Page 17 of Endo

“I’ll think about it,” I say, hoping it’s enough to get him to drop it.

Revel studies me for a moment, his blue eyes unreadable, then nods. “Alright. But do something, Lena. You can’t keep living like this.”

“Like what?” I ask, my tone sharp. “Grieving? Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you.”

“Grieve, yes,” he says, meeting my glare head-on. “But don’t drown in it. Cruz wouldn’t want that, and you know it.”

His words hit harder than I want to admit, and I hate that he’s right. I hate that he knows me well enough to say exactly what I don’t want to hear. The waitress comes by and I place my order, my voice quieter than I’d like it to be. “Burger and fries. And a Dr. Pepper.” She nods, disappearing to put in the order.

I slump in the booth, picking at the edges of my hoodie, watching Revel as he takes another sip of his coffee. I can feel the weight of his gaze, like he’s waiting for me to crack. I wish I could say I don’t care, but I do.

I’ve always cared what Revel thinks.

Back home,the apartment feels smaller somehow. The weight of Revel’s words hangs heavy in the air, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s right.

I move without thinking, my feet carrying me to the driveway outside my small walk-up apartment. Cruz’s bike is there, parked under the overhanging roof, a tarp shielding it from theelements. It wasn’t his main bike—the one he raced, the one that was totaled in the crash that killed him—but his backup. The one he kept in pristine condition, just in case.

I pull the tarp off slowly, revealing the sleek, black frame. My fingers hover over the handlebars before I finally grab them, my hands trembling as memories flood in.

I’ve ridden it since he died, but never raced. Never pushed it the way he would’ve wanted me to. The idea of racing again terrifies me, but there’s a tiny part of me that wonders if maybe—just maybe—it’s what I need. The adrenaline, the speed, the chaos. Maybe it’ll bring me closer to him.

My heart pounds as I sit on the bike, gripping the bars tighter. I close my eyes, imagining the roar of the engine, the wind whipping past me, the world blurring into nothing but the road ahead.

When I open my eyes, the fear hasn’t gone, but there’s something else there too. Determination.

I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find the name I’m looking for.

Jax.

The text is short, but it feels monumental.

Lena: I want in on the next race.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, my hands still shaking.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel something other than grief.

Hope.

8

REIGN

Time - NF

The garage is supposedto feel like home, but today it’s got all the warmth of a fucking graveyard.

The hum of the garage is like a pulse, steady and familiar, but today it feels heavier, like the walls are closing in. I lean against one of the tool benches, arms crossed, watching as Draygon and Thorne argue over a busted carburetor. Talon’s off in the corner, tinkering with something on his bike, but even he’s unusually quiet. It’s not like him to let Thorne’s sarcastic digs go unchecked.

The tension in the room has been thick all day, and I know exactly why. It’s not the bike, the upcoming season, or the endless grind of prep work. It’s fucking Lena.

“She’s really racing tonight?” Talon finally asks, breaking the silence. He doesn’t look up from his work, but his voice is tight, his knuckles white as he grips his wrench.

“Yeah,” Draygon says, his tone resigned. “Got confirmation from Jax. She signed up sometime late last night, and she’s using Cruz’s backup bike.”

A heavy silence settles over the room. No one needs to say it, but we’re all thinking the same thing.

“What the fuck is she’s trying to prove? She’s not a bloody racer. Hell, she’s barely ridden on her own. How the fuck does she reckon she’s got a chance at winning a race? Especially at the strip?” Thorne says, uncharacteristically serious. His British accent is sharper when he’s not joking around. “Mentally, physically—bloody hell, even emotionally. She’s still in bits.”

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