Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 168

I’ve got Xander’s t-shirt in my hand, the one he slept in last night....soft and worn in that way that always feels a little too intimate for something made of cotton. I stand there for a second, just staring at it like it might tell me something new about him, and then I bring it to my face before I can stop myself.

It smells like him ...soap, skin, the faintest trace of whatever cologne he swears he doesn’t wear. I breathe it in once and my chest tightens. I catch myself, laugh quietly, and shake my head like that’ll knock some sense back in. “I’ve fucking lost it,” I mutter, and toss the shirt into the washing machine with the rest.

Once that’s done, I wander into the kitchen. The place feels too still, so I decide to cook. Something that reheats well. Baked chicken with garlic butter potatoes and roasted vegetables sounds good. Something I’ll plate up for both of us for dinner tonight.

I start pulling out ingredients, until I realize I’m out of thyme and olive oil. I stare at the empty spot in the cabinet for a second, sighing. Guess that means a trip to the store. But I don’t mind. Honestly, I welcome it. It’s something else to do....a reason to get out, a reason not to sit here counting the hours till lunch. Every minute I keep busy is a minute I’m not wondering if Xander’s okay, or replaying the way he smiled at me before he walked into Zig’s.

The elevator hums on the way down, I’m halfway lost in my head when my phone pings. I pull it out automatically.

x.devereauxx just posted.

My thumb moves before my brain does. Two in one day isn't like him. If it’s another shirtless mirror selfie just to mess with me—

The post loads.

And just like that, my frown dissolves into a slow, reluctant grin. He’s at work, standing in front of the big mirror clients use to check their tattoos, in that fitted t-shirt that clings just right, his hair a little messy. The caption reads....

“*Boyfriend says its's fully clothed selfies from now on. Compromise....sleeves rolled up.*”

I huff out a laugh that echoes in the empty elevator. My lips curve before I can stop them. I double-tap, watch the little heart flare red, then shove the phone back in my pocket. It lasts maybe five seconds before I pull it out again, scroll back to the post, and type....

“*Boyfriend approves*.”

It’s ridiculous how wide I’m smiling at a screen. I keep scrolling through the flood of sad comments, half of them mourning the loss of shirtless content and the rest crying about how their favorite single tattoo artist is officially off the market. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. I step out, still reading, still smiling like an idiot...then I hear it.

A voice. Familiar and strained. My head jerks up.

Nate.

I shift my stance, craning my neck past the concrete column by the exit until I catch sight of him, just a few feet away on the sidewalk. And my stomach tightens. Three guys surround him. Big ones. There’s a black car parked at the curb, doors open.

One of the guys says, “Come on, man. Boss just wants to talk.” His tone’s the kind that hides a threat behind a smile. Nate’s shaking his head, hands raised slightly, trying for nonchalance that doesn’t stick. “Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me. I’ve seen the movies. That line never ends well.”

His voice wavers, light on the surface, tight underneath. Fear dressed up as wit. And I can already feel my pulse changing, that deep, dark rhythm starting to climb back up my spine.

The one in the middle...tall, bald, with a snake tattoo curling up his neck, leans forward just enough to make Nate flinch.

“Nate,” he says, low and even. “You know how this looks, right? You don’t just dip on Carlo and think it slides.”

Nate tries to keep his tone easy. “I didn’t dip, man. I told him I’d pay it back. I just...things got messy in L.A., that’s all. I got busted, lost some time. But I’m back on it, alright? I’m working on it.”

The bald guy laughs....a short, sharp sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Working on it? You been working on it for three months. You think Carlo buys that?” He turns to one of the others, a thick guy with sunglasses hooked to his shirt. “You hear this shit? Says he’s working on it.”

The guy cracks his neck. “Only thing he’s working on is getting himself buried, far as I can tell.”

Nate shakes his head quickly, steps back till his shoulders almost hit the car door. “Look, I just need a week, alright? I’ve got something lined up, guy in Vegas owes me big. I get that payout, Carlo gets his cut, and we’re square.”

The third one, quieter but meaner-looking, folds his arms. “Heard that before. Carlo’s tired of stories, Nate. Now get in the damn car.”

Nate’s voice cracks just slightly. “You can tell him I’m making good. He knows me, man. He knows I wouldn’t—”

Snake tattoo steps closer, hand landing heavy on Nate’s shoulder. “You already did. You ran. You took his money and you fucking ran. That’s the kind of thing that gets your legs broken, not a second chance.”

His grip on Nate’s shoulder tightens, voice smooth and cruel.

“You know how much it took to track your ass all the way down here? Flights, calls, a few broken noses? Carlo’s personally invested now. You should feel honored.”

Sunglasses chuckles, all mocking. “You were good, I’ll give you that. That bank job in Phoenix? Fucking clean! Carlo said he hadn’t seen skills like yours since....hell, since before you were born. Shame you had to fuck it up with that ego of yours.”

The quiet one adds, “Good thieves get paid. Great thieves stay loyal. You? You don’t get to be either.”

I stand frozen, knuckles white around my phone, watching Nate’s breath come short and panicked. I knew he’d be trouble from the start, him and his brothers always went all in, burned down everything they touched just to see how bright it would glow.

And Nate's just like them. All charm and chaos wrapped up in a grin that pretends it doesn’t know better. I tell myself I’m staying out of it. Whatever’s coming to him, he earned it. I’m not getting involved.

Then the bald one punches him....hard. Nate stumbles, gasps, and they’re dragging him toward the car, his feet scraping asphalt. He tries to twist free, wild-eyed, a flash of fear masking his features.

And suddenly... Andrew's face flickers in my head, the way Nate used to toss out some stupid joke just to try and make him laugh. He liked Nate, was his favorite among the three. The ghost of it burns through me like a blade twisting.

I mutter a curse under my breath, shove the phone in my pocket, and start moving before I can think better of it. The sound of my boots hitting pavement is the only warning they get before I’m close enough to speak.

“Let him go,” I call out, voice low and steady, but it scrapes at the edges. Three heads turn toward me at once.