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And there, in the depths of her searching gaze, I find myself at a crossroads. Do I let the masquerade fall away? Do I let her see the man behind the mask?

“Yes. We are fine. We are always fine.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. I mean, are we now boyfriend and girlfriend? Do we still keep it a secret? Do we just have fun?”

“We should talk about this when you’re sober.”

“Do you even want to be my boyfriend?”

“I told you. I’m going to be whatever you need me to be. So, yes, if that’s what you want me to be, I’ll be your boyfriend.”

Her eyes are doubtful and confused, like I’m some imposter. Some Chris guy she thinks she knows. They wander over my tattoos like she’s seeing them for the first time. I covered them so she wouldn’t be able to recognize me. I even wore contact lenses. It’s no use trying to compare me to some phantom, Blue.

I’m here, right in front of her, but it feels like she’s miles away. Just like before I got close to her.

No.

It’s worse.

“You should go home, Blue,” I say.

“No. Can I stay with you tonight?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” First, I need to visit a certain someone. Second, I can’t control myself tonight, and third, I don’t want her to regret anything because she was drunk. “Write me when you’re home.”

She doesn’t need to, as I know where she is 24/7, but getting a message from her feels good.

“I will.”

I press a kiss to her forehead and stride off to the elevator.

Chapter 33

Connor

“El—“ I begin, only to stop short when I see him slumped on the couch in the living room.

Broken glass litters the floor, and I nearly step on the shards, catching myself just in time. Most alarming, though, is the blood seeping between Elijah's fingers and dripping onto the floor.

“Jesus, what the fuck?” I ask.

His eyes are hollow and distant, fixed on the coffee table. “Leave.”

“You’re bleeding all over the place. What the hell?” I rush to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit we all keep stocked for emergencies.

This isn’t the first time I find my cousin in a state of reckless devastation over a woman. But I’ve never seen him look so utterly lost before.

Dropping it on the coffee table in front of him, I sit down, taking his hand. “What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He tries to wrench free, but I grip his wrist firmly.

“I know Gemma was here,” I say.

“We had a fight. She left. I got angry and…”

“Idiot.” I carefully disinfect the cut. “Want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

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