Page 114 of Chasing Ruin
I saw what he was. What that kind of unchecked violence turned into. And I wanted no part of it. Never wanted to become him.
So I worked at it, hard. Hard enough that by twenty-three, I was patched in as VP—controlled and reliable. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
Because the instincts never fully left. They just dulled to a point where I could clock the beginnings of my violent haze and control it.
I tried to bury those instincts deep. Deep enough that I became complacent over the years. But I slowly realized that certain things could still reach them. Slip past that control I thought I’d honed.
Like the way my club brother’s fifteen-year-oldsister used to look at me. She was way too fucking young. Watching me with those wide, sheepish eyes that didn’t know what they were asking for.
The way she’d wear things that showed too much skin around a brotherhood full of men who were far too old to be looking.
God. The day she hit eighteen, her advances became blatantly public and disruptive. But she didn’t stop, even after I told her to. More than once.
At the time, I’d somehow managed to look away long enough to believe that she wasn’t looking my way. Then the urge to confirm whether she was would take over.
Even worse, there was anger that would rise in me when I’d notice her absence every now and then. Anger at myself for even noticing.
Then all my conditioning fucking failed me.
I remember the moment I found a nineteen-year-old Charlotte, naked in my bed. But her body is a blur.
I can picture my hand on her throat, even the terror swimming in her eyes. But my words are muddled.
I remember dragging her out like the fuming bastard I was, but her whimpering protests barely registered as the feeble vibrations against my palm.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Desperately trying to grasp at my own words through the dazed flashes.
I remember it being the milder version of rage that had taken over me. And eventhatwas enough to cause enough wreckage to last her a lifetime.
Had I said that? Had I actually forbidden her from saying my fucking name?
Fucking hell!
A memory resurfaces from a few hours ago. When we talked about giving Ryder a nickname like she had been giving me.
‘He doesn’t need one. Only you do.’
Yes. Because my name probably tastes like acid in her mouth.
What the fuck have I done? No wonder she doesn’t believe me.
All those useless attempts at telling her I love her—how the hell are they supposed to stand againstthat? Against the weight of everything I did?
The past doesn’t loosen its grip just because I want it to. It clings. It colors every word I say now.
I haven’t had one of those rage-blackouts in years. Not since she left two years ago. Not one.
Every decision I’ve made since then—every step, every reaction—has been shadowed by her. By the way I didn’t pause. Didn’t question. Didn’t think.
I’ve spent two years forcing myself to do what I never did for her—hesitate. Consider. Doubt my own judgment. Somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough.
A phantom grip tightens around my chest, making it hard to breathe.
She must see something on my face, because the next thing I know, she’s pushing herself off the couch—unsteady, swaying just a little.
Her gaze flicks to the clock on the TV console.
1:37 a.m.
