Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 35

It's literally the next morning. And look at me.....already breaking my grand fucking vow like it expired at midnight.

I should feel shame, regret, maybe even guilt. Because last night I swore I was done.

And this morning...I remembered I’m a liar.

But mostly? I just feel pissed. At him. At myself. At this goddamn magnetic pull that drags me straight to the one person I swore off like a bad drug.

Last night was hell. Didn’t drink. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t do anything productive except stare at my ceiling. And that’s the thing. I can survive most shit. I’ve survived worse. But apparently ....Xander ignoring me?

That’s psychological warfare.

So yeah. I’m weak. Sue me. I hate being ignored more than I hate being wrong—and that’s saying something.

I step into the shop and my eyes go straight towards him. If I hesitate even a second, I might turn around and actually do the grown-up thing: stay the hell away.

But since when have I ever been accused of maturity?

He's watching me, I veer off at the last second and land right in front of Layla and that doctor she’s been circling with lately. She's tattooing some shit on his chest.

Without a word, I pull out my phone, snap a quick shot of them. It’s a perfect little moment. One Adam would just love to see.

“Did you just-” the guy asks, brows furrowed.

I don’t answer. Just flip the screen toward Layla like I’m auctioning off her soul.

“A hundred,” I say. “And I won’t send it. I'm feeling generous today.”

She blinks at me. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“Tell that to my wallet.”

She sighs, digs into her bag, and slaps a crumpled bill into my palm. I pocket it and finally head toward the reason I came.

But before I can make it two steps, Addy blows in like a caffeine-charged hurricane.

“Okay, whose sick bike is that parked out front?!”

She nearly crashes into me, tray of drinks wobbling, eyes wide when she sees my face.

“That yours?” she asks, pointing vaguely.

I don’t answer, instead I take a coffee off her tray and keep walking.

Xander’s at his station, expression pure venom. Good. I like when he’s riled up.

“So,” I say, voice low, casual, like I’m not seconds from spiraling. “We doing this here? Or you wanna take it somewhere with less sharp objects ?”

His eyes lock on mine. His jaw ticks once, then again. He doesn’t say a word. Just stands. Slowly. Like every inch he rises is a choice he’s about to regret.

But he does it anyway.

The whole shop seems to freeze, I can feel it, the quiet judgment, the speculation. Layla’s staring. Addy’s pretending not to, but she’s leaning forward like she’s about to narrate the scene.

Xander doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t have to. I know exactly what’s going through his head....the same thing that always hits when I get too close.

He doesn’t want them to know.

That he’s angry.

That he’s tempted.

That he fucking aches for it.

And I’ve pushed him right to that edge again. He brushes past me without a word, all muscle and restraint, and heads for the door. I follow, no hesitation.

As soon as we step out, his gaze drops straight to the bike like it offends him on a spiritual level.

He scoffs and shakes his head, “You’re such a cliché, Jax.”

He gestures at the handlebars like they insulted his ancestors. “Do you even like motorcycles, or do you just collect red flags for your reckless brand?”

I crack the smallest grin.

He notices. Scowls harder. “God, I hate that you think this is funny.”

I shrug.

It’s not funny. Not really. Not when he’s looking at me like this. Like he's genuinely done. He exhales, jaw tight. “You’re really fucking exhausting.”

Yeah. I know.

He folds his arms across his chest like that’s gonna shield him from me.

“I thought we were done with this,” he says.

“No,” I say, stepping in, my voice softer now. “You hoped we were.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

I grin. “You’ve said that before. Usually right before doing something you swore you'd never do again.”

He goes still at that. His fingers flex against his biceps, then fall. He looks away, jaw working, like he’s biting down on a scream or a secret.

His eyes flick toward the shop window, and his frown deepens. I follow his gaze. Addy’s peeking out, coffee raised to her lips, clearly watching like this is the morning entertainment special.

Xander sighs. “Say whatever you came to say so I can get back to work.”

I take a slow sip of my own coffee. “Not here.” I tip my head and start walking down the sidewalk.

He doesn’t follow immediately, and for a second, I think he might leave me hanging. But then I hear it...footsteps behind me. Measured, reluctant, but there.

I smile into my cup.

We walk in silence for a couple of minutes, the morning air cool and buzzing with distant traffic and birds. The kind of quiet that has weight to it.

He finally breaks it. “Where the fuck are we going, Jax?”

I don’t answer. Just take another turn, into a narrow alley between two buildings. No graffiti. Just a dumpster, cracked pavement and long shadows.

I stop. He stops too, eyes darting around like something’s clicking into place. Recognition hits, it's where he first saw me, two years ago. He looks at the brick wall, then back at me.

I step forward.

He raises a hand. “Don’t. I swear to God, Jax—you lay a hand on me, I will punch you in the throat.”

He means it. There’s a sharpness in his tone, that solid determination that wasn't there before. I hold his stare. The tension’s still here...alive and electric and fucking maddening, but something’s different. He’s not just mad. He’s done. Like, really done.

An unfamiliar sting creeps in under my skin.

I force a smirk. “And here I thought we had something special.”

“You thought wrong.”

I’m usually good at this. Push, pull, smirk.... claim. Chemistry does the rest. But now? I don’t know what the fuck to say. I didn’t come with a plan. I thought the tension would be enough. Thought he’d crack like he always does.

He won't.

“This the part where you beat the shit out of me?” he asks, flat but laced with that deep edge he does so well. “Because I blocked your number and bruised your ego?”

I raise a brow.

He smirks without humor. “Or is this just your thing? Dragging guys into alleys to throw a few punches or... whatever else you like pounding people for.”

Ouch.

I don’t answer. Mostly because I don’t trust what’ll come out. He looks too okay. Too composed. Like he slept through the night, like cutting me off was some self-care breakthrough.

I take a step forward without thinking. He doesn’t flinch. Just lifts a hand and shakes his head.

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp. Final. “I’m fucking serious, Jax. Don’t come any closer.”

He’s holding my stare, steady as hell, like he’s made peace with whatever decision he came to. There’s a finality in his gaze that I haven’t seen before.

I step forward again, slow. Testing.

“I’m not playing, Jax.”

“Is this because of that guy? From the park?”