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the stubborn line of his mouth refusing to break. Every time the needle digs deeper near his jaw, he jerks slightly, and his hands twitch toward me, like instinct drives him to hold something. But he doesn’t. He keeps them pressed to the chair, knuckles white, forcing the restraint.
It does something to me. Breaks something I didn’t know was still standing.
By the time the artist finishes, my legs are numb from sitting so still. Roman’s head is tilted forward, the skin on the side of his face swollen and angry red, the ink dark and fierce against it. The Medusa snakes coil down his jaw, sharp and merciless, like they’re daring anyone to look too long.
The artist wipes him clean, wraps him up, and rattles off aftercare instructions that Roman only half-listens to.
I slide off his lap, my knees trembling when I stand. Roman looks up at me then, eyes heavy but steady. “Does it work?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Do you see him still? Or do you see something else?”
My throat tightens. I don’t have an answer. Not one I can say out loud without tearing us both open.
So I just stare.
And for the first time since I met him, I don’t see his father.
I see him.
The street outside feels too quiet after the buzz of the tattoo gun. My ears still ring, my skin buzzing like the sound burrowed under it. Roman follows me out, slow, stiff, the clear wrap clinging to the side of his head like bandages from a war. In a way, I guess they are.
Claire’s shadow moves behind us, her boots clicking against the pavement like punctuation.
I climb into the driver’s seat, Roman into the passenger seat, while Claire climbs into her own car, ready to follow. The silence hangs heavy. No one speaks for the first five minutes. I can’t. My throat is raw, my chest bruised with too many words fighting for space.
Every time I glance in the mirror, I see him. His head tipped against the glass, eyes shut, lips parted like he’s trying to breathe through the pain. But all I can think is that for years, I begged for this.
Begged for the truth.
Begged to know why they turned on me.
Why my friends chose to shred me apart… and now I have it.
Roman’s voice still echoes in my head: He made me. My father made me do it. If I didn’t, I paid for it in blood.
It should be enough. It should make everything make sense, let me bury the years of torment under that explanation. But it doesn’t.
Because now, instead of hate, I see the boy I lost. The one who used to climb trees with me, who dared me into the lake when the water was freezing, who made me laugh until my stomach hurt. And it hurts in a whole new way, because I thought that boy was dead.
Turns out he was just hiding.
And worse—he was bleeding.
“Pull over,” Roman says suddenly.
I blink, hands tightening on the wheel. “What?”
“Just for a minute. I need air.” His voice is raw, almost breaking.
I find a space by the beach and roll into it, the car shuddering as I kill the engine. The smell of salt crashes through the window Roman rolls down, and the sound of waves fills the quiet.
We sit there, none of us moving. Claire pulls up behind us and keeps her eyes forward. Roman stares out at the ocean, jaw tight.
And me—I can’t stop thinking about all of them.
Archer and Oscar, the two anchors I cling to without question. My boyfriends, my loves, my constants in all the chaos.
Elijah, my husband, my shadow now, hovering in silence, waiting for me to speak before he dares open his mouth.
Crew, who hasn’t pushed even though I know every part of him wants to. He’s waiting. Waiting so patiently that I can feel myself falling for him even as every part of me screams not too.
And now Roman.
Roman, who I thought was my enemy.
Roman, who I let become the face of my nightmares, because it was easier than facing the truth of who made him that way.
Roman, who just carved Medusa into his own skin so I’d never have to see his father in him again.
I press my palms against the steering wheel, digging my nails into the leather. My chest hurts with it. I love Archer. I love Oscar. I’m beginning to love Crew, and I somehow belong to Elijah. I know where my heart is.
But my heart doesn’t know how to stop breaking itself open for the others, too.
“I hated you,” I whisper, before I even realize I’ve spoken.
Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from the ocean.
“I hated you more than anyone. Because you let me believe I was worthless. Because you didn’t care.” My throat burns. “And now I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with this. With you.”
He turns his head then, slow, like it costs him something. His eyes catch mine in the mirror, and for once, there’s no cruelty there. No mockery. Just exhaustion, and something worse.
Regret.
