Page 87 of Double Standards
“It was like they were there one day, then gone the next. They were so in love…”
The story settles between us like a fragile thread stretched tight—raw, unspoken grief woven into every word. I can feel the weight of it, the way it pulls at her chest, and for a moment, the space between us feels charged with something deeper than conversation. Something unguarded, vulnerable, and real.
“It’s silly, I know. How can anyone truly bethatin love?”
“It’s not silly,” I tell her, brushing a tear from her cheek. “You’re optimistic, I like it.”
“I like it when you smile,” she whispers, returning the compliment. “You should do it more often.”
I trace her lips with my thumb. “So should you.”
When she asks about my dad, I swallow hard. It’s not that the story is hard to tell—hell, I’ve spent most of my life living with the ghosts of my past. They’re old companions by now. But telling Cassie? Letting her peel back that part of me? That’s different. That’s a risk I don’t know how to measure.
“My mum died giving birth to me. My dad…” I pause, feeling her eyes on me, soft and searching. “He was murdered.”
Her gasp cuts through the low hum of the restaurant. It’s immediate, sharp—real horror, not the polite kind. For her, this is the stuff that lives in nightmares. For me, it’s just another day.
“Comes with the territory,” I say, forcing a shrug that tastes like iron. But my eyes—traitorous fucking eyes—give it all away. The hurt. The rage that never really settled.
She doesn’t flinch away. Doesn’t drop my hand. Instead, she leans closer, voice low but strong. “Do you know who did it?”
A muscle ticks in my jaw as I meet her gaze dead-on. “Yes. He paid for it.”
It lands between us like a gunshot. The quiet that follows is louder than any confession.
We finish dinner pretending to drift to safer shores—music, old memories, bits of laughter that belong mostly to her. Her laugh is the only thing tonight that doesn’t feel borrowed or broken. Every time it slips past her lips, it digs into something inside me I didn’t know was still soft.
When I walk her back to Lexie’s, our hands find each other like they’ve always known how. Fingers entwined, warmth pressed to warmth, we move through the night in silence.
There’s a tension coiled tight under my ribs—something unspoken, heavy as wet cement. I could tell her more. I want to. But there’s a line, and I don’t know if I’m ready to watch her cross it.
She stops at the stoop, turns to me, eyes soft but steady under the streetlamp’s glow. And for a second, I swear she sees it all—the man, the monster, the boy left behind. And she doesn’t look away. “Do you want to come in?”
“I would,” I say softly, my knuckles tracing her cheek, “but this is all you’re getting from me tonight.”
Her disappointment is a weight I don’t want to bear, but I need to keep control.
“Goodnight, Axel,” she murmurs, voice cracking.
I pull her back to me, chest pressed to hers. “I haven’t forgotten my promise,” I whisper into the nape of her neck, excitement digging in despite the restraint.
“Promise?” Her brows knit together.
I guide her hands to my chest, growling into her ear, “That pussy is mine.”
My hands rest on her hips, squeezing gently. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the lack of underwear. You know what that does to me.”
She fights a smile, and I bite her earlobe, tasting the heat she radiates.
“I will come back for what’s mine. But not tonight, Cassie.”
And with that, the fire inside me cools just enough as I step back into the night.
Alone, for now.
Chapter Thirty-One
I’m pretty sure I’ve been staring at my phone for hours. It’s only been a day, which is probably why it feels like the black screen is judging me, reflecting every anxious thought ricocheting through my head. I haven’t touched it, haven’t checked for messages, haven’t even unlocked it. Because if I do and there’snothingfrom him, I’ll spiral harder than I already am.
