Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 31

Eli starts talking....nothing heavy, just club banter. Where he works, what music he likes, a few jokes that land decently well. I laugh at the right places, smile, even touch his forearm once when I say something witty.

I'm good at this. This is my thing. I should want this.

But I can’t stop thinking about the press of his body behind mine. Jax’s breath at my neck. The way he held me like he was trying not to let something ugly break loose. I shouldn’t be thinking about that. I shouldn’t be comparing Eli’s lips to a mouth I only tasted a few times but already know I’d always crave again. I shouldn’t be hearing his voice in my head, low and possessive, saying my name like it fucking meant something.

I grip my glass tighter.

“Hey,” Eli says, tapping my arm gently. “Wanna dance?”

Maybe I do. Maybe I need to shake this off, sweat it out, lose myself in someone who isn’t chaos in human form.

“Yeah,” I say, standing. “Let’s dance.”

He leads the way and I follow. My heart’s not in it, not really, but I move my body like it is. He pulls me closer and I let him. I smile, flirt....pretend.

I won’t think about Jax.

Not about how he looked at me like I belonged to him. I lean into Eli’s neck, inhale the scent of his cologne, and close my eyes.

We’re a few drinks in when he starts swaying. He’s got that flushed, loose-limbed look....lips parted, eyes hazy, smile crooked. Lightweight. I bite back a laugh and steady him by his waist.

“You’ve had enough,” I murmur against his ear, but he just grins, draping himself over me like I’m a goddamn chaise lounge.

His mouth is on my neck before I can pull away. Wet, lingering. “We should get out of here,” he says, voice low. “Find somewhere more... private.”

I meet his gaze. His eyes are green, soft and earthy. Lovely, even. But they don’t pull. They don’t twist anything inside me. There’s no spark in my gut, no flame licking up my spine.

It’s starting to piss me off.

I want him to be enough. I want him to replace the wildfire in my head. Still, I don’t move. I could walk away, let this die before it starts. But that would be letting him win. Letting Jax crawl under my skin and stay there.

Maybe I just need a good, hard fuck to knock him loose. I slide my hand tighter around Eli’s waist and nod. “Let’s go.”

Then my phone buzzes in my pocket...

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I freeze. The air shifts. My pulse spikes. I know that feeling. I don’t want to look—I really, really don’t. But my fingers are already moving, digging out the phone like my body’s got a mind of its own.

Three messages.

All from him.

"If you leave with him, I’ll break his fucking jaw."

"Try me, Xander."

"You know I’m watching."

My stomach drops, ice-cold. I whip around, scanning the crowd. Nothing. Just strobe lights and strangers, shadows on shadows. But he’s here. I know he is. I can feel it, crawling over my skin like heat.

Eli touches my arm. “Everything good?”

I look at him, and all I see is Shawn—wide-eyed, cornered, scared. That night at Ritual. Jax’s hand around that broken bottle. The feral rage in his eyes.

The lunatic isn’t stable. He’s not bluffing. He’s never bluffing. And I’m not about to hand him another target.

I sigh and scrub a hand down my face. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I can’t,” I say, already pulling away. “I have to go.”

“Wait....Xander?”

I walk and don’t turn around.

The music swells behind me, people laughing and dancing like the world isn’t spinning off its axis. Like I’m not losing my goddamn mind over a man I shouldn’t want. I step out into the night, air sharp in my lungs, heart still pounding like a warning bell.

I instinctively glance toward the alley, half-expecting him to materialize like some smug shadow, all sharp grins and veiled threats. My nerves are taut, primed for his voice, for his hand closing around my arm, for something....anything. But the sidewalk is empty. The alley’s quiet. Just city noise, traffic hum, a drunk couple laughing across the street. No Jax. I linger a beat longer than I should, scanning rooftops like an idiot, before muttering under my breath and raising a hand for a cab. My pulse is still jittery when I slide into the back seat and rattle off my address.

Once home I push the front door shut harder than necessary and twist the lock until it clicks. The silence in my apartment hits different tonight...louder, heavier. I kick off my sneakers, toss my cap onto the entryway table, and drop my keys in the dish with a clatter that echoes down the hall.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.

My body feels tight, coiled, like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. I scrub my hands down my face, then drag them through my hair, tugging at the roots until my scalp stings. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

I walk into the living room and just stop there. The couch glares back at me like it knows something I don’t. I stare at it a second too long before collapsing into the cushions with a long, bitter exhale. I tilt my head back and close my eyes.

I’ve been letting him inch in, under the skin, under my radar. That smug, infuriating bastard.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. The screen lights up, and there it is. A new message.

"Good boy."

My jaw tightens. I stare at the words like they might rearrange themselves. Like they’ll suddenly say "Sorry for being a manipulative asshole," or "You’re right, let’s call whatever this is quits," or "Here’s a coupon for therapy."

But nope.

I laugh, sharp and humorless. The sound bounces off the walls.Then I type back:

"Fuck you."

I don’t wait for a response. I don’t even care if he’s seen it. I go straight to contacts, pull up his name and slam my thumb on 'Block this contact.'

There’s a brief moment of satisfaction. A blip of relief. But it’s swallowed quickly by that low-burning frustration that won’t leave me the hell alone.

I toss the phone on the coffee table with more force than necessary, then lean forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped tight in front of my mouth.

“I’m done,” I say aloud, just to hear it. “I’m fucking done.”

And I mean it.

Except a part of me still expects the knock on the door. A ping on the phone. I look around the apartment. Everything’s in its place. Neat. Still. The way I like it.

So why the hell does it feel like the room’s spinning?