Page 65 of Shattered Hate

“Suck my dick,” he snaps, flipping me off with a mocking eye roll.

Little does he know, I would swallow his dick whole if he wasn’t so fucking drunk. I need to get away before I end up dropping to my knees for him.

I head into the bathroom to wash my face, thankful for the disposable toothbrushes provided. After quickly brushing myteeth and washing my face, I strip down to my boxers and step back out, tossing my clothes onto the bed. Glancing sideways, I see Daxton lying on top of the covers, with four small empty whiskey bottles resting on his chest and the mini-bar door wide open.

“Fucking hell.” I exhale softly. His eyes are shut, and his chest rises and falls slowly with each breath. It’s hard to tell how much he’s had to drink. I lean over the bed, carefully removing the bottles from his chest and tossing them into the trash, trying to figure out how to proceed without waking him. I start with his shirt, lifting it up as his arms slump, and he groans, attempting to roll over as I free one arm. Gently, I roll him back onto his back, slip the other arm out, and slowly pull it over his head, tilting his head up gently. I take a moment to really look at him; despite the baggy tops and sweatshirts he usually wears, he’s more defined than he appears. I can’t stand the scars scattered across the lower part of his abdomen and along the sides of his ribs. Just seeing them fills me with anger as I trace one of the four-inch scars up his ribs with my finger. I sigh, sitting back on the bed, unfastening his belt, and carefully sliding off his jeans, leaving his boxers on. I step back to take in the sight of him. Even in sleep, he looks sad, with his brows furrowed and his lips slightly downturned. My chest aches as I watch him. He groans, turning onto his side, and I approach to pull the blanket from underneath him to cover him. His eyes flutter open slightly as he buries his face deeper into the pillow.

“Tray,” he whispers softly, glancing at me.

“Go to sleep, Dax,” I reply, meeting his gaze. His arm reaches out, lightly brushing over the small tattoo on my chest.

“What’s this?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No tattoo is meaningless; they always have meaning,” he whispers again, tracing the star map inked on my skin with his fingers.

“It’s just a star map,” I say, letting my eyes wander over his face, as his flutter open briefly before fatigue and drunkenness pull them closed again. “Did you love Bexley?” he asks between breaths. I frown at the unexpected question.

“What makes you ask that?”

He sighs into his pillow, still with his eyes shut. “Just answer it. Did you?” I know he’s drunk and likely won’t remember anything later, which is why I feel compelled to answer now.

“At the time, I believed he was everything,” I confess. “But I was young—everything feels amplified and dramatic in your teens.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No,” I immediately admit, convinced I owe him the truth. “I think it was lust, something I craved—an experiment. Bex was the one I always believed was out of reach, so I longed for him for years. But it was never love.” I look down at Dax, assuming he’s dozed off, and begin to stand.

“Have you ever been in love?” I pause and collapse back onto the bed.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “There was someone when I was young again, so I don’t really understand what it was. I don’t know if I can love, Dax.” Without knowing why, I reach out and push his hair away from his face. “Who gave you this scar?” I ask, my fingers tracing the marred skin from his eyebrow to his cheekbone.

“You,” he murmurs, the word escaping his lips like a soft sigh. My hand freezes, and I frown as I look at him. His eyes remain closed, his breaths measured and heavy, while my fingers explore the sorrow etched onto his face, lingering on his cheeks. His eyes flutter open, meeting mine with intense, unspokenemotion. Those deep-emerald eyes—once full of sparkle—now drown in sadness. I cradle his cheek in my palm, and he leans into the touch, closing his eyes again.

“Who hurt you, Dax?” I whisper. I feel a shift immediately; his body tenses, and the warmth drains from his face under my hand. His eyes snap open, pain flooding them as he says,

“You.” His voice is barely a whisper. “You hurt me the most, Tray.” I freeze, staring at him, my hand still resting on his cheek. The urge I once had to see Daxton suffer, to make him feel my own pain, now twists in my chest like a knife. His eyes close again, and my hand falls away as I stand, needing a moment alone. Everything aches—my heart, that relentless pain pounding in my chest.“Tray.” Daxton’s soft voice reaches me from across the room. “You mentioned not knowing if you’d ever been in love because you were young.” I remain silent, curious about what he’ll say next. His back remains turned to me. “When you think about that person, what do you feel?” I decide not to answer straightaway, but deep down, I already know. I often think about that person—the boy at the lighthouse, the one who hurt me the most.

