Page 141 of Manic

“Rest,” I said, reaching for his phone.

“No,” Manic clipped.

He immediately pulled back, though his hands shook, his breathing shallow. Eyes, wary and distant, held my own. He shook his head, blinking hard a second time as though he were having trouble focusing.

“I have to look,” he rasped. “I have to make sure…”

“Manic,” I said cautiously, and slowly reached for the phone again. This time, he let me take it. I tossed it on the bed behind me, then took his face in my hands. “We’re out. We made it out. No one is following us. Axell would have already called if they were following us. Okay?”

He exhaled sharply, his chest rising too fast as if our situation was just now setting in. Like the aftermath of a funeral, when the numbness wore off and emotions came crashing days later.

Manic shook his head again and rubbed a hand over his chest as if easing a bone deep ache.

“We’re safe,” I said. “It’s okay to rest.”

His breathing stuttered once, his composure cracking as he stared off. He swallowed, and my heart crumbled as twin tears tracked down his face. The man beneath all that violence slipped through, and I saw then, how much he’d forced down—how long he’d forced himself to stay composed. But the more he tried holding it together, the more I realized he was barely managing.

Manic, like me, had been trapped in an unrealistic situation with the mafia, always fighting for his life and never truly relaxing. Never truly grieving the loss he’d endured throughout the years.

How could he, if he was constantly looking over his shoulder? He never had a choice because he’d been stripped of it. If his father was leader of the Crimson Crowes, Manic’s duty was expected.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice flat.

He wasn’t anywhere close to fine, and he knew that just as much as I did. His hands twitched before he closed them.

“It’s okay if you aren’t,” I whispered. “It’s okay to sleep.”

A sharp, uneven breath tore from him.

One second he was standing, the next his knees hit the carpet in a dull, jarring thud. He said nothing, just… grabbed me. His arms wrapped around my waist, fingers digging into my back, as he pressed his face into my stomach.

I froze for a second, startled by the force before relaxing and threading my fingers through his unfamiliar black strands. His body wracked with a small tremor, a strained sound crawling up his throat.

His muffled cry hit my ears, and I stifled my own with a hand. My tears fell regardless. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to soothe the ache he carried. And so I held him as he let it out—years worth of trauma and violence and heartache. So much heartache.

“Talk to me,” I said, squeezing his shoulder.

He said nothing, only held me tighter.

I kneeled with my palm against his cheek, but he shook his head again. His gaze dropped to the floor, and my heart nearly stopped. Even if I didn’t know how, I wanted to take his pain—all of it.

His breaths steadied as the minutes passed. I reached for his hand, waiting until he was ready to finally speak. Then, still staring at the floor, his voice came cracked and broken.

“I never wanted to do any of it,” he admitted, clearing his throat, “but after Raven died, it was easier to bury it through violence. It was easier to give in. Raven was…” He exhaled slowly, his words carrying off.

“You don’t have to bury it anymore.” I squeezed his hand. “We’re free.”

“Not yet. Not until Axell⁠—”

“He’ll call,” I said, though my heart sank.

Fresh tears welled in my eyes as it all finally hit me. Manic had been ten when Raven died. Much like Grave, he’d been a child. As I gathered my composure and blinked my emotions away, I wondered what Manic had experienced in Russia while living by the rules of his cruel, heartless father.

“Will you tell me about Raven?” I asked softly.

Manic smiled weakly and nodded.

We stayed like that for an hour, sitting on the floor until Manic told me everything and exhaustion took over. When we finally rose to our feet, he gave me a gentle kiss, and we crawled into bed fully dressed.