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"Where we heading?" The driver's voice was as nondescript as his car's interior.
"Home," I muttered, barely registering his nod in the rearview mirror. Home, a place that now felt like a foreign concept, a word stripped of warmth and safety.
As the vehicle lurched forward, the city of Chicago unfolded before me, a tapestry of lights smearing together through tear-streaked eyes. Skyscrapers pierced the night sky, indifferent to my unraveling world. My thoughts were a cyclone of grief and fury, spinning out of control, each memory of Aria slicing through the eye of the storm.
Damn it, Aria. I pressed my forehead against the cool window. Why'd you have to go and leave me in this fucked-up world alone?
The driver, probably used to the drunken confessions of heartbreak, remained silent, his focus on the road. Good for him. I wasn't looking for a shrink; I just needed to survive the ride without completely losing my shit.
I blinked away the burn in my eyes, but the damn city wouldn't come into focus. Every traffic light bled into halos of red and green, mocking my desperate need for clarity. Like some kind of twisted Christmas display, they blinked at me: Stop. Go. Stop again. As if I had any real choice in the matter.
"Almost there," the driver announced, unaware that 'there' was less a location and more a fucking battleground of memories.
"Great," I replied, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. I tossed him a half-hearted thanks, and stepped out into the night's embrace.
The door to my apartment groaned in protest as I pushed it open, an eerie soundtrack to my return. The familiar scent of oil paint and turpentine hit me, but tonight, it reeked of loneliness. There, on the couch—the worn, comfy battlefield where Aria and I shared dreams—her absence hit me full force.
"God, we were just sitting here," I murmured, tracing the cushion's edge where her laughter once lived. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of my lips, a cruel reminder of the joy that had been ripped away.
I dropped onto the couch, its fabric still holding the indent of our last encounter, the last time normalcy had dared to visit. The echoes of our shared secrets and stupid jokes ricocheted off the walls, a haunting chorus that no amount of alcohol could drown out.
Tears. They betrayed me first, spilling over like traitors before I could even muster the pretense of being okay. My throat tightened with a cocktail of grief and rage so potent it could've burned holes through the damn couch.
My body shuddered with sobs that clawed their way up from some abyss I'd never known was there. Each one tore through me, leaving ragged edges where my composure used to be. The room spun around me, my vision a blur of shadow and regret. Every breath was an accusation, every heartbeat a reminder of what I'd lost—what had been taken from me.
The tears kept coming, an endless torrent carving rivers down my cheeks. I didn't bother wiping them away. What was the point? Their salty trails would just be replaced by fresh ones, and the effort seemed monumental when all I wanted was to curl into a ball and disappear.
Disappear like Aria had. Gone in an instant, her light snuffed out by that monster.
Rage simmered beneath my skin, waiting to boil over. It would have its turn, but for now, grief dominated. I clung to one of the throw pillows Aria had picked out, its embroidered flowers a stark contrast to the dark thoughts infecting my mind.
"I should have protected you," I whispered. The words echoed back, as hollow as I felt. "I should have known."
But how could I have possibly? None of us saw this coming. Not even Aria, with her relentless optimism and faith in people.
Faith. Such a useless thing. It hadn't saved her, or the others before. They were stupid to believe that light could conquer someone so steeped in darkness. I knew better now. The world was cruel, love a myth. The only truth was pain.
I released a fractured sigh and laid down, letting the couch swallow me. I wished it could make me disappear too, take me to wherever Aria had gone. But I couldn't escape. Her ghost would follow, those damned flowers a reminder of everything I'd lost.
So I cried until sleep took me under, too exhausted to fight it anymore. But even in sleep, there was no peace to be found. Not for me. Not yet.
Chapter 18
Nash
Iprowled the sterile hospital corridors like a shadow, my boots silent against the polished tiles. The goddamn place was a maze, but I'd become a ghost within these walls, invisible and vigilant. My eyes were sharp, darting left to right, hunting for anything out of place, any prick who might be looking for trouble.
"Keep it together, Nash," I muttered under my breath, each word laced with a toxic blend of acidic self-loathing. The night before had been a clusterfuck, a perfect storm of distraction that let some son of a bitch take an innocent life on my watch. While I was out there playing, someone slipped past me and now... now Aria was dead.
Fuck! The curse ricocheted inside my skull, a relentless echo of fury and guilt. How could I have screwed up so royally? I, the vampire vigilante of Chicago, had one job: to protect those society tossed aside like yesterday's trash. And what did I do? Let my mind wander to Celeste, her lips, her scent, her goddamned vulnerability that pulled at me.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory of her touch, the softness that threatened to shatter me. But there was no time for that bullshit sentimentality. I had to focus, had to remember why I was here, stalking these piss-white halls instead of tearing through the city's gutters, hunting the bastard who dared to spill blood on my turf.
"Never again," I swore into the hollow silence, the promise a blade drawn across my soul. I wouldn't fail another one of them. Not while this heart, cold and damned as it was, still beat within my chest.
And whoever had snuffed out that bright flame last night, they'd learn soon enough that Nash Rigby wasn't just a name whispered in fear-soaked alleys. No, I was fucking retribution with fangs, and hell itself wouldn't save them from me.
My strides were predatory, silent—a ghost haunting the white-washed halls. Each step was a silent drumbeat in the symphony of my rage.
