Page 102 of Once A Villain

When practice finally wraps up, the sun’s dipping low, and I’m sore all over, but it’s a good ache.

The kind that reminds me I’m exactly where I belong.

Axe’s been MIA for a week, and Griffen and I have settled into a weirdly comfortable routine. Kane’s my running buddy now, and Griffen’s turned out to be an unexpectedly decent host. Sure, he’s still a Hawthorne, so he’s got his moments, but overall, he’s less of a brooding asshole than Axe. We’ve had a few movie nights, and I even roped him into attending my father’s birthday party in a few weeks.

Today’s just another marathon of rehearsals. I’m standing under the shower, letting the warm water drench me, and I can’t shake the nagging thought of Axe. Where is he? Is he safe? Is he alone? Is he even thinking about me?

No. I cut the thought off before it can get any further. I can’t afford to let myself get tangled up in him. He’s the enemy.

No matter how explosive the sex is, how good his cock feels inside me, how he brings me pleasure no other man has ever given me, how his touch makes my body melt, and how his kisses make my heart race.

My hand trails down my body, and I try to push the images of him out of my mind.

I lean against the tile, closing my eyes, conjuring up the memory of his chiseled abs, the tattoos that decorate his chest, and that thick, hard cock.

My fingers work feverishly, teasing and stroking, and my breaths come out in ragged gasps. I can almost feel his strong hands on my hips, his fingers digging in, and his hot breath against my neck.

His deep voice echoes in my mind, urging me to let go, to give him everything.

I thrust my fingers deeper, my body clenching around them, as waves of pleasure crash over me.

Really? I just got off thinking of him? I could have imagined anyone else and it wouldn’t have been so damn embarrassing. What the hell is wrong with me?

Towel in hand, disappointment floods me. It was good, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t his fingers, his mouth, or his cock. It was just a hollow imitation. Shit. I’ve been missing him, and that’s unacceptable. I need to find a way to purge him from my thoughts. First step: stop thinking about him. Besides, it’s not him I miss. It’s the sex.

Dressed and ready, I stride downstairs. Siren rehearsals, the music, and the thrill of performing consume my thoughts.

I shout a quick goodbye to Griffen, then dash out the door. Dark clouds hover above, casting a shadow over the city. I flick on the wipers, squinting through the rain-smeared glass.

I weave through traffic, autopilot kicking in, the radio a distant hum.

A screech pierces the air. I look up just in time to see a truck barreling toward me. Everything slows. Adrenaline spikes. I slam the brakes—too late. The truck slams into my Range Rover. I fight for control, but the SUV veers off, crashing into a building. The impact throws me forward, the seatbelt biting into my chest. Breath knocks out of me. I gasp, panic creeping in as the acrid smell of burning rubber fills the air.

Fumbling with the seatbelt, I finally free myself and shove the door open, legs shaking. What the hell just happened? I glance up to see the truck parked nearby.

The driver’s door swings open, and a middle-aged man jumps out, frantically holding his phone. “I’ll call you back,” he mutters before hanging up and turning toward me, guilt painted across his face. “Are you alright?” he asks, hurrying over with an expression that screams regret. “I’m really sorry, it’s my fault,” he stammers. “I was trying to answer a text, and I looked down and—” His voice trails off.

“I’m fine,” I snap, still shaken. He’s in a suit, tie undone, hair messy from the crash.

“Are you sure?” He reaches for my arm, but I pull away. “You’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, eyes on the Range Rover. The damage’s bad but not catastrophic There’s a sizable dent in the front and rear passenger door, and the paint’s scuffed, but overall, everything seems to be fine, and the airbags didn’t deploy. It’s a mess, but it’s manageable.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say as he once again apologizes, forcing a grin. “Accidents happen.”

Bystanders snap photos, as if this is the latest city spectacle.

His truck’s wrecked—front end crumpled, windshield shattered, glass everywhere. I tell him I don’t need the cops or a ride. After some grumbling, he hands me his business card and insists I call his insurance.

I nod, offer a tight smile, and climb back into the Range Rover. The aftershocks hit—aching muscles, a brutal reminder of how much worse it could’ve been.

I focus on the road, determined to leave the mess behind. At the Pavilion, the familiar thrum of music greets me as I rush inside. I drop my bag in the dressing room and head straight for rehearsal.

I slip into the routine mid-flow, the music’s pulse syncing with my steps. The other Sirens move like liquid, and I match their rhythm, pushing through the gnawing ache in my chest and shoulder.

“That’s a wrap,” Dom calls, cutting through the music. “Great job, ladies. You’re dismissed.”

I roll my shoulder, wincing. Tomorrow’s show is going to hurt.

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