“Pain,” I respond without hesitation because it’s the truth. It always aches to think of him, constantly wondering about the possibilities, what could have been if he hadn’t left like everyone else.

“Then you have been in love, Tray. Love always hurts. Believe me, I know.”

Chapter thirty-two

Daxton

Damn. My head is pounding. I groan and bury my face into the soft pillow that feels way too luxurious to be mine. It’s like lying on a cloud or something. I crack my eyes open, but the sunlight feels like it’s scorching straight out of hell, so I quickly turn away, shielding myself from the glare. That’s when I see Trayton lying next to me, staring at the ceiling, and memories flood back. I wish I could just forget everything. It’s not fair that I remember it all. Trayton seems lost in thought, his thumbs tapping each of his fingers. At first, I assume it’s a coping mechanism for anxiety, but then I notice his lips moving. He’s counting or mumbling something too quiet for me to hear. Is he making a list? But of what? I take a moment to look at his face, noticing the cut on his lip—a result of me punching him last night. I don’t feel too bad about that; he’s hit me plenty of times. It’s what I said to him at the club that makes my stomach churn. The words about his mom. I’m really angry at him for what happened with Ashton. Even now, just looking at him stirsup my anger. But he didn’t deserve what I said. His response was warranted:You think you have the power to upset me? You think you matter enough to hurt me?Those words stung. Of course, I don’t have the power, and of course, I don’t matter. He’s shown me that repeatedly, so why do I let him hurt me? Why do I give him that power?

I know the reason. That feeling has always been there—an undercurrent of resentment for him, for his actions, for simply being who he is. I despise him for walking into my life all those years ago, despise him for ever showing me kindness. I buried that feeling, believing it was just a passing phase, something that would eventually disappear. I locked it away so deep that I convinced myself I felt nothing for Trayton King. It turns out that it was tucked inside a box so hidden that even I struggled to reach it. But he didn’t have to fight at all. One kiss from him was enough to tear that box apart, leaving everything exposed—and I fucking hate him for it.

It’s almost as if he were under a spell. Trayton blinks rapidly, turns his head sideways, and his eyes meet mine. Why does my heart ache the very moment I look at him? I should be angry, but it’s pure pain that overwhelms me. We lie there, locked in a long, silent stare; my gaze fixes on the cut on his lip, and though the word “Sorry” fights to escape my throat, I refuse to speak it.

“Hi,” he says so quietly that if I hadn’t seen his lips move, I might have missed it. I don’t answer. It feels as if opening my mouth would force me to confess how sorry I am for hurting him—for hitting him, for all those dreadful things I said. But has he ever apologized for hurting me? Never. His eyes wander with something that isn’t anger—more like guilt, as though he feels remorse. So why doesn’t he just say sorry? Why the fuck can’t he apologize for hurting me?You hurt me the most, Trayton. I told him exactly how much pain he caused, yet he remains silent. I let out a bitter laugh and shake my head. His brows knit togetheras I turn around and sit up on the bed, searching for my clothes. “Dax,” he calls, pain evident in his voice.

I whip my head around, eyes narrowing as his widen, and hiss, “Don’t. Don’t fucking ‘Dax’ me with that tone, Trayton. I’m not the one who should be feeling guilty right now. Why do I have to feel guilty when I’ve done nothing wrong? It should be you groveling, begging to say sorry. Why do I have to apologize when I never fucking do anything wrong?” My breaths come out sharply as I stand abruptly, grabbing my neatly folded jeans from the seat. Suddenly, I hear shuffling behind me—he’s here, gripping my arm firmly. I try to wrench it free with a desperate yank, but his hold won’t let go.

“Dax, please.” His eyes are heavy, and his brows drawn in pain. He clearly looks like he’s suffering, and I hate how my heart aches to mend him, to bring a smile back to his face. His eyes slide to my lips, and I freeze, knowing that if he kisses me, I won’t have the strength to push him away.

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