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His mate’s broken body was limp, hair streaming like a bloody banner under him.
“Nix, I love you.”
“Love you too . . . angel. Wait for me.”
Nix’s eyes closed, and he drew a deep breath—
And Noah pushed his palms out, flinging his mate, his one true love, into the fire. In horror, he watched Nix’s body ignite, mouth open in a soundless scream.
But Noah’s screams weren’t soundless. They went on and on as hands dragged him backward, keeping him from joining his mate on the other side.
“No! Nooo!”
“Kalen! Is Kalen conscious? Get him over here!”
“Nix! Phoenix!” Noah thrashed, the horror of what he’d done completely overtaking him. He was lost to it, a deep well dragging him under.
Then Kalen was there, battered and grim. Waving a hand over his face. “Sleep.”
And he did. For a long, long time.
7
Three months.
Twelve weeks of pure unfettered hell on Earth.
Noah couldn’t keep food down. Couldn’t sleep. After the first two weeks spent basically in a medically induced stupor to keep him from screaming, Noah had promised to be quiet. He’d been as good as his word.
He hadn’t spoken since. Not to anyone.
Especially not to Melina. The one who’d given Nix drugs to prevent their mating.
Mackenzie tried to comfort him, explaining that if they had completed their mating, the bond might have suffered irreparable damage when Nix died. But she didn’t actually know, so Noah ignored her.
Nothing mattered now, because Nick had been wrong. No, not Nick. He, Noah, had made the wrong choice.
He’d murdered his own mate on the off chance that some crazy old witch knew what the fuck she was yammering about.
And now he was doomed to be alone forever. He couldn’t live without Nix. Couldn’t live with what he’d done.
Especially with Jinn, drinking his blood. Almost giving in to temptation. The black tar on his bond with Nix was gone now—but the bond was dry as dust. Dead. A shriveled vine leading nowhere, like his heart.
Burying his face in Nix’s pillow, he cried himself dry for the last time. Then he calmly slid out of bed and sat on the floor. He reached underneath the bed and pulled out the metal box he’d found last week. He lifted the lid. Took out the Glock that was nestled inside.
Loaded the cartridge. One in the chamber.
One was all he needed.
Stop! Wait for me, baby.
Noah shook his head, and stood. Must be going crazy. Finally. Not that it mattered.
Shoving the gun in his waistband, he pulled the hem of his shirt over it and left the room. Something he hadn’t done much of lately and gained him too much attention for his liking now. But he guessed it was closure of sorts. He was sure everyone would understand.
Would any of them deny they’d do the same, in his position?
A few of his friends said hello, and he managed small smiles and some simple answers. Brief, polite talk that meant nothing, but made them happy because they thought he was finally healing.
