Page 21 of Endo

The night isthick with tension, and the purr of the engines fills the air, vibrating through my bones as I prepare for the race. I can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on me, and the anxiety clings to my skin like a second layer, suffocating me. My heart is pounding in my chest, too loud in my ears. My palms are slick with sweat inside my gloves, but I don’t let it show.

Not yet. Not when right now I feel the closest to Cruz that I have since his death.

The Demons are gathered together in the crowd, their presence magnetic and impossible to ignore. Their stares press into me, heavy with judgment, concern, and curiosity. I want to look away, to focus solely on the bike beneath me—the steady growl of Cruz’s engine, the hum of power vibrating through the cold, hard metal—but I can’t. It’s like the weight of their attention is rooting me in place, refusing to let me escape.

Revel stands by my side, tall and annoyingly composed, like he’s got the whole world figured out. His piercing green eyes gleam under the low light, sharp enough to cut through steel,and his blackout sleeve—a solid wave of ink from shoulder to wrist—looks like it was made to match his effortless swagger. His stance is so casual it borders on cocky, like he owns the ground he’s standing on without even trying. When he catches my gaze, he shoots me one of those infuriating grins, teeth gleaming against his perfectly tanned skin.

“Relax, short stack,” he says, his voice light and teasing.

I roll my eyes, but the nickname warms me in a way I’d never admit. He’s been calling me that for as long as I can remember. It used to irritate the hell out of me, but now, it’s just... Revel. Familiar. Safe. Like a tiny piece of the old days that refuses to let go.

“Relax? Is that your professional advice?” I quip, arching a brow. I try to sound confident, but there’s a tremor in my voice I can’t quite ignore.

The thumbs-up he throws my way is so smug it’s practically a challenge, and I scoff, rolling my eyes for effect. “If you’re gonna stand there grinning like that, at least try not to look so damn smug about it,” I shoot back, straightening my shoulders.

But my hands betray me, trembling slightly as I grip the handlebars of Cruz’s bike. I pray he doesn’t notice. Revel’s unshakable confidence makes my nerves worse—like he believes in me more than I believe in myself. And even though I want to fire off another snarky comment, there’s a part of me, small and quiet, that clings to his steady presence.

I glance past him, letting my gaze sweep over the others. Bexley is perched on Talon’s bike, her petite frame leaning against him as if the world itself couldn’t shake her. Her dark hair falls like a curtain over one shoulder, and there’s a casual elegance to the way she moves, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the handlebars. Talon stands close, tall and imposing, his sharp blue eyes watching everything with a quiet intensity. Beside him is Sayshen, his brother, with his haunting whiskeybrown eyes and a softer demeanor, his gaze flicking toward me occasionally, assessing but not unkind. Bexley is caught between the two of them in a way that looks effortless, but there’s no mistaking the strength it takes to hold her own with both Shaw brothers.

Cece stands a few feet away, her lavender hair catching the light and gleaming like a beacon against the darkness of the night. Her leather mini-skirt hugs her figure, exuding confidence as usual. Arms crossed, her sharp eyes are watching me closely. But when I meet her gaze, her expression softens. She gives me the smallest smile, an unspoken reassurance, and it makes my chest tighten.

Revel leans in, his voice low but unmistakably playful. “Damn, Cece’s looking good tonight. Think I should go say hi? Maybe charm her a little?”

I snort, laughing despite myself. “Cece can’t stand you, Revel. But hey, if you’re in the mood to get told off, be my guest. Might actually be entertaining.”

He grins, unbothered. “A man’s gotta try, right? Who knows—she might surprise you.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “Sure. Let me know how that works out for you, Romeo.”

I didn’t realize how much I missed them all until now. Seeing their familiar faces, the way they move, the unspoken bond between them—it’s a reminder of everything I’ve tried to leave behind. Cece’s smile feels like a lifeline, and I cling to it, even if I know it won’t last.

