I nod my head in agreement. “I think I'm finally learning that fighting doesn’t solve everything. I mean it can, temporarily. But in the long run, you can’t keep doing the same shit and expect a different outcome.”
“And what kind of outcome are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.” I say honestly. “As a kid, I always wanted my life to be like a fairytale. To find my prince and have a fairytale ending. But I think I gave up on having a happily ever after a long time ago.”
“That's fair.” He says, taking a sip of his drink. “Life has a way of altering plans and changing perspectives when we least expect it. What about now?”
“Now, I just want to be happy. For however long that lasts.”
“Do you think you'll ever find that with me?” He asks, looking up at me through his dark lashes. The vulnerability I see in his eyes punches me in the gut. He's putting himself out there, while I’m still guarding my feelings like my life depends on it.
“Forget I asked.” He says, setting his drink down to stand up. “It doesn't matter.”
He's right. It doesn't matter. I’m stuck with The Reapers whether I want to be or not. But at least I know that for Atlas Cole, my happiness means something to him.
Seventeen
Goosebumps formacross my skin as the shower kicks on and hot steam fills the air. I close my eyes and dip my head under the stream, letting the heavy droplets crash against me. It’s almost cathartic. The way the water seems to wash everything away. All of my sins. All of my mistakes. Everything.
Alex is dead. That thought alone used to send me spiraling, but with each passing day, it's getting easier and easier to stomach the notion. I don’t know for sure. No one does. But if I let myself believe it, maybe it’ll be easier to accept when I finally get the news.
Telling myself she’s dead is a powerful tool. It makes me colder. More numb. Someone who has nothing to lose. It makes me stronger. More ruthless. Scarier than I ever thought I’d be. It offers me the finality I need. The kind that changes people and turns them into monsters.
It's been two weeks since Alex’s kidnapping. Two weeks of radio silence from the people that took her, and two weeks of feeling myself slowly descend into madness. Nothing has changed. Even Creed’s Mercenaries are quiet now. They stopped checking in a week ago after they realized every call was only setting us up for disappointment.
It's like she's vanished. Up and left, leaving no trace of her behind. Though they’ll never outright say it, everyone else in this house has long given up on the idea of finding her alive. They’ve accepted her fate and have been able to move on with their lives. In some ways, I envy them for it. No matter how much I try to convince myself she’s gone, I’ll never be able to move on or accept it. Not until I know for sure.
The first night of staking out Hell's Tavern ended up being a bust. Aside from ruffling a few feathers, we didn’t find anything substantial to help us find her.
Since then, I've been visiting the club almost every night. Sometimes with Atlas, sometimes with one of the twins, and sometimes alone. Ezra vanished too. He still lives here. I see evidence of his presence from time to time, but as far as he and I are concerned, he may as well be missing, too. The pain of losing him would probably hurt a lot worse if the cut from Alex’s kidnapping weren’t so deep.
I shut off the nozzle, step out of the shower, and wrap myself up in a soft white towel. Bracing myself against the black granite countertop, I mentally prepare myself to look up. I haven't been able to look at myself in days, partially because I don’t care what I look like anymore, and partially because I fear who I’ll see staring back at me. But enough is enough, and it’s time for me to stop being a coward.
I slowly raise my gaze, lingering on the sleek metal faucet before traveling up to the illuminated edge of the mirror.You can do this.I visibly swallow and shake my head before releasing a sigh. Quick and easy, Stevie. I flick my eyes up and let out an audible gasp at the sight in front of me.
I’m there, looking just as haggard as I expected, but just beyond me, there’s a large figure shrouded in darkness, staring back at me. The hood he’s wearing obscures most of his features, but as he slowly tilts his chin up, recognition clicks.
“Jesus Ezra,” I snap, flipping my body around to face him, “you scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah.” He says, shrugging his shoulders. “I tend to do that.”
“Why are you in here?”
His eyes flash to the vanity before settling back on me. “I need some supplies and got tired of waiting.”
I awkwardly shuffle to the side and study him as he shakes off his hood and steps up to the vanity I was just blocking. Without the shield of his hood, I see that he’s hurt. If the deep cut over his right brow doesn’t give it away, the slight limp in his walk does.
“What happened to you?” I ask as he raids through the first-aid drawers.
Ezra doesn’t bat an eye at my question.
“Nothing for you to concern yourself with.” He says, reaching for the bottle of liquid band-aid. There are fresh cuts on his swollen knuckles, and though he doesn't say so, both of his hands look like they’re broken.
“Let me help.” I say, gently removing the bottle from his battered hands.
Ezra says nothing to stop me, so I hop up on the counter and pull both of his hands into my lap.
“You want to tell me what’s going on with you?” I ask, ripping an alcohol pad pack open to clean his cuts.
