Page 64 of Nocturne
But before I can even steady myself, the door cracks open with a sharp snap.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Grace’s voice is rough, but I can see the damn joy in her eyes just because I’m awake.
She walks in like she owns the whole damn hospital. Her platinum blonde hair falls in perfect waves, like she didn’t even try, but you know she spent hours on it. She’s rocking a white Chrome Hearts cropped top, tight enough to make it clear she knows exactly what she’s got. Her pants are black joggers from Heaven by Marc Jacobs, loose and comfy but still fuckin’ sexy as hell. Her stomach’s all out, bronzed, with a subtle piercing that glints when the light hits. And the necklace? Of course there’s a cross hanging there. Gold, studded, probably worth more than half the stock at Nocturne.
On her shoulder, a baby pink Vivienne Westwood mini bag, the kind that looks innocent until you open it and find the chaos inside. Big hoop earrings, makeup on point: glowing skin, glossed lips, perfectly shaped brows—“I woke up like this,” but calculated down to the millimeter. She looks at me with that half-smile that never lets on what she’s really thinking and drops a, “You look like shit, Hunter,” like it’s just casual talk. And all I can think is if hell’s got angels, they’d all look like Grace.
“Need to talk,” Zion leans against the doorframe like he’s just passing by, but I know he’s here to check if I’m still breathing. His hair’s braided in that perfectly precise style, no mess whatsoever, like always. The jacket he’s wearing looks like it came straight out of some insaneGivenchy x underground artist collab, full of texture, black and white, with chaotic designs and deliberately fucked-up rips. Underneath, an oversized white Fear of God tee that almost covers his pocket. He’s got that laid-back style, but everything about him screams money.
His jeans are vintage Levi’s 550, washed out to that gray that looks like it was spat out by a ’90s time machine. Loose, falling just right, matching those pristine white Air Force 1s, immaculate, because Zion’s the type to brush his kicks with a goddamn toothbrush if needed. No chains, no rings, but a small hoop earring just to remind you there’s still some chaos in his blood. His expression’s more serious than usual, jaw locked, eyes heavy, worried. He stares at me for a few seconds, quiet, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m still the same.
“I don’t have time to talk. I need to get the fuck outta here. I need to fix this shit.” I speak fast, still wired, my breath hitching like my chest’s on fucking fire.
Grace and Zion glance at each other, tension dripping from their eyes like sweat from a wound.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Grace snaps, her voice sharp as hell, eyes wide in disbelief. She rolls them, impatient as fuck. “Damon nearly killed you in front of pretty much every Iron Requiem member, and you don’t say a single goddamn word?”
I swallow hard, dropping my head. My mind’s spiraling, running in fucking circles trying to find something that makes sense. But nothing does.
Zion yanks a chair and drops into it with a loud metal screech against the floor. The sound slices throughthe thick air of the room.
“Hunter, what the fuck is going on, man?” He stares at me, brows furrowed. “Why the fuck didn’t you fight back? Why didn’t you kill that motherfucker? You just stood there. And now look at you, beat to shit in a hospital. What the fuck happened?”
Grace crosses her arms, but her voice drops lower now. Still, every word lands like a slow, brutal stab.
“We’ve always had your back. Always. And honestly? I get it, you like going through your shit alone. But we give a damn, Hunter. We care. And this… this isn’t just some random fuck-up.”
She steps closer.
“You let a guy from another gang wreck your rep in front of everyone. And you didn’t say a damn thing. What the fuck happened to you?”
Her words are like a blade. A dull, rusty one that doesn’t cut clean, it scrapes, peels, digs deep until the pain’s unbearable. And hearing that from my best friends… it hurts more than any punch Damon landed.
But she’s right. They’re both right.
I lost myself.
Should’ve trusted them. Should’ve said something.
Should’ve told the truth from the start.
But everything about Damon, his brother, the murder, O’Connor, it’s all a fucking ticking bomb. And if I spill, it all goes to hell.
And this sick obsession I’ve got with Damon… it’s been eating me alive for too long. It’s been rotting me from the inside. Putting it into words? Saying out loud that I… feel what I feel for him?
It could destroy me. Could destroy everything.
I don’t know how they’ll react. I don’t know if they’ll understand. If they’ll ever look at me the same again.
And the worst part?
I’m not a traitor.
But I know damn well that’s exactly how it’ll look.
I clench my fists and look down, my body wobbling like the ground’s about to vanish. I feel my blood pressure drop and my breath falter, each time more ragged. I force myself to get up from the bed, even stumble, and walk to the IV pump. It was the one pumping meds into my vein, until I ripped it all out, fucking up any chance of recovery.
I hold the machine so tight my fingers hurt, and in a burst of pure rage, I throw it against the wall. The impact makes wires snap in the air and part of the window explodes, shards flying across the room, falling on the floor like shards of my sanity. Grace’s eyes go wide, unbelieving. Zion looks even more scared, like he’s seeing a side of me he never imagined existed.