And then there’s Reign. He’s standing off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes unreadable as they lock onto me. His jaw is set, and his usually relaxed posture is tighter, like he’s holding something back. Reign’s presence is different from the others—it always has been. He doesn’t look at me with judgment or pity. Instead, his gaze feels heavier, likehe’s trying to see through the walls I’ve built around myself. It makes me feel exposed, like he knows exactly what’s going on inside me even when I don’t.

For a moment, our eyes meet, and I can’t look away. There’s something in his expression—something unspoken but painfully familiar. It’s worry, yes, but it’s also frustration, anger, and a flicker of something softer, something that feels too close to the grief I’ve been struggling with.

I force myself to break the stare, my throat tight as I look back at the bike beneath me. Cruz’s bike. Just touching it makes me feel like I can breathe again, like he’s still here in some intangible way. Sitting on it, gripping the handlebars, hearing the engine’s low rumble—it’s as if I can feel him with me, guiding me.

But the bike also carries its own weight. It’s not just metal and mechanics; it’s history. His history. Ours. And I’m afraid of what happens if I can’t live up to it.

Bexley catches my eye, her expression warm but laced with concern. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to. None of them do. I know they’re worried about me—about the choices I’m making, about how I’ve pushed them all away. But this? This is something I have to do. Being here, on this bike, in front of them—it’s my way of holding onto Cruz, of proving to myself that I can keep going, even if it feels impossible most days.

It’s too much. All of it. The weight of their stares, the sound of the engine, the memories of Cruz, the pressure to prove something—not to them, but to myself. I clench the handlebars tighter, my knuckles white against the dark metal.

I glance up one last time, letting my eyes sweep over the group again. The field is packed, a dense crowd of people milling about, their conversations muffled by the thrum of loud music blasting from the stereos. Smoke from grills and bonfires fills the air, mingling with the smell of gasoline and rubber. Thenight is electric, charged with anticipation, and I can feel the weight of every eye on me. The group of Demons is gathered on the outskirts, still watching, still waiting. I can see the mix of emotions on their faces—concern, curiosity, maybe even a little doubt. Except for Reign. He’s not waiting for me to fail or succeed. He’s just watching, silent and steady, like he always is.

I pull my helmet off the seat of the bike, my fingers trembling just a bit as I slide it on. The cold, hard plastic feels foreign against my skin, a reminder of the danger I’m about to throw myself into. I fasten the straps tightly, the Velcro of my gloves locking into place as I secure them. The sound of the engines revving in the background sends a shiver down my spine, mixing with the roar of the crowd. I can hear the low growl of the bikes, the deep rumble of high-powered machines that make mine feel like a toy in comparison.

In front of me, the racers are already lined up, each one revving their engines in preparation. One of them is a guy I’ve seen around before, a massive brute of a man with a scar running down his face. He’s riding a custom-built Kawasaki, all black with neon green trim that makes it look like it’s been forged in fire. The other racer, a woman with short, spiky red hair, is on a sleek Yamaha, the chrome of her bike practically shining in the moonlight. The competition is fierce, and it’s only making the tension in my chest grow tighter.

Revel stands beside me, his usual cocky grin plastered on his face. He pats my shoulder, his confidence somehow rubbing off on me, but it’s like a mask over my own uncertainty. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice full of that over-the-top bravado that’s as much a part of him as his swagger. “You’ve got this. Just breathe, keep your head, stick to your line, and you’ll finish this race like a pro.”

I nod, forcing a smile, but my stomach is in knots. “Yeah, I got it.”

The engines roar louder, and I glance at the starting line. The lights flicker, the smoke thickens as the crowd pushes forward. It’s showtime. But as I stare ahead, the reality of it all hits me like a freight train. I don’t have it. I know I don’t. But it’s too late to back out now.

With one last deep breath, I rev my bike, the engine roaring in response, and pull it forward to the starting line, the crowd’s energy vibrating beneath my feet. The noise of the other bikes fades as I focus, blocking everything out, all of it—except for the road ahead.

The countdown starts. My breath hitches, my nerves tightening with each second that passes. The roar of the crowd fades into the background as I focus on the track ahead, my eyes locked on the starting line.

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