“I know,” he says. “And I don’t expect forgiveness. I just—” His voice cracks, and he bites down on the rest. Then, softer: “I just want you to know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. You were never worthless, Lottie. Scarlett—the girl you were before—she was strong even when you didn’t feel like you were. You never lost who you were, no matter who was trying to break you...”
I look away, tears burning my lashes, hating them for falling at all.
I can’t do this. I can’t unravel all the years of rage and pain and betrayal in one car ride, but I also can’t deny what’s clawing inside me—that for the first time since I lost them, I see my boys again.
My three best friends.
Not perfect, not safe, but human.
And it terrifies me.
Because humans, I can love. Humans, I can forgive. Humans, I can fall for without meaning to.
And my heart already feels too full, too torn, too stitched together with all their names.
Chapter 23
Lottie
Idon’t sleep.
Not after the tattoo. Not after Roman’s words or the way his eyes looked like a graveyard when he finally said them out loud.
The image of Medusa still burns in my brain—snakes coiling down his jaw, etched into his skin like penance. And I don’t know if I want to scream at him or thank him.
By morning, my chest feels like someone’s stuffed it with broken glass. My head’s pounding, my phone keeps buzzing with notifications from Archer and Oscar asking if I’m okay since they had to leave to help Will with something at the college, and Elijah’s hovering so close that I swear if I roll over in bed, I’ll roll straight into his lap.
I can’t breathe like this. I can’t breathe at all.
So I do what I always do when the world feels like it’s caving in. I call Angel.
“Babe,” she drawls the second she picks up, her voice still thick with sleep, “it’s eight in the morning. If this isn’t you telling me one of your rich boys finally wired me five grand, I’m hanging up.”
I almost laugh. “No, it’s not that. I just need a night. Tonight. Out. You, me, Zara. Drinks. Loud music. Pretending I’m not actively losing my mind.”
Angel perks up immediately. “Oh, bitch. Say less. You want to meet there? And are you going to dress like a slut or a slut-slut?”
“Somewhere between tragic and unapproachable,” I say, scrubbing my face. “The kind of outfit that screams ‘yes I’m hot but touch me and I’ll bite your fingers off.’”
“Done. Zara’s in?”
“I’ll text her. Heads up, though, I will have Claire tailing me since I can’t go anywhere alone right now.”
“Think we can get her to do some shots with us?” Angel asks, and I laugh.
“If anyone can, it will be you. Right, I love you, get some more sleep.”
“I love you too, bitch.”
I hang up, already lighter.
Angel’s chaotic, but she’s the kind of chaotic that makes me forget for a few hours that my life is basically one long Greek tragedy. Zara’s different—soft, steady, the only reason I’ve survived more than two semesters of marine biology without drowning myself in the lab tanks. Together, they’re my escape from the testosterone that seems to be suffocating me slowly.
Of course, Crew picks the exact moment I’m pulling myself out of bed after a nap to appear in my doorway, leaning against the frame like a menace. His hair’s a mess, his hoodie looks like it’s survived three wars, and he’s holding a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Human.
“Afternoon, baby,” he says, too chipper. His grin is crooked, infuriating, and somehow—God help me—endearing.
I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Only your eternal love and devotion,” he shoots back, then takes an obnoxiously loud sip from the mug. He smacks his lips like he’s tasting fine wine. “Also, I had an idea.”
I flop back onto my pillow, groaning. “That’s never good.”
He ignores the jab. “No, seriously. Since you’re running off to get drunk with your girl gang—Angel and Zara, right?—I thought I’d arrange a little bonding time for the boys. You know. Me, Elijah, Roman, Archer, Oscar. Just the fellas.”
I lift my head enough to squint at him. “You mean five emotionally stunted men in one room together? That’s not bonding, Crew. That’s a cage fight.”
“Exactly.” His grin widens. “Male bonding.”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying not to laugh. “Fine. Just don’t kill one another.”
“Oh, no promises,” he says cheerfully. “But if we make it through without murder charges, that’s growth, right?”
I roll my eyes, but a small smile tugs at my lips anyway.
Crew’s been patient lately—too patient. I can feel him hovering, not in the smothering way, but in the way someone does when they’re just waiting.
Waiting for me to crack.
