Page 56 of Blood Queen

When Eli sees me, his expression shifts from amusement to shock. “Holy shit. Kid.”

I smirk as I slide into the seat across from him. “Nice to see you too.”

Eli shakes his head, still staring. “Didn’t think you two were still… in touch.” He glances at Truman, then back at me. “Especially after the way he” he jabs a thumb at Truman, “was so wrecked after you left.”

Guilt, sharp and sudden, twists in my stomach. I push it down. When I left, I left. I tried not think about Truman, or Eli, or Tasha. I couldn’t. I couldn’t walk into the Testa household, the Testa life, and carry them with me.

It was a year before I reached out to Truman. Before I could no longer handle not having the comfort of him.

“Well, I didn’t know you two were still friends either.”

Eli snorts. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

I shrug.

Truman watches me, quiet, his eyes saying things I don’t want to read into. The conversation shifts, the past creeping in between bites of food and sips of beer. I think about Tasha.About what she’s doing now. About how, in another life, we could have all been friends if I hadn’t left. If I had let myself be soft. If I had been someone else entirely.

It’s loud in the restaurant, but not loud enough to drown out years of regret. Stories spill out: bad tattoos and old flames, epic stunts and almost-arrests. The new ones leave me cold, like I’m just a ghost floating through them.

After dinner, Truman and I leave together.

“It was good seeing you,” I say.

“Yeah you too,” Eli says as he wobbles off into the night.

The moment we step into Truman’s car, the easy facade drops.

“It’s only been two weeks,” he says. “What’s going on, Kid?”

I don’t answer right away. He winds through the traffic efficiently. Taking us toward his home.

“You only show up like this when something’s wrong.” His voice is low, steady. “What have you done?”

The weight of it all presses against my ribs. I tilt my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. “I’m close, Tru.”

“To what?”

“The end of this.”

He pulls into his driveway, kills the engine, but doesn’t move to get out.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You say that every time.”

I open my eyes, turn to him. “And every time, it’s true.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You can still walk away.”

I reach for him, my fingers brushing his wrist. He goes still, watching me. The tension is thick, charged, tangled in something neither of us have ever fully faced.

“You see me,” I murmur. “The real me.”

His breath hitches, just slightly. “Yeah. And I hate what this life is doing to you.”

I don’t answer. I just lean in, pressing my lips against his, desperate to hold onto the last sliver of myself that only he still recognizes.

He kisses me back with a vehemence that almost hurts, like he’s trying to erase the world beyond us. For a moment, everything fades—there’s no threat twisting its way toward us, no shadows licking at my heels. No distance or time or regret between us.

I pull away first, because I have to. “One more job,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath. “I promise.”

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