Page 36 of Endo
“Sure.”
“Oh, by the way,” Revel says, his voice taking on that cocky, mischievous tone he does so well. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, his eyes lighting up as he checks the new text. “Cece’s been texting me.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of my lips. “Oh, really? Tell me more, stud.”
He looks at me, that signature smirk spreading across his face. “Fuck, she’s hot as hell. And I love that fiery Latina attitude of hers. It’s like she wants to shut me down, but deep down, she’s got it bad. I mean, I can tell.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Uh-huh. She shuts you down every time, though. You’re like a puppy chasing after her.”
“Puppy, huh?” Revel raises an eyebrow, unfazed, as he types something back to her. “It’s called persistence, Lena. One of these days, she’s gonna cave. You’ll see.”
I shake my head again, laughing lightly. “Sure, sure. Keep dreaming. She thinks you’re a troll.”
“Troll?” he scoffs, putting his phone down and leaning against the wall with that overconfident swagger of his. “She just doesn’t know what she’s missing yet. Trust me, when I pull her in, it’ll be like nothing she’s ever experienced.”
I roll my eyes again but can’t help the fond smile that tugs at the edges of my lips. “You’re something else, you know that?”
Revel winks, clearly pleased with himself. “I know, right? I’m just waiting for her to realize it.”
I laugh, but something inside me twinges—a pang of something I can’t quite name. It’s ridiculous, really. I’m happy for him. I am. Seeing him like this, all cocky and proud, reminds me of how Cruz used to be, and for a moment, that all-too-familiar ache tightens in my chest.
I push the feeling away. Revel deserves to be happy. If he wants Cece, he’ll get her. And as much as I like the idea of him and Cece, I can’t deny a small part of me feels a little lighter seeing him smile this way.
15
REIGN
Breathe - Lø Spirit
I wakeup to the screech of the alarm clock, its incessant beeping ripping through the haze of sleep. I slam my hand down on it, silencing the sound, and for a second, I stay there, eyes closed, feeling the weight of everything pressing in on me.
The room is still dark, only the faintest glow from the morning creeping in through the blinds. My body aches—every muscle, every joint, every fucking tendon protesting against the demands I’ve been placing on it. It’s been months since the surgery, but it still feels too fresh. The bones are healing, but it doesn’t feel like it’s been long enough.
Not yet.
The last couple of days have felt like a blur of frustration, anger, and guilt. I’ve been throwing myself into rehab with the same reckless abandon I threw myself into everything else. I can’t let up. I won’t. The thought of staying broken, of staying down, gnaws at me. Every time I look in the mirror, all I see is weakness. And I’ll be damned if I let this injury be the thing that stops me.
I push myself out of bed, my feet slamming against the cold floor with a sharp jolt that sets my leg on fire. The pain shoots up, sending a tremor through my body. I swallow the groan that rises in my throat, gritting my teeth, forcing myself to stand. The familiar ache gnaws at my muscles, but I won’t let it win.
I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time for weakness.
I shuffle to the bathroom, the cool tiles under my feet making the pain in my leg even sharper. The mirror greets me with an image of a guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Dark circles under my eyes, stubble creeping along my jawline, and a face that doesn’t look like it belongs to someone who’s supposed to be recovering.
I turn on the shower, the steam quickly filling the small room, the water blasting me with heat. I step under it, letting the hot stream pound against my skin, trying to push away the lingering frustration that’s been building in me for days. The heat is a welcome distraction, but it doesn’t make the anger or the guilt go away.
I let the water soak into my muscles, my body still throbbing from my last rehab session. The warmth is nice, but the weight of it all—my injury, the pressure of the guys to open up and let them help me, the tension with Lena—feels like it’s pressing down on me from all sides. I close my eyes, leaning my head against the tile, letting the water run down my back, trying to find some kind of release.
But it’s not enough.
Once I’m washed, I step out of the shower, toweling off quickly, and get dressed in the first thing I find—a pair of dark jeans, a fitted black T-shirt, and my old leather jacket before making my way to the kitchen. My hands are moving on autopilot as I make my way to the coffee maker. The familiar ritual comforts me—filling the filter, grinding the beans,pressing the button to start the brew. The smell of coffee fills the air, familiar and grounding. But today... today I pause.
I reach for the bottle of Jack Daniels. The same whiskey I’ve been adding to my coffee for months now. The same whiskey that’s been my crutch, my way of escaping the pain, the thoughts I don’t want to face. But as my hand closes around it, something shifts inside me. I stop, my fingers tightening around the bottle for a second before I set it back down on the counter.
I don’t fucking need this right now.
Instead, I pour the coffee into my mug, black and bitter, the steam rising in tendrils, and I chug it down in one long gulp. The heat sears my throat, but it’s a sharp reminder that I’m still fucking here, still fighting. I grab my jacket, my keys, and head out the door before I have a chance to second guess it.
The drive torehab is quiet, the low rumble of the Mustang’s engine a steady backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts in my head. I haven’t spoken to Lena since our fight a few days ago. Every time I close my eyes, I see the look on her face—hurt, anger, disappointment. She had every right to be. I pushed her too hard. Pushed her away, and now, I’m the one paying for it.