Waiting for me to stop pretending I’m not breaking apart.
Waiting to catch me when I finally fall.
I’m not ready for that. Not yet. Not when my chest already feels like it’s full of splinters and every day adds a few more.
By the time the afternoon sun drags across the kitchen, there’s a knock at the door. Three identical cardboard boxes wait on the step, each one labeled.
“Special delivery,” I sing as I drag them inside, stacking them on the counter like trophies.
Elijah’s the first to appear, sleeves rolled up, damp from washing something in the sink. He eyes the stack with suspicion that borders on paranoia. “What did you do?”
“Nothing criminal,” I say sweetly. “Yet.”
Crew materializes behind him, already reaching for one of the boxes, but I smack his hand away. Roman follows, slower, more cautious, his shoulders tense like he’s preparing for a trap. Before they can ask questions, I shove the boxes into their arms. “Care packages,” I announce with a flourish. “Open them.”
That’s the exact moment Archer wanders in, tugging a hoodie over his head, and Oscar trails behind him. Oscar spots the pile of torn cardboard and raises his brows at me in silent question. I mouth, “wait and see.” He grins, slides onto a stool, and elbows Archer in the ribs to make sure he’s paying attention.
Crew goes first, naturally. He tears into his with the reckless enthusiasm of a kid at Christmas. His grin falters the second he pulls out the pink satin eye mask with ‘killer’ stitched across it in sparkly letters.
“What the—”
“Self-care,” I explain innocently.
Oscar barks out a laugh, catching the gist without hearing a word, just from Crew’s expression. Archer smirks, arms folded across his chest, clearly settling in to enjoy the show.
The silence between us is heavier now, but it’s different than before. Not just fear. Not just hate. Something else, sharp and fragile, waiting to snap.
I don’t move. I let her sit with it. Let her decide whether she’ll walk in there with me or leave me to do it alone.
Either way, I know this much… I’ll walk out with ink under my skin and a reminder carved into me that I’m no longer Lorenzo’s son.
Chapter 22
Lottie
Istare at the glowing sign like it’s mocking me. A fucking tattoo studio. Out of all the places Roman could have dragged me, he picks this.
“You’re serious?” I ask, half a laugh, half shock.
“Dead serious,” he says. His voice is steady, but his eyes are restless, darting around like shadows cling to him and won’t let go.
I should turn around. I should get back in the car and tell him to find another driver, tell him to deal with his own ghosts.
But I don’t.
My feet move anyway, carrying me after him.
Maybe it’s because I don’t trust him not to do something stupid if I leave him alone. Or maybe it’s because part of me wants to see what the hell this is about.
The studio smells like disinfectant and ink, the kind of sterile-clean that makes the hairs on my arms rise. The buzz of a tattoo gun cuts through the air from behind a curtain where someone else is already under the needle.
Roman doesn’t hesitate. He strides up to the counter, pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, and lays it down flat.
The artist—a tall guy with sleeves crawling up both arms—glances from Roman to me, then back down to the paper.
I step closer, curiosity gnawing at me even though I don’t want it to.
It’s Medusa.
Snakes coiling viciously, sharp and alive, weaving down from the temple of a face that looks more haunted than monstrous. The lines snake from behind the ear along the side of a skull, trailing down the jawline, like her fury is etched straight into the bone.
“For the side of my head,” Roman says, tapping the paper. “Down my jaw. Big enough it can’t be missed.”
The artist whistles low. “That’s heavy work. Painful, too. You sure?”
“I want it to hurt.”
The words hit me harder than they should. My stomach knots, my chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Why that?”
Roman lifts his gaze to mine. There’s no arrogance there, no swagger, none of the boy who once made my life hell. Just something stripped raw. “Because she’s power. Because men tried to destroy her, twist her into something ugly, and she survived anyway. They made her a monster, but she owned it.” His voice lowers. “Every time you look at me, I don’t want you to see him anymore. I want you to see her. I want you to see you.”
It’s too much. My throat closes, words clawing up and dissolving before they reach my lips.
The artist doesn’t notice the war tearing me apart. He just nods, picks up the paper, and waves Roman toward the chair.
