Page 69 of Shattered Hate

“But why?” Tray snaps, desperation in his voice.

“Why?” I laugh bitterly. “Because I sit here, Tray, and I can assure you there’s not a single soul who’d shed a tear if I died tomorrow. No one cares about me. I have no one. I had someone once, and now he’s gone.”

“That’s not true,” he grits out, his jaw clenched.

“Yes, it is. Tell me, who really cares about me?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow.

“Me,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine, his face softening.

“What?” I must have misheard.

“Me. I care. I would be sad if you left this world tomorrow.”

Chapter thirty-four

Daxton

Today is the day I finally finish Trayton’s tattoo. Everything in the past few weeks—the shock about Ashton, the chaos at the hotel, the library, that interview—piled up until it was too much. Trayton was like a storm: one minute he pushed me away, the next he warmed me with his touches. My heart couldn’t take the endless highs and lows. I needed space, a moment to step back from him.

Maybe he needed that space, too, because not once did he reach out. Even though I told myself I needed time apart, my twisted thoughts burned, angry that he wouldn’t even try.

I know my time with him is running out. We could never be more than the confusing, bittersweet mess we are now. He will break my heart—it isn’t a question of if, but when. I keep thinking, maybe I’ll learn to live with the pain of him breaking me over and over again, maybe I can grow to accept it because the pain of never feeling Trayton King’s kiss again might be even worse.

But soon enough, he’ll find someone else, and that thought cuts deeper than anything else.

Hawksview was supposed to be my fresh start—until Trayton King waltzed in and turned everything upside down in both amazing and awful ways.

I’ll never truly forgive him for coming back into my life and tearing me apart.

So here I stand, at the end of our last tattoo session together, swallowing my pain and forcing a smile as if the silent words begged him to be with me, to kiss me. For two long hours, he has sat quietly while Max dropped by and chatted, and I remained mute, eyes fixed where his gaze burned a hole through my mind. I can’t trust myself to speak or even look at him—it hurts too much.

“Finished,” I croak out, pulling the machine away from his arm. I push my feelings aside for a moment because, damn, I have just completed my first tattoo. I grin at the sight of his arm; it looks so damn good.

Trayton lights up with excitement, buzzing in his chair. Max even hovers around, eager to catch a glimpse. I stand up as Trayton moves over to the long mirror.

“I can’t believe how good it looks.” Trayton’s eyes light up as he gazes at the mirror, while I position another one to give him a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the intricate designs wrapped around his arm. My smile stretches wider, filled with pride as I admire the swirling patterns and bold lines of my first tattoo creation. The whole shop buzzes with excitement, everyone gathering around to catch a glimpse of the masterpiece. Some eagerly clutch their phones, asking Trayton if they can snap a picture. He nods enthusiastically, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

“You did good, boy,” Max says, giving my shoulder a hearty slap. A surge of pride and excitement courses through me.

Trayton’s eyes lock onto mine in the mirror, filled with intense appreciation. “You’ve outdone yourself, Dax. This is beyond anything I could have imagined.” His words send warmth spreading through my chest, and I have to look away, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

“Thanks. I’m just glad you like it.”

Max clears his throat, cutting through the moment. “All right, get him wrapped up.”

As I gently apply the protective wrap over Trayton’s freshly inked skin, my fingers linger a moment too long, feeling the electric charge between us. His muscles twitch slightly under my touch, and I wonder if he feels it too.

“So, big game coming up in a couple of weeks, right?” I ask, trying to focus on anything but the closeness between us.

“Kinda, just a friendly,” he replies, low and distant, as if the game is the last thing on his mind, or maybe it’s me he doesn’t want to talk to.

“That’s done, then,” I say, sighing as I stand and begin tidying up my equipment. “I’ll see you around.” I toss the comment over my shoulder, my hands busy, but my mind is restless. A sick feeling churns inside me, an ache that pulls me toward him, craving him. It’s like my heart is tied to him, begging me to be near, to touch him, and I’m struggling to deny it.

“Dax.” Tray’s voice hits me like a jolt, and because I’m busy shifting things on the table, I don’t turn around. “Dax, look at me.” His tone is sharp now, slicing through my focus. I hesitate, unable to meet his gaze.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Just go, Tray,” I murmur weakly.

“It’s crazy that you think I was asking. Look. At. Me.” His insistence forces me to spin around, frowning at him. But his smile lights up his face, playful and knowing. “It’s so easy to rile you up.”

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