Page 5 of A Sinful Gravity

All I wanted now was to get the hell out of this nauseating place.

Chapter Two

Cassian

The first thing I felt when I woke up was the ache in my neck.

Not the usual stiffness from bad sleep, but a dull burn from muscles locked in the wrong angle too long, shooting from my right cervical down to my shoulder blade. Every twitch reminded me I'd crashed out somewhere I didn't belong.

My vision blurred, but the scent hit me first. Wrong, not Luna's cool, forest-dew freshness.

I bolted upright. Sloane nestled against me, her usually buttoned-up silk blouse a total mess.

My brain kicked into gear, memories flooding back like a tide. Then the heart-stopping one hit: Luna had been here!

Lately, being around Luna made me want to bolt, so even knowing it was our third anniversary, I wrapped up work, cracked open a whiskey at my desk, and didn't say no when Sloane asked to join.

But what the fuck was this? Why were we tangled up? Why was my shirt smeared with lipstick and reeking of something off?

I stood, spotting the familiar thermos on the floor, the one Luna used for soups. Shattered now, liner busted out, pale broth pooling in an ugly stain.

More memories crashed in, and now my head pounded right along with my neck.

"Sloane Reed!" I finally barked.

"Cassian... you're up?" Sloane jerked awake, her voice all hungover seduction.

I ignored her, shoved her off, and stalked to the mirror. The guy staring back had wild hair, a crooked tie, and a glaring red mark on his collarbone like a slap. I smirked bitterly. Nice one, Cassian.

At least my pants felt normal—no evidence I'd turned into a blackout asshole.

"Explain this shit," I said to my reflection, voice ice-cold, even to me.

"Sorry, Cassian..." Sloane froze, then started sobbing, words breaking. "We got wasted last night. I just split with my ex, I was a mess... I thought you were him. I swear, I didn't mean..."

Tears streamed, not whiny but genuinely wrecked. She held back, but her voice trembled just enough to make yelling impossible.

I spun around. Her tears didn't douse my rage. They fueled it. I hated losing control, hated this soap-opera bullshit from a few drinks.

"Enough, Sloane." I cut her off, no warmth in my tone. "Get dressed and get out. Vanish."

Watching her scramble out, pathetic, I felt zero pity. All I could picture was Luna smashing that thermos, staggering off like I'd gut-punched her after my cold words.

She left. No call, no text, nothing but spilled soup and that crash—a sound she'd never make.

Luna Crawford kept herself buttoned up tight. No tantrums, no slamming doors, no public meltdowns. She locked her emotions down where she controlled them.

That smash? Her breaking point.

And me? Shitfaced, thinking it was a dream, passing out again.

I chugged a glass of water from the desk, the cold snapping back some clarity, but irritation surged in its wake.

I slammed the glass down, straightened up, tossed the disgusting shirt in the trash, and stormed out.

In the car, my phone lit up. I grabbed it. Junk notification. Still nothing from her.

My hand shook on the phone, not from the hangover, but a raw panic I'd never felt.