Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 190

The sky’s clear, the kind that should make the world feel lighter. It fucking doesn’t. Not for me. I kill the engine and let the hum die out beneath me, the silence that follows is loud in my head. Xander slides off behind me, watching me with that too perceptive calm of his. I pull my helmet off, hold it between my legs on the bike. He hangs his on the handlebar, eyes on me. I meet them for half a heartbeat before looking away.

“Nice day,” I mutter, tone flat, already reaching to put the helmet back on.

“Giving me the silent treatment now?” he asks, voice even but carrying that edge, the kind that cuts because it sounds so damn patient. I look at him but nothing more.

He nods like he saw that coming. “What’re you gonna do today?”

I shrug, I want to bite back, say something I’ll regret before it even leaves my mouth. It’s a strange kind of fury....ugly and pointless. I don’t talk to him like that. I get angry, sure....but not cruel. Not with him. But something about him standing there, calm while I’m coming apart, makes every sharp thing in me want to reach for him and wound him in the same breath. He's the one person who’s ever made the noise in my head go quiet. Yet somehow, he’s also the one who keeps bringing it back, louder than ever. “I'll drop by Adam’s office for a bit.”

“Okay,” he says, stepping closer.

He shouldn’t. Not when I’m this close to unraveling. He moves like he always does, a quiet gravity in every step..... until he’s right there. Close enough that I can see the pulse in his throat. And all I want to do is grab him by his shirt, pull him in, feel his breath against mine until this ache in my chest finds somewhere to go. But instead I just grip the handlebar tighter, knuckles whitening.

He leans in, fingers brushing my jaw just enough to angle my face toward him. His touch burns. He studies me, eyes tracing the lines of my tension, and I know he sees it. The restrained frustration, the storm I’ve been trying to smother since that talk.

His brow furrows, a breath leaving him slow. He lets go, straightens and says, “You’re mad.”

It’s not a question.

I tell myself to keep quiet, to not feed it. But the words claw their way out anyway.

“Why would I be mad?” I ask as I hang my helmet on the handlebar beside his, deciding not to wear it. A small rebellion, because he hates that. “I’m fucking thrilled you’re trying to control me now.”

His eyes flash, just for a moment, before softening into that tired, hurt look that makes me want to apologize and yell at the same time. He shakes his head once. “Jax...” he says, quiet, like he’s saying it to himself.

I don’t give him a chance to follow it up. The engine roars back to life beneath me, a rough, angry sound that drowns out whatever else he might’ve said. I don’t look at him as I ride off, but I can feel him standing there in the mirror.... the weight of him trailing me down the street long after he’s gone from sight.

I park a few blocks down, engine cutting off with a rough growl. My hand lingers on the keys before I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over Adam’s contact. I ask if he’s at the office. His reply comes quick: *yeah, I'm in.*

I stare at the screen for a beat. Then my eyes drop to the helmet hanging off the handlebar. I mutter a curse, grab it and shove it on because I already know I’ll feel guilty later otherwise.

But then I ride like I used to. Like I’m trying to outrun something I already know rides with me.

By the time I pull up outside Adam’s building, my pulse is still wired high. The place looks busier than usual, people moving fast, voices overlapping. The elevator dings, doors sliding open to a floor I’ve seen too many times but never felt this restless in.

Adam’s by the bookshelf when I walk in. A couple of books tucked under his arm, one open in his hand. He turns at the sound of the door, gives me a quick once-over, eyes narrowing briefly before going back to his book.

“What’s with all the ruckus out there?” I ask, voice sharper than I intend.

“Hired a new team,” he says without looking up. “Getting a floor ready for them.”

I stride to the couch and sit, lasts two seconds before I stand again. My nerves are shot. I move to the window, stare out at the city sprawled beneath. My fist tightens at my side, itching for something to hit, the glass preferably. I turn away before I give in to it, pacing near the bookshelf.

Adam finally looks up, one brow lifting. “You’re gonna make me dizzy,” he says dryly.

I grind my teeth. “Didn’t ask you to watch.”

He glances at his watch, sets the book down, his tone even. “I’ve got a meeting outside the city in forty minutes, so whatever this is, get on with it.”

“Get on with what?!” I snap harshly before I can stop myself. His gaze cuts to me, I curse under my breath, drag a hand through my hair, tug hard enough that it stings.

He puts the books back on the shelf, movements unhurried, then walks over to his desk. Leans against the edge, crossing his arms, like he’s got all the time in the world. “Go on,” he says quietly, nodding toward me.

But I just stand there, breathing hard and trying not to come apart. I don’t even know where I’d start....hell, I don’t even know if I should. Maybe it’s better to just shut up and let it sit in my chest, chewing through the little calm I’ve got left. But the silence keeps pressing down on me, so I grind my teeth and pace again. My steps sound too loud in here. Adam’s office always feels too controlled. Like he breathes in measured counts.

“Tell me something,” I mutter finally, turning to him. “The whole couple’s therapy thing, whose idea was it?”

His brows pull together, slow confusion cutting through the usual calm. He looks up, voice steady. “Mine. Why?”

I scoff. “So she didn’t make you go? No ultimatums, no emotional gun to your damn head?” The words come out sharper than I mean them to, like I’m daring him to flinch.

He just shrugs, gives that small, maddening shake of his head. “No.”

My jaw ticks. Adam sighs softly, holds up a hand. “Jax. Stop pacing and sit down before you wear a trench through my floor.”

I glare, but he gestures toward the chair to his left like it’s not a suggestion. “Sit.”

My eyes drop to the chair, then back to him. He’s leaning on the edge of his desk, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the desk's edge. I let out a breath that tastes like venom and defeat, then drag myself toward the chair. The leather creaks as I drop into it, elbows on my knees, hands fisting and unfisting.

I can feel his eyes on me, assessing. Like he’s waiting for me to start tearing open whatever’s clawing under my skin.

But maybe I’ll just sit here and let it rot.

He doesn’t say anything at first either. Just studies me for a moment, then, too quietly...asks, “Xander?”

I give him a look that says ‘*who the hell else would it be?’*