Page 53 of Shattered Hate

“You don’t understand, Bray,” I snap, my voice thick with hurt as I recall the memory. “The way Dax looked at me, his gaze fixed over Bexley’s shoulder—it burned with fire and searing heat like he could see my heart crumbling right there in his eyes. He loved it.” I push myself upright, the tension making my muscles twitch as Brayden instinctively shuffles sideways. “He not only took Bexley away from me, but he also seemed to savor every second of me crumbling.”

“Have you ever spoken to him about it?” He tilts his head as if weighing each of my words.

I fling my head back, disbelieving. “Talk to Daxton about him enjoying every moment of my misery?” Even to me, I sound bitter. “I’m good for that.”

Brayden’s expression turns sincere. “I might have the wrong end of the stick, Tray. I don’t know Daxton as well as Bex knew him, but Bex always spoke so well of him. From the few brief encounters I’ve had, I see someone good there—a person who, like Bexley, is caught in his own struggles.” His eyes soften withgenuine concern as he pleads, “All I’m asking is that you take a step back with him. Just lay off him a bit. Please.”

“Okay.” I exhale, letting a long-held sigh escape as resignation fills my chest.

A small smile tugs at Brayden’s lips. “Thank you.”

“You don’t truly despise Daxton, Tray.”

I shake my head fiercely. “I do. I hate him so much.” I meet his steady gaze with a lifted chin. Brayden nods slowly.

“All right,” he concedes.

Later, we get into a lighter conversation about random shit—like Kal finally meeting a girl the other night, though he hasn’t told us any of the messy details. Unlike me and Bray. We share every dirty detail. Brayden stands up, letting me know he’s heading out. At the doorway, he pauses and turns back toward me.

“Tray, remember when you said, ‘I hate him?’ I know you better than you know yourself sometimes. I can spot a lie in you before you even recognize it yourself.” He smiles tightly at me as I process his words.

“That ‘I hate him.’ It was weak. You don’t hate him, no matter how much you want to.”

And then he’s gone. And all I can do is sit here and repeat to myself that I hate Daxton Rivers. Even if it does sound weaker and weaker the more I say it.

Chapter twenty-six

Trayton

Staring at Daxton’s face, marred with those cuts and bruises that still linger, sends a surge of fury through my veins once again. The moment I arrived, the first words out of my mouth were, “Who did this to you?” But he just exhaled deeply, his eyes avoiding mine, and gestured for me to take a seat. I know it wasn’t Grady—he wouldn’t dare lay a finger on Daxton—and I can’t bring myself to believe that Daxton had the audacity to go back to him that night. What the hell happened in those twelve hours between him walking out of my place and then stumbling into that locker room looking like this?

The tattoo gun buzzes incessantly as Daxton focuses intensely on inking the intricate design on my arm. His brow furrows in concentration. Meanwhile, all I can do is focus on him, my mind a whirlwind of emotions.

Anger. The kind that clenches your fists and sets your jaw tight.

Rage. A firestorm that threatens to consume everything in its path.

Sadness. A heavy weight that settles in the pit of my stomach.

Want. A strange pull that draws me toward him.

Need. A raw, aching desire that I can’t seem to shake.

These are the emotions this guy stirs within me, and it infuriates me beyond measure. My conversation with Brayden last night dredged everything up to the surface again—all the reasons I despise Daxton.

I hate him—or at least, I think I do.

Why is it so easy to say I hate him when I’m not with him, yet when I’m with him, the words taste like a bitter lie on my tongue?

But why, then, do I find myself wanting him so desperately? Why does it fill me with anger to see him hurt when, once upon a time, that was all I ever wanted?

When did my hatred for him morph into this undeniable want and need?

When did the lines between hate and want blur so completely?

Was it when he wrapped his lips around me, igniting a fire I can’t seem to extinguish?

When he first snapped back at me and called me a sewer? I don’t even fucking know the moment it happened. All I know is that the hate still simmers beneath the surface, but it doesn’t reach a full boil anymore. What churns within me is the need to see his eyes light up, the want to witness his smile spread across his face. The craving to hear him moan my name as I bury myself deep inside him.

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