Page 30 of Warrior

Nyx would be glad to see it go, too.

So would Saint, even if Kade and him are suddenly besties.

I put up the kickstand and shift into gear. The bike’s vibrations seem more like an earthquake today, and I tighten my grip. Thelastthing I need is to fall off.

The first thing I need is…

Not a cinnamon roll.

My stomach cramps, and sweat breaks out across my body. I hit the throttle until I’m flying, my hair streaming behind me from under my helmet. I get to Bow & Arrow and unlock theback door, hurrying up the stairs to my apartment. It auto-locks behind me, luckily, so I don’t need to wait. I just listen for the resultingslam, echoing up to me.

I get into my apartment and twist that lock. My hands are shaking. I shed my leather jacket, toss the folder from my waistband onto the counter by the sink, and drop into a chair at the kitchen table. Onto it goes the syringe, the alcohol swab, the elastic. I barely get the elastic on, tightening the knot with my teeth.

The swab comes next. I rip it open and rub it across the crook of my elbow. It’s a patchwork of bruises and two prominent needle marks, marked by deeper, purple bruises.

I should find a better place to inject.

No, I shouldn’t. I should just stop.

And yet…

Here I go again.

The prick of pain when the needle slides in almost has me groaning. The anticipation climbs, until I need to pause and wipe my sweaty palm on my thigh.

I pull it back a little, waiting for the drops of blood. They swirl and mix with the liquid heroin, and I just stare at how my blood tumbles through it. I want it so bad, but I force myself to count to five.

Then I depress the plunger.

I remove the needle and recap it. I sag back in the chair, my eyes already closing. I don’t care that I might be bleeding—the drug rushes through me like high tide, flooding my system, and eradicates my cares. The aches, the nausea, fade as I float.

“Shit,” I groan, minutes or hours later.

I don’t know.

There’s a trail of blood down my arm, a few drops on the table where I rested it. They’re dried, which gives away the time loss.

I pick myself up and clean the area. I dispose of the needle—okay, yeah, I just toss it in the trash, sue me—and the rest of the shit. The elastic I stick around my wrist, looped twice. It’s innocuous there.

Pull on a cardigan from my closet.

Lock the door.

Go upstairs.

Enter office.

I sit in my chair, running my hands along the smooth, clean surface of my desk.

“What are you doing here?”

Antonio?

It’s not.

Mel, the waitress I should’ve fired when she started handing out my information to the Hell Hounds, stands in the doorway.

“I should ask you the same,” I say.

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