Page 12 of Endo

It has to be her.

She’s been avoiding us for weeks, shutting us out like we don’t exist. I’ve called, texted, even dropped by her place, but she’s always one step ahead, slipping through the cracks. The guys are worried about her—I am too. More than I want to admit.

I push through the crowd, my pulse pounding. The whiskey buzz makes everything feel surreal, like I’m moving through a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. All I know is I need to talk to her, to see her up close and make sure she’s okay.

But when I finally reach her, she turns—and the bottom drops out of my world. It’s not her. Just some girl who looks enough like Lena to fuck with my head.

“Shit,” I mutter, running a hand through my sweat dampened hair. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

The girl gives me a wary look but doesn’t say anything. I turn away, my chest tight, my thoughts spiraling.

Lena. I miss her more than I know how to say. Hell, more than I’ll ever say out loud. She wasn’t just Cruz’s girlfriend—shewas part of us, part ofme. And yeah, I’ve always cared about her, maybe more than I should have. But Cruz was my brother, and I’d have cut off my own hand before doing anything to ruin what they had. Not that it matters now. He’s gone, and she’s slipping away, and I don’t know how to fix it.

By the time I stumble out of The Iron Pit and into the dimly lit parking lot, the whiskey’s hit me full force. My head’s swimming, my body’s a patchwork of aches, and all I want is to get home and drink until everything blurs into nothing. The bottle sitting in the Mustang’s passenger seat feels like the only thing waiting for me that makes sense.

I’m halfway to the car when I hear his voice, steady and unmistakable. “Reign.”

I turn to see Draygon leaning against his truck, arms crossed. He’s watching me with that frustrating calm of his, the kind that makes you feel seen even when you don’t want to be.

“Fuck, Draygon, you following me now?” I ask, my voice slurring slightly.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. He just pushes off the truck and starts walking toward me. “Didn’t need to follow you. I knew where you’d be.”

“Well, congrats. You win the creepy stalker award. Now go home,” I snap, pulling my keys out of my pocket. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, Reign,” he says, stopping a few feet away from me. His voice is calm, but there’s steel under it. “You’re drunk. You just walked out of another fight, and from the looks of it, you didn’t exactly hold back.”

I wave my battered hand at him, the split knuckles catching the faint glow of the overhead light. “This? This is nothing. You should see the other guy.”

“I don’t give a shit about the other guy,” he says sharply, his composure cracking just enough to let the frustration seep through. “What the hell are you doing, Reign? Drinking yourselfstupid, throwing punches at strangers? You think this is gonna fix anything? Or is this just your excuse to stay off the bike?”

That stops me cold. My shoulders tense, and I narrow my eyes at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re scared,” Draygon says, stepping closer. “You’ve been making excuses for months, telling yourself you’re not ready. But if you’re fit enough to fight in these underground rings, you’re fit enough to ride. You just won’t.”

I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. “You think it’s that simple? Just hop back on and pretend like nothing happened?”

“No,” he says evenly. “I think it’s terrifying. I think you’re dealing with the kind of shit that most people wouldn’t be able to handle. PTSD is normal after what you’ve been through, Reign. But ignoring it? Drowning it in booze and fists? That’s not normal. That’s you running.”

“I’m not running,” I snap, my voice rising. “I’m surviving. You don’t know what it’s like to be me, Draygon. You don’t know what it’s like to have... to have Cruz’s blood on your hands.”

“Don’t do that,” he says, his voice firm now. “Don’t turn this into some martyr bullshit. Cruz’s death wasn’t your fault, and you know it. What you’re afraid of isn’t the crash—it’s facing it. It’s letting yourself heal.”

I shake my head, my fists clenching at my sides. “I can’t heal, Draygon. Not like this. Not when every time I close my eyes, I see him. I see the crash. I see everything I could’ve done differently.”

Draygon’s expression softens, but his tone stays steady. “Then stop trying to do it alone. Let us help you. Letmehelp you.”

“I don’t need your help,” I mutter, brushing past him. “I don’t need anyone.”

“Yeah, you do,” he says, his voice quieter now. “We all do. And you might hate hearing it, but we’re your family, Reign. We’ve got your back whether you like it or not.”

I pause, his words cutting through the haze of anger and whiskey. For a moment, I want to believe him. I want to let him in, let them all in. But the weight of everything—the grief, the guilt, the fear—is too much.

“I’ll figure it out,” I mutter, yanking open the car door. “But I’ll do it my way.”

Draygon doesn’t try to stop me this time. He just stands there, watching as I slide into the Mustang and start the engine.

“Reign,” he calls out as I back up, his voice softer now. “You’re not the only one who misses him. And you’re not the only one who’s scared. But running from it? From us? That’s not gonna bring him back.”

---