Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 169

Nate’s head jerks up at the sound of my voice, eyes going wide, relief and disbelief all tangled in one.

“Jax,” he breathes, like I’ve just stepped out of some damn miracle. “Oh, thank God!”

“Shut him up,” one of the guys growls, jerking Nate’s arm hard enough to make him wince.

The one with the snake tattoo straightens and starts toward me, heavy boots crunching against gravel. He stops a few feet away, tilts his head, eyes raking me over.

“And who the fuck are you supposed to be?” he asks, voice all poison-slick amusement. “Nate’s guardian angel?”

I glance past him to where the other two have Nate pinned against the car. His hands are up, his voice breaking as he tries to talk himself out of this. I sigh through my nose, turn back to the tattooed one.

“Let him go,” I repeat.

He chuckles, dragging his tongue over his teeth. “That so? You planning to make me?”

“Don't test me,” I tell him, “...or I'll break you down so small no one will find the pieces.”

He laughs harder, nudges my chest with two fingers. I feel my pulse crawl up my throat, my hands curling loose and ready at my sides. Behind him, one of the others snorts. “He’s got a mouth on him.”

The tattooed one smirks again, taking a step closer, too close. “You sure you wanna play hero, tough guy? Cause this is how people end up face-first on the curb.”

I glance at Nate. He’s watching me, silently pleading.

“Last fucking time I'm saying this,” I say, my voice quiet. “Let him go.”

His smile only widens, and then his hand is on my chest, pushing...testing.

And that’s it, the shove is enough. The calm cracks, and I move. I grab his wrist, twist hard, step in close and drive my elbow into his jaw. He staggers back, spitting blood, and his friends drop Nate immediately. The next one swings at me, a wild, clumsy punch...I catch his arm, ram my knee up into his ribs. He chokes out a pained sound and I shove him into the car door.

The third comes at me fast, the biggest of them, fury all over his face. He tackles me, sends us both crashing against the side of the building. The first hit lands before I even register. A hard right to the jaw that spins me halfway around and lights up the left side of my face. I stumble, spit blood, and before I can regain footing, another fist buries itself in my ribs.

Air leaves my lungs in a sharp grunt. I catch myself on instinct, but they’re already closing in.

Three against one. Not exactly fair...

The second guy grabs the collar of my jacket, jerks me forward, and drives his knee into my gut. I feel it deep, like a punch from the inside out. He’s laughing as I drop down. I slam an elbow into his side. He grunts, but the one behind me takes advantage, fists tangled in my hair as he yanks me backward and rams me into the side of the building.

Nate’s shouting something...“Stop! He’s not part of this!”....but nobody listens. One of them strides to him and backhands him across the face so hard his head whips sideways. That sound...skin on skin, that raw slap, snaps something loose in me.

“Still think you’re some kind of hero, huh?” one of them taunts. He crouches to grab my collar again, but I catch his wrist, twist until I hear something pop. His scream breaks the rhythm. I shove him off, lunge to my feet.

Blood trickles from somewhere near my eyebrow, maybe my lip too. Doesn’t matter.

I catch one of them by the throat, slam him into the car door. The other charges, and I duck, fist connecting with his stomach. He wheezes, crumples, and the third one tries for a cheap shot to my back, but Nate tackles him mid-swing, yelling something half-coherent.

I grab the one nearest and shove him down, land another hit....this one with all the weight of the last few minutes behind it. I’m breathing hard now, pulse roaring in my ears. The tattooed one wipes his mouth, blood smeared across his knuckles. “You’re dead,” he spits, voice trembling with rage. I drive my knee into his ribs, and then suddenly the sound that cuts through the air isn’t his breath leaving him, it’s the cold, unmistakable click of metal.

I freeze.

There’s a gun in my face.

The world shrinks to that small, black circle, the air around it thick and still. For a beat, there’s nothing else, just that weapon, and the smug half-grin behind it.

I’ve stared down a barrel before. Back then, it didn’t mean a damn thing. Back then, there wasn’t anything to lose.

But now....

Now, there’s Xander.

His face floods my mind like light in a locked room, those eyes, the way his voice goes soft when he says my name. His warmth still clings to me from this morning, the faint smell of his skin that lingered from his shirt. The thought of him flickers like a heartbeat, and just like that, the fight drains out of me.

I let the guy go. My hands hover midair as I step back, eyes locked on the weapon.

The one with the gun laughs, lazy and mean. “What’s the matter, tough guy? You were all fists a second ago.” He tilts the gun slightly, like it’s part of the conversation.

The one I’d dropped groans and pushes himself up, clutching his stomach.

Then voices. Laughter, footsteps from the apartment entrance. A group of teenagers stepping out, maybe heading somewhere. They freeze the second they see the gun. One girl screams, they scatter instantly, back through the entrance.

“Put the damn thing away!” one of the other guys snaps at the gunman, shoving his arm down. “You trying to make this worse? They’ll probably call the cops!”

The gunman glares but lowers it, though his eyes stay fixed on me. Then he sneers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Nate scrambles over to my side like a kid who just remembered how to be brave. The one who had the gun doesn't wait for words. He moves, a casual, comfortable menace in the way he reaches for Nate's arm.

The quiet, mean-eyed one watches for half a beat, then lifts his hand in the kind of dismissive, patient gesture that proves he's not in a rush. “Let him be,” he says, and it sounds like the sort of sentence you say before you close a trap. He doesn't raise his voice.

The one who grabbed Nate sneers, knuckles whitening. “What do we tell Carlo? You gonna tell him we pulled up and let his prize just stroll off?”

“We tell Carlo we found him, he ran....but we'll get him again. Makes the hunt sweeter next time.” His words are a slow knife.

The gunman points two fingers at Nate, then at me, like a promise, but doesn't say anything. They pile into the car, doors slamming. Tires screech, burning rubber as they peel out, the sound echoing down the street until it fades into silence.