Page 39 of Nocturne
No words come out of my mouth. Just the sound of my heart pounding too fast, too heavy, like it wants to punish me for this.
“I’m bouncing. The warehouse is yours, Nocturne king.” He turns his back to me, and every step he takes echoes in my chest like he’s tearing something out of me.
His ass — white, firm, round — moves slowly as he walks away. And I watch. For too long. Too damn long.
Shame burns me from the inside. Rips me apart. Makes me rage.
Hunter disappears down the hall, and I’m left there, alone on the floor, trying to pick up the pieces of my sanity. I stand up slow, not understanding what the fuck is happening to me.
What the fuck was that?
And why the fuck did it mess with me like this... if I’m straight? If I’ve never felt anything like this for a man?
?????
“Kill Bill, Mad Max or Logan?”
Emma’s standing in the middle of the room, TV remote in hand, staring us down with zero patience. She’s dead set on making us pretend we’re normal people today, just for today.
She’s been going on about it all week. About how we need one damn day without gunshots, blood, or paranoia. Like it’s that fucking easy to switch it all off.
The truth is I don’t have the energy to argue.
After that mission with Hunter, my body’s completely wrecked. Total fucking mess.
“Definitely Logan, no doubt,” Vincent answers from the couch, half-buried in pillows with a giant bowl of popcorn balanced on his lap.
“Anything’s fine,” I exhale, dropping onto Emma’s oversized gray couch. Every muscle protests.
The mission was a disaster. I got the shit kicked outta me and I’m still paying for it. My left rib throbs with every breath, and my right shoulder makes this weird clicking sound whenever I move. That can’t be good.
Emma’s apartment is exactly what you’d expect from her: expensive taste, no apologies. We’re on the twenty-third floor of some high-rise in Back Bay, and the massive-ass windows throw the whole damn city at our feet. I can see the skyscrapers in the Financial District, afew cranes working on some new buildings, and even a strip of the Charles River catching the light in the distance. Sunlight floods in, bouncing off the flawless dark wood floors.
It’s Saturday. A shitty-ass Saturday. And Emma bitched enough this morning that even Vincent — who normally couldn’t give less of a fuck — gave in. We needed this. I guess. Pretending to be normal. Like maybe we could forget all the rest, even if it’s just for a couple hours.
I’m in gray Palace sweatpants, the logo subtle on the leg, and a Stone Island hoodie I bought last month.
I push myself up slow, grumbling under my breath and holding my rib. Emma turns her face toward me, frowning. “Where you going?”
“To the kitchen. Need a damn pill.”
“I’ll get it. Just sit.”
“It’s fine,” I mutter, already walking off.
I make it to the mirrored wall by the open kitchen and pause for a second, catching my reflection. Fuck. Even all banged up, my body still holds weight. Years of training don’t just vanish. Thick arms, defined, veins popping with every little move. Chest and abs solid, even under the hoodie. There’s no hiding what I am.
My face wears the weight of it all. Square jaw, sharper from the stubble. Dark blond hair’s in a military cut — low on the sides, longer and a little messy on top. My eyes — light, tired, but still holding that same old intensity. Broad shoulders. Thick neck. I look exactly like the kind of guy you don’t wanna cross in a dark alley.
I run a hand over the rough beard. Twenty-five.I’ve lived through more shit than ten men. My body proves it — every scar, every muscle, built out of survival, not vanity.
And even here, surrounded by comfort, with two friends trying their best to fake normal, everything still feels... off. Like none of this ever really belonged to me.
I walk slowly to the counter, my bones thudding in protest with every step. My body aches like hell, every muscle burning with the memory of that beating from Midnight Echoes, but I fake being whole. Not giving weakness the satisfaction now.
The orange bottle of painkillers stares back at me, cold and indifferent—just like everything else in my life lately. I toss three pills into my hand—a temporary relief for this fucking pain eating me alive—and swallow them with a dry throat that burns almost as much as the knife that stabbed me.
I open the fridge; the cold air cuts through my hot skin, and I grab a bottle of water. My fingers tremble, not just from the pain but from the tension I can’t shake. I take long swigs, feeling the liquid slide down, trying to swallow the weight of what I did, what I tried to do.
