3 Decisions - 2

A warm breath hits my ear. “Did you miss me, baby?”

Fuck.

I was so engrossed in the moment I didn’t fully register the inappropriate invasion of my space.

Chloe Bear. Biggest bitch psycho predator stalker I can have.

I freeze, then peel Chloe’s arm off like it’s contaminated. “Why are you here?” I hiss. “This is a private function.”

She grins. Too red lipstick. Too close. “It’s fate. Ren’s my old friend,” she starts energetically, “He’s going to marry the little blonde who lives here.”

Over my fucking dead body.

She clings again. Head resting on my shoulder.

I shake her off harder this time and fire off a message.

Damion: S1. PSB. Chloe.

The boys will get the message. Understand our codes.

Psycho stalker bitch. Seriousness level 1. In other words … fucking serious.

Axel saves me before things escalate, hauling Chloe away mid-protest. I disappear, scanning for Mel.

She’s with Aunt Betty and my mom.

I grab a drink and linger nearby, pretending I’m not listening. Not my finest moment — instead of being here for Logan — my best friend — I’m spying on his sister.

“So, how was your vacation?” Mom asks, her green eyes drifting over the crowd until it lands on me, leaning on the table against the wall, trying to be invisible. Her eyes narrow slightly. I pull a face and hope she understands.

She does. Bless her.

Cause I don’t even understand myself.

I spent a good deal of my life trying to fathom why I feel what I feel. I still don’t know exactly, but I have an idea.

That day … 1 March … was a bad day for me, one of the worst. I didn’t expect anyone else to be at that haunted house. So the group of kids was a surprise. I wanted to warn them about the danger … but chaos erupted before I could.

And there, between all the madness of fleeing children, a little girl stood in the dark, wounded but unbroken — braver than I’ve ever been. Our eyes met, and something in me eased. Like pain recognizing its opposite. And for the first time in a year … I felt something.

Maybe that’s where the attraction lies. The fact that she somehow makes it hurt less. For some reason, she’s the only one who can.

“It was great. We saw so many things. I’m really glad we did it,” she says, her voice floating through the noise.

So am I.

Distance did what chaos never could — it forced me to sit alone with my wreckage. I cracked myself open, poked at the broken parts, tried to decide which ones could be fixed and which ones were just … me.

It wasn’t pretty. No montage. No enlightenment glow. Just blood, grit, and hard truths.

But I know now.

Actually … I’ve always known — I was just too much of a coward to admit it.

But now I’m done waiting.

For her, I’ll break every rule I ever wrote to keep myself safe. I’ll walk straight into hell, shake hands with my demons, and dare them to try me.

I’ll protect her from anything.

The only thing I don’t know is — who the hell is going to protect me?

Jackson joins me. Too close. Too sharp. He leans onto the table next to me, his eyes fixed on the same spot as mine … his sister.

Fuck.

I down my drink.

But wanting something and getting it are two very different beasts — and right there lies the motherfucking problem.

This isn’t a simple grab-and-go situation. It’s fragile. Complicated. Booby-trapped. One wrong move and everything detonates in my face.

I’ll have to gamble. Big time.

I sneak a sideways glance at the man next to me, the corner of my mouth twitching.

Yeah … I might survive this. Technically. But there’s no universe in which I walk away without serious bodily harm. Not with a brother like him. Broken ribs at best. A funeral at worst.

Her curse.

I almost laugh into my glass.

I started that shit. Thought I was clever. Thought I was untouchable. Now I’m about to step right into it, arms open, and Jackson will be more than happy to personally make sure the legend lives on.

Karma is a bitch they say. Turns out she’s also incredibly patient.

I roll the glass between my fingers, the coolness grounding me, the burn of alcohol settling low in my gut. The room hums around me — laughter, music, life — while everything inside me goes eerily still.

I can still back out. I won’t.

This is it. The line in the sand. The moment that decides whether I keep hiding or finally go all in.

Hell, it took me an entire bloody decade to get here — weighing it, doubting it, tearing myself apart until I was absolutely, undeniably sure.

And now I am.

I lift my glass, take a slow drink, and set it down with quiet resolve.

Now or never.

“What’s wrong with you lately?” His blue eyes don’t just look at me — they dissect. Like scalpels, peeling back layers, I work damn hard to keep sealed.

Jackson has always been like that. Human lie detector. Bloodhound for bullshit. Nobody hides anything from him for long.

Except … this time I have to.

I drop my gaze, studying the floor like it might offer answers. My jaw tightens. I need to say something — anything — before silence rats me out. But my brain is doing laps, tripping over landmines.

Because I can’t say the truth.

I can’t say I’m thinking about breaking the rules. My rules. The ones that keep me sane. The ones that keep me breathing.

And I definitely can’t say I’m thinking about fucking your sister — or that my self-control is hanging on by a frayed thread with her name stitched into it.

“Are you still rattled by the accident?” he asks, eyes never leaving my face.

No.