Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 170

Nate opens his mouth, probably to explain, to spin some desperate half-truth, but I cut him off before he can make a sound.

“Save it,” I bite out. My voice scrapes the air. He freezes, eyes darting, guilt and panic all over his face. I glare at him, one arm wrapped tight around my ribs, it hurts to breathe, to move...to think. “I want you fucking gone,” I say, each word a hit of venom in my mouth. “Ten minutes. Grab your shit and get the fuck out.”

He tries again, “Jax, I—”

“I said out.”

I step back into the building and hit the elevator button without looking at the numbers. A beat later Nate slides in as well. He stands there like he’s trying to decide which version of himself to be and then he blurts it, quiet and urgent, “Jax, I’m sorry. I got mixed up—”

I cut him off before he can finish the apology, because I don’t want it. “I don’t give a shit.” The words come out cold, he looks away, jaw working.

When the lift gets to my floor I move first, impatient, and he follows like a guilty echo. I don’t slow down until I’m at my door. I swing it open and face him, flat and hard. “Ten minutes,” I tell him. My voice doesn’t leave room for bargaining. “Get your shit and get the fuck out. If you’re still here after that, I’ll drag you out myself.”

I turn on my heel and walk down the hall to my room.

I shove the bathroom door shut and the apartment sounds like a held breath. I stare at myself in the mirror until the reflection blurs. There's bruises already blooming along my jaw, cheekbones and temple. I run a hand through my hair and the movement stings, a hot, electric pulse. I'm suffocating and it's not even about the fight, my chest tightens at the thought of Xander seeing me like this.

He’s waiting to see me at lunch. Today was supposed to be clean, the kind of day that makes you forget how to be careful. We had light plans, stupid plans where we were both just going to exist in the same place and that would be enough. Now I'm standing here feeling less like the person who can give and take a punch and more like the one who has to hide the aftermath from the one person he finally wants to keep.

I pace because standing still lets the frustration swell. The truth is I'd been craving The Pit the way a drowning man wants water. There, when the blows come, the rest of the world simplifies into sensation. It’s a ritual that erases everything else, that turns panic into something I can measure in hits and breaths. I’ve been fighting that urge for Xander, because he hates it, because he deserves a life that isn’t spent counting the hours until I return from bleeding.

So was this a gift or a fucking test?!

Did the universe hand me this because I kept bottling the itch down for him, as if punishment will teach me to stop needing what I need? Or was it a perverse offer.... you want a fight, here’s one free of charge, take it and see what you lose?

I taste irony and copper and some small shame. I wanted to be the version of myself that could put this fucked up violence away for good, to be someone Xander deserved. I wanted to prove that I could suffer through the itch, that I could let the chaos rot at the edges while I built something quiet and real next to him.

But the truth is rawer, I’ve been good at surviving. I’ve been horrendously practiced at it. Letting go is a different muscle, it aches in me the way a pulled tendon aches. I thought I could train it for Xander. I thought refusing the noise would be enough to prove my devotion.

And then the world hands me a reminder that sometimes not-surfacing isn’t a victory. Deep down, I'm the same fucked up person I've always been.

I scrub my face under cold water until my shoulders shake and the skin puckers. I press a towel to my jaw to stop the sting and think of how Xander will blink when he sees me. I take one last look in the mirror. The bruise is already there, blackening like a small betrayal. I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half broken prayer.

Then I head back to the bedroom and sink onto the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. The quiet is sharp, Nate’s door slamming shut, his footsteps fading down the hall, then gone. I should’ve done that ages ago. Should’ve kicked him out before things turned into...this.

I think about texting Xander that I can’t make lunch. That’s all it would take. But then I picture his face...brows pulling together, that slow inhale before he asks why. Xander doesn’t exactly do surface-level. He digs until there’s nothing left to hide behind.

And if I lie, he’ll know.

If I tell the truth, he’ll come running.

The thought of him showing up at my door makes something in my chest twist. I curse under my breath, drag a hand down my face.

I’ve never loved anyone like this. Never had my hands shake at the thought of someone’s name. Never had my heart drag its heels like it’s carrying chains just because I can’t stand the thought of hurting someone. I always thought love was supposed to be a fire, a rush, a high that burns fast and clean. Not this slow, suffocating tide that creeps into my chest and threatens to drown me with how much it matters.

I’ve never been this terrified either, terrified that love might not save me, but break me instead. That all the jagged parts of me I’ve hidden and starved and fought to keep buried will cut their way to the surface and tear through what we’ve built. That he’ll look at me one day, see every crack I’ve tried to seal, and finally decide I’m too much.

But even with that fear, even with my body bruised and my head full of noise, the truth’s still there, heavy and solid in my gut.... I can’t run from him. I don’t want to.

So I’ll go, I’ll show up.

I’ll stand in front of him and tell him what happened, pray he doesn’t flinch when he sees what’s left of me.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all this chaos, it’s that silence feels different when he’s in the room. It isn’t emptiness, it’s something like peace. And God, I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything.