Page 5 of Pastel Kisses

My stomach twists again because he’s right.

Thisistoo familiar.

And none of us want to fucking say it, but we’re all thinking it.

Lennox has lived this nightmare before. In one way or another, we all have—each of us bearing our own scars from the past.

A couple of years ago, Lennox had been heading back from a private dinner when he called a rideshare. He was alone, exhausted, expecting a short, uneventful ride.

Instead, he unknowingly accepted a bottle of water from the driver—one that had been laced with something. Becca—the woman behind the wheel—had drugged him, stripping him of control before he even realized what was happening. A complete stranger, someone he’d never met, had her hands all over him, positioning his limp body like some kind of twisted prize.

As if that wasn’t horrifying enough, she’d proudly posted the photos online, flaunting her so-called victory, bragging to the world that she had finally “claimed” him.

She’d called him hers.

Told the world that he belonged to her.

The worst part? The fucking worst part?

It worked.

For weeks after, fans and tabloids alike defended her. Said she wasn’t dangerous, justdedicated.That she was just a poor girlin love with her idol.

As if kidnapping and violating someone was something that could be excused.

As if Lennox was at fault for being toocharming, too likable, too available.

As if he’d asked for it.

It took every ounce of restraint we had not to tear the world apart in the aftermath. The rage, the helplessness—it clawed at our insides, demanding retribution for what she’d done. Every second Lennox had been trapped, vulnerable, and unaware burned into us like a brand, fueling a level of fury we hadn’t known we were capable of.

But we didn’t just rage—we acted. We made damn sure she would never come near him again, never have the chance to hurt him or anyone else. Legal action, restraining orders, blacklisting—we pulled every string, called in every favor, and ensured she disappeared from our world entirely. She may have stolen his control for a night, but we took her power away permanently.

And while Lennox had played it off, kept up the cool, cocky persona he wore so well—it fucked him up.

It took months before he could sleep without checking the locks three times. Before he could get in a car without breaking into a cold sweat. Before he stopped waiting for the next psycho to crawl out of the shadows.

So yeah, tonight? This situation?

Even though Avery is likely just in the shower or asleep—and we’re probably overreacting—the situation has Lennox spiraling. His mind isn’t in the present; it’s trapped in the past, tangled in the worst-case scenarios his PTSD keeps feeding him. Every unanswered call, every second of silence, is another trigger, another memory clawing its way to the surface.

Liam exhales slowly, his grip on the wheel tightening until his knuckles turn white. “We’re overreacting. She’s fine,” he says, his voice edged with forced conviction—steel-wrapped bullshit he doesn’t even believe. The air in the car is thick, charged with an urgency none of us can shake, a gut-deep instinct screaming that something is very, very wrong.

Lennox just stares out the windshield, shoulders rigid. “I fucking hate waiting.”

“I know,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “We all do.”

Jaxton leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “If something happened her…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to.

We know.

We all know.

If someone laid a hand on her—hell, if they even breathed wrong in her direction—we’ll make damn sure they become a living, breathing lesson in why you never, ever mess with what’s ours.

And when we find the person responsible?

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