Roman sits down, tilting his head to the side to expose the line of his scalp and jaw. His fingers curl against the leather armrest, his body tense like he’s bracing for a bullet instead of ink.
The buzzing starts.
He flinches almost instantly. His fists clench so tight his knuckles turn white, his jaw locking hard enough I can hear the grind of teeth.
And against every screaming instinct inside me, I move closer.
“You don’t have to—” I don’t even know what I’m saying. The words stumble out, clumsy and fragile. “Do you want me to…hold your hand?”
His eyes flicker open, pinning me in place. Even through the strain of pain, there’s a softness in them I’ve never seen before. Vulnerability, bare and unguarded.
“Not my hand,” he says quietly, breath catching as the needle scrapes his skin. He pats his thigh. “Here. Sit. It’ll…help.”
My chest lurches. “Roman—”
“I won’t touch you. Swear it.” His voice cracks, and the rawness of it scrapes down my spine. “Just… please. The weight helps. Keeps me grounded.”
Every memory of his father is screaming at me to say no.
Little Bird…
Every ounce of distrust I still carry for him digs its nails in deep. But then I see his fists trembling, the tendons in his forearms straining like he’s holding himself together with sheer will.
I see him choosing this pain, carving my shadow into his own skin, desperate to rewrite the face I see when I look at him.
I don’t know why I do it.
Maybe it’s pity… Maybe it’s something else. Something I can’t admit yet. But I ease down onto his lap, stiff and rigid, ready to spring away at the slightest move.
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.
The buzzing continues. The artist works steady, dragging the needle down his temple toward his jaw, and Roman doesn’t move. His fists loosen. His shoulders drop. He doesn’t test the boundary, doesn’t risk the trust I’ve given him. He just lets me sit there, a silent anchor, while the snakes begin to take shape.
I sit there too, trembling, the sound of the gun vibrating in my bones. I want to hate him for this. I want to scream at him for making me part of this moment, for tethering me to a memory he’s choosing to create.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time in years, I see Roman not as the boy who tried to break me, not as the echo of his father, but as someone shaking beneath chosen pain, desperate to show me he can be different.
The hours drag.
The buzzing is relentless, broken only by the artist wiping away blood and ink with practiced swipes. Roman doesn’t speak. Neither do I. I just feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath me, grounding in its own strange way.
At some point, Claire slips inside. She doesn’t say a word, just leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on Roman.
Roman doesn’t even glance her way. He keeps his focus forward, jaw tight, eyes half-shut like he’s lost in the rhythm of pain.
I steal glances at him when I can. His skin reddening under the ink, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the stubborn line of his mouth refusing to break. Every time the needle digs deeper near his jaw, he jerks slightly, and his hands twitch toward me, like instinct drives him to hold something. But he doesn’t. He keeps them pressed to the chair, knuckles white, forcing the restraint.
It does something to me. Breaks something I didn’t know was still standing.
By the time the artist finishes, my legs are numb from sitting so still. Roman’s head is tilted forward, the skin on the side of his face swollen and angry red, the ink dark and fierce against it. The Medusa snakes coil down his jaw, sharp and merciless, like they’re daring anyone to look too long.
The artist wipes him clean, wraps him up, and rattles off aftercare instructions that Roman only half-listens to.
I slide off his lap, my knees trembling when I stand. Roman looks up at me then, eyes heavy but steady. “Does it work?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Do you see him still? Or do you see something else?”
My throat tightens. I don’t have an answer. Not one I can say out loud without tearing us both open.
So I just stare.
And for the first time since I met him, I don’t see his father.
I see him.
The street outside feels too quiet after the buzz of the tattoo gun. My ears still ring, my skin buzzing like the sound burrowed under it. Roman follows me out, slow, stiff, the clear wrap clinging to the side of his head like bandages from a war. In a way, I guess they are.
Claire’s shadow moves behind us, her boots clicking against the pavement like punctuation.
I climb into the driver’s seat, Roman into the passenger seat, while Claire climbs into her own car, ready to follow. The silence hangs heavy. No one speaks for the first five minutes. I can’t. My throat is raw, my chest bruised with too many words fighting for space.
