Page 83 of Endo

My head rests against the cool tiles, my breath fogging the air as I close my eyes and replay the last few weeks spent with her.

The ocean isn’t grounding to me like it is to Lena.

It’s chaos. Relentless, unforgiving—waves crashing and tearing away at everything they touch. That’s what it feels like now. Like I’m stuck in the middle of it, no land in sight, no lifeline, just the constant pull of the current dragging me under.

She was supposed to be the one thing that made it stop. The one person who could calm the storm. Whether she wanted to or not, she became my reason to keep my head above water.

And now? Now she’s gone, and I’m sinking faster than I can swim.

The whiskey burns, numbing the edges just enough to keep me from breaking apart completely. But it’s a shitty fix, and I know it. The ache is still there, hollow and aching, growing with every second she’s not mine.

Nothing fills the space she left. Nothing makes it better.

The water pools at my feet, swirling around the drain in dizzying circles. I keep my eyes closed, the heat of the shower burning my skin, and I wonder how much longer I can keep treading water before I just let it pull me under.

31

LENA

Go Hard Or Go Home - Wiz Khalifa, Iggy Azalea

There’sa fine line between rage and heartbreak, and I’m walking it like a tightrope as I pull into the strip. Cruz’s bike hums beneath me, the vibrations a steady rhythm that keeps me grounded, even when everything else feels like it’s unraveling. The crowd is already thick, the air alive with energy—the smell of gasoline, burnt rubber, and cheap cologne mingling in the sticky night air.

The second I spot him, my pulse skips, then surges with something ugly and raw.

Reign.

Andher.

She’s perched on his lap, her legs draped over his, wearing a tight crop top and ripped jeans that show off too much skin. Her manicured hand traces lazy patterns on his chest, her head tilted close enough to whisper in his ear. Reign leans back against the hood of Draygon’s car, a beer dangling from one hand, the other resting loosely on her thigh like it belongs there. His leather jacket is open, revealing a fitted black shirt beneaththat stretches over his chest and shoulders, tattoos peeking from the edges of his sleeves. His jeans hang low, the casual fit doing nothing to hide the raw, untouchable power he exudes.

And thatsmirk.

That goddamn smirk.

It’s lazy and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing—daring me to react, daring me to feel the sting of my own words thrown back in my face. The faint glint of the rings on his fingers catches the light as he shifts slightly. The curve of his smirk deepens, sharp and cutting, like he’s silently mocking me, saying,“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

The scene is a chaotic symphony of speed and adrenaline, a world alive with the roar of engines and the flicker of neon lights reflecting off polished metal. Custom street bikes line the strip, a mix of sleek Hayabusas, Ninjas, and R1s, each souped up for racing with flashy decals and underglow lights that pulse with every beat of the bass-heavy music pounding from nearby speakers.

It’s a bike race tonight, though a few cars—like Draygon’s sleek matte-black beast—are scattered throughout the crowd. The Demons’ bikes stand out, polished and powerful, gleaming under the artificial glow. Draygon’s car is parked off to the side, Thorne leaning casually against it, gesturing animatedly as he argues about race strategies. Draygon doesn’t even seem to be listening, casually flipping a blade in his hand like it’s second nature.

The crowd is thick with energy, a volatile mix of racers, fans, and adrenaline junkies. People hover around the bikes and cars, placing bets with quick exchanges of cash or murmured agreements. Women in crop tops and ripped jeans flirt and cling to racers, while others strut between groups, the air heavy with tension and the faint smell of weed and sweat.

The Demons are all here. Revel leans against his red Yamaha R1, whispering something into Cece’s ear that makes her roll her eyes with a smirk, clearly trying to play off the flush on her cheeks. Wolfe’s booming laugh cuts through the noise as he ribs Sayshen about his latest tune-up, and Talon is off near his bike, arms crossed along his chest like he’s got better shit to do than be here, as usual.

But none of it matters.

My grip tightens on the handlebars of Cruz’s bike, my knuckles going white. For a moment, I think about turning around. Leaving. Pretending this isn’t happening. But I can’t.

Not when the anger is this loud, drowning out every rational thought. Not when the pain is this raw, gnawing at the edges of my composure.

Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, the truth is impossible to ignore: seeing him with her hurts. It hurts in a way that makes me want to scream, cry, and burn everything around me to the ground.

But I don’t.

Instead, I kill the engine, the roar of Cruz’s bike silencing abruptly. I swing off it, yanking my helmet off and slamming it onto the seat. My boots crunch against the asphalt as I stalk forward, the fury in my chest rising with every step.

His eyes find me before I’ve made it halfway there, and that damn smirk only grows. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

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