Page 130 of Traitor

Fuck that.

I turn fully toward her, my voice like steel. "Temper, I promise I won't let your demon feed on my blood again. I will find a way to help you calm it down. I fucking promise. And with Jinx... we'll see what happens when the time comes. Whatever you decide to do, just remember that you're not alone. And I'm not talking about myself. I'm under no illusions here. But you have Ria and that woman is clearly ready to burn everyone and anyone for you. I think Mama would actually disown me and adopt you, if she could. Layla is going through some tough shit right now, but she wouldn't leave you stranded. If she was there that night, I guarantee she would've had us all at gun point. She almost divorced Joker over what happened. It took him months to make her talk to him again."

She glances at me from the corner of her eye, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at her lips. Then, she reaches into the box, plucks out the tiniest chocolate-covered plum, and holds it out to me.

"Do you want to feedyourdemon something delicious?"

I take it, letting my fingers brush against hers, and pop it into my mouth. It's fucking heaven.

"Shit, I'd feed it this every damn day."

She laughs, actually laughs, and something inside me cracks open.

When it's time to take her home and she gets back on my bike, her arms wrapping around me, her body molding against mine, I feel it — the sadness, the weight of reality creeping back in.

I know these moments are stolen.

But I'll fight for every damn one.

Temper

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house is silent, still, wrapped in the kind of quiet that should pull me into sleep. But my brain won't shut the fuck up. It churns, relentless, dragging me through every moment of the last few hours, refusing to let me rest.

Why did I go with him?

Why did it feel so right being on the back of his bike?

Why did having an honest conversation with him bring me more peace than hurting him?

I managed to keep him at a distance these past months. But tonight, he slithered his way toward a moment of truce and it felt… comforting.

I exhale sharply, throwing an arm over my eyes, but it doesn't help. It doesn't block out the memories, the emotions clawing at my insides like they're trying to rip their way free.

For years, my rage has been my foundation. It has been my fuel, my armor, the only thing that has kept me moving forward. But it didn't feel good. Or right. It felt like a tar pit I was drowning in. My therapist tried to steer me away from it, but I dug my heels in, refusing to let go.

I hate it.

I hate him for still having this effect on me.

I hate myself for letting him.

And yet...

The truth is an ugly fucking thing, and it's whispering to me in the quiet.

Hurting him didn't bring me peace. It brought me relief. It was like finally releasing a breath I had been holding for years, like scratching an itch that had been festering beneath my skin. But relief is temporary. And now, all that's left is the exhaustion, the ache of something still unresolved. And the rage coming back. I fear I could lose myself to it completely.

It's a good thing I finally booked a session with Dr. Monroe three weeks from now. My mind is a goddamn mess.

I shift onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me, but my body still feels wired.

I know he's out there.

Somewhere in the darkness, on his bike, parked just far enough to give me space but close enough to act if anything happens.

I should be angry. I should be pissed that he's watching over me.

Instead, my eyes close slowly, and sleep finally comes.

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