Every time I glance in the mirror, I see him. His head tipped against the glass, eyes shut, lips parted like he’s trying to breathe through the pain. But all I can think is that for years, I begged for this.
Begged for the truth.
Begged to know why they turned on me.
Why my friends chose to shred me apart… and now I have it.
Roman’s voice still echoes in my head: He made me. My father made me do it. If I didn’t, I paid for it in blood.
It should be enough. It should make everything make sense, let me bury the years of torment under that explanation. But it doesn’t.
Because now, instead of hate, I see the boy I lost. The one who used to climb trees with me, who dared me into the lake when the water was freezing, who made me laugh until my stomach hurt. And it hurts in a whole new way, because I thought that boy was dead.
Turns out he was just hiding.
And worse—he was bleeding.
“Pull over,” Roman says suddenly.
I blink, hands tightening on the wheel. “What?”
“Just for a minute. I need air.” His voice is raw, almost breaking.
I find a space by the beach and roll into it, the car shuddering as I kill the engine. The smell of salt crashes through the window Roman rolls down, and the sound of waves fills the quiet.
We sit there, none of us moving. Claire pulls up behind us and keeps her eyes forward. Roman stares out at the ocean, jaw tight.
And me—I can’t stop thinking about all of them.
Archer and Oscar, the two anchors I cling to without question. My boyfriends, my loves, my constants in all the chaos.
Elijah, my husband, my shadow now, hovering in silence, waiting for me to speak before he dares open his mouth.
Crew, who hasn’t pushed even though I know every part of him wants to. He’s waiting. Waiting so patiently that I can feel myself falling for him even as every part of me screams not too.
And now Roman.
Roman, who I thought was my enemy.
Roman, who I let become the face of my nightmares, because it was easier than facing the truth of who made him that way.
Roman, who just carved Medusa into his own skin so I’d never have to see his father in him again.
I press my palms against the steering wheel, digging my nails into the leather. My chest hurts with it. I love Archer. I love Oscar. I’m beginning to love Crew, and I somehow belong to Elijah. I know where my heart is.
But my heart doesn’t know how to stop breaking itself open for the others, too.
“I hated you,” I whisper, before I even realize I’ve spoken.
Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from the ocean.
“I hated you more than anyone. Because you let me believe I was worthless. Because you didn’t care.” My throat burns. “And now I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with this. With you.”
He turns his head then, slow, like it costs him something. His eyes catch mine in the mirror, and for once, there’s no cruelty there. No mockery. Just exhaustion, and something worse.
Regret.
“I know,” he says. “And I don’t expect forgiveness. I just—” His voice cracks, and he bites down on the rest. Then, softer: “I just want you to know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. You were never worthless, Lottie. Scarlett—the girl you were before—she was strong even when you didn’t feel like you were. You never lost who you were, no matter who was trying to break you...”
I look away, tears burning my lashes, hating them for falling at all.
I can’t do this. I can’t unravel all the years of rage and pain and betrayal in one car ride, but I also can’t deny what’s clawing inside me—that for the first time since I lost them, I see my boys again.
My three best friends.
Not perfect, not safe, but human.
And it terrifies me.
Because humans, I can love. Humans, I can forgive. Humans, I can fall for without meaning to.
And my heart already feels too full, too torn, too stitched together with all their names.
Chapter 23
Lottie
Idon’t sleep.
Not after the tattoo. Not after Roman’s words or the way his eyes looked like a graveyard when he finally said them out loud.
The image of Medusa still burns in my brain—snakes coiling down his jaw, etched into his skin like penance. And I don’t know if I want to scream at him or thank him.
By morning, my chest feels like someone’s stuffed it with broken glass. My head’s pounding, my phone keeps buzzing with notifications from Archer and Oscar asking if I’m okay since they had to leave to help Will with something at the college, and Elijah’s hovering so close that I swear if I roll over in bed, I’ll roll straight into his lap.
I can’t breathe like this. I can’t breathe at all.
So I do what I always do when the world feels like it’s caving in. I call Angel.
“Babe,” she drawls the second she picks up, her voice still thick with sleep, “it’s eight in the morning. If this isn’t you telling me one of your rich boys finally wired me five grand, I’m hanging up.”
I almost laugh. “No, it’s not that. I just need a night. Tonight. Out. You, me, Zara. Drinks. Loud music. Pretending I’m not actively losing my mind.”
Angel perks up immediately. “Oh, bitch. Say less. You want to meet there? And are you going to dress like a slut or a slut-slut?”
“Somewhere between tragic and unapproachable,” I say, scrubbing my face. “The kind of outfit that screams ‘yes I’m hot but touch me and I’ll bite your fingers off.’”
“Done. Zara’s in?”
“I’ll text her. Heads up, though, I will have Claire tailing me since I can’t go anywhere alone right now.”
“Think we can get her to do some shots with us?” Angel asks, and I laugh.
“If anyone can, it will be you. Right, I love you, get some more sleep.”
“I love you too, bitch.”
I hang up, already lighter.
Angel’s chaotic, but she’s the kind of chaotic that makes me forget for a few hours that my life is basically one long Greek tragedy. Zara’s different—soft, steady, the only reason I’ve survived more than two semesters of marine biology without drowning myself in the lab tanks. Together, they’re my escape from the testosterone that seems to be suffocating me slowly.
Of course, Crew picks the exact moment I’m pulling myself out of bed after a nap to appear in my doorway, leaning against the frame like a menace. His hair’s a mess, his hoodie looks like it’s survived three wars, and he’s holding a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Human.
“Afternoon, baby,” he says, too chipper. His grin is crooked, infuriating, and somehow—God help me—endearing.
I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Only your eternal love and devotion,” he shoots back, then takes an obnoxiously loud sip from the mug. He smacks his lips like he’s tasting fine wine. “Also, I had an idea.”
I flop back onto my pillow, groaning. “That’s never good.”
He ignores the jab. “No, seriously. Since you’re running off to get drunk with your girl gang—Angel and Zara, right?—I thought I’d arrange a little bonding time for the boys. You know. Me, Elijah, Roman, Archer, Oscar. Just the fellas.”
I lift my head enough to squint at him. “You mean five emotionally stunted men in one room together? That’s not bonding, Crew. That’s a cage fight.”
“Exactly.” His grin widens. “Male bonding.”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying not to laugh. “Fine. Just don’t kill one another.”
“Oh, no promises,” he says cheerfully. “But if we make it through without murder charges, that’s growth, right?”
I roll my eyes, but a small smile tugs at my lips anyway.
Crew’s been patient lately—too patient. I can feel him hovering, not in the smothering way, but in the way someone does when they’re just waiting.
Waiting for me to crack.
Waiting for me to stop pretending I’m not breaking apart.
Waiting to catch me when I finally fall.
I’m not ready for that. Not yet. Not when my chest already feels like it’s full of splinters and every day adds a few more.
By the time the afternoon sun drags across the kitchen, there’s a knock at the door. Three identical cardboard boxes wait on the step, each one labeled.
“Special delivery,” I sing as I drag them inside, stacking them on the counter like trophies.
Elijah’s the first to appear, sleeves rolled up, damp from washing something in the sink. He eyes the stack with suspicion that borders on paranoia. “What did you do?”
“Nothing criminal,” I say sweetly. “Yet.”
Crew materializes behind him, already reaching for one of the boxes, but I smack his hand away. Roman follows, slower, more cautious, his shoulders tense like he’s preparing for a trap. Before they can ask questions, I shove the boxes into their arms. “Care packages,” I announce with a flourish. “Open them.”
That’s the exact moment Archer wanders in, tugging a hoodie over his head, and Oscar trails behind him. Oscar spots the pile of torn cardboard and raises his brows at me in silent question. I mouth, “wait and see.” He grins, slides onto a stool, and elbows Archer in the ribs to make sure he’s paying attention.
Crew goes first, naturally. He tears into his with the reckless enthusiasm of a kid at Christmas. His grin falters the second he pulls out the pink satin eye mask with ‘killer’ stitched across it in sparkly letters.
“What the—”
“Self-care,” I explain innocently.
Oscar barks out a laugh, catching the gist without hearing a word, just from Crew’s expression. Archer smirks, arms folded across his chest, clearly settling in to enjoy the show.
