Without a doubt, I know Stella is saying this to comfort both me and herself. It is a comfort imagining Maddy with Jerry. Or it would be if my mind stuck on that, but it twists and turns with cold fear. I think of Maddy’s pain. So many years of suffering alone because she lost the one she loved the most. Every time I visited Maddy, I saw the wistfulness in her eyes, noticed the way she turned every conversation back to her beloved husband. How did she do it? How did she go on after her other half had died?

I feel sick down to my brittle bones and terrified heart. Everything ends. Love dies. In the end, I’ll be alone, and there isn’t a thing I can do to stop it.

Stella lifts her head to meet my eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, though. The walls are closing in on me, shadows swarming on the edges of my mind. I know those shadows, this feeling. For years, I’ve tried to repress this fear when it arrives, but I’ve never been able to fully holster it. And for the first time in a long while, I’m scared. Because nothing good ever comes when I lose control.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

John

* * *

I’m freezing. There’s a nasty beast sitting on my chest, digging its claws in deep. Ripping, pushing, relentless. Sweat slides down my skin. Can’t stop shivering. Everything is black and spinning. I want to shout out, but I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. It’s too heavy. Too much.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The words circle around the drain, swirling and falling. I can’t get them out.

I don’t want this. I never wanted this.

Acid burns my throat, coats the back of my tongue with bitter regret.

I never really wanted this. Not this.

Loneliness is agony. Sobs well up but there’s no strength in me to set them free.

And a hand, warm and big on my shoulder. Human. Familiar.

“Jax! Oh, shit. Jax.” The hand shakes me, arms pull me close. “Fuck, no. John. John!”

Killian. He’s screaming for me. Screaming at me. I can’t let him down. I can’t hurt him. But it’s so hard to open my eyes. I’m tired of everything being so hard. I’m slipping …

My eyes snap open with my gasp. Naked and bathed in sweat, I’m in my bed. I suck in several deep breaths, trying to get hold of my panic. Beside me, Stella is warm and soft and sleeping. She looks like peace and happiness. Everything within me yearns to fall back and wrap myself around her. Hold on tight and never let go.

She’ll know you’re scared and panicking again. What woman wants that in a man? You should be strong for her. She’ll be your new crutch. She can’t fix you.

Clutching the sides of my head, I try to squeeze the thoughts out. But they keep circling that drain. Always circling. Always there.

Can’t breathe.

Maddy is dead.

One day, Stella will be dead too.

Bile surges up my throat. Scrambling, I rush to the bathroom and barely make it on time. And it feels as though everything I am is being purged. I’m losing myself again. All that’s left is an empty hole.

I hate this. I hate finding myself on the floor, a shell of what I was. Or maybe that’s what I really am—a shell that I’m desperately trying to fill up with something good and pure. But it doesn’t work. Not for long. And I’m back to being that empty vessel.

I haven’t been here, huddled on the bathroom floor, for a while. Not since that dark day. Now I’m back, and I know what caused it.

Stella.

Loving Stella.

I’ll fuck it up eventually. One way or another, she’ll leave. And there will be no coming back from it. She’ll argue that. She’ll want to fix me. But she can’t. I don’t want her to. I don’t want her seeing me as broken.

God, I need to get away. Go back to how things were. Numb. I need to be numb again.

Stella

* * *

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. Strange how I know that before I’m fully awake. I feel it in my bones, in the heavy dread that weighs down my insides. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I find myself alone in bed, John’s side rumpled and empty.

In a weird fog, I pull on his discarded T-shirt and my lounge pants. The room is dim, the drapes still drawn, but the clock says it’s almost noon.

“John?”

He isn’t in the bathroom.

“Babe?” My steps shuffle as I head out of the bedroom and into the hall. The loft is quiet. Too quiet.

I won’t panic; it won’t help and it feels disloyal to worry. I find him in the music room, huddled between a row of guitars. Wearing a pair of sweats and nothing else, he’s curled in on himself, his back pressed against the wall. He doesn’t look up when I draw near.

“Baby?” I kneel next to him. “What’s going on?”

His arm is cold and clammy, and he flinches at my touch. He looks right at me, but his focus is off, like his thoughts have fled elsewhere.

“John.” I rest my hand on his arm. “Baby, look at me.”

His eyes finally meet mine. There’s so much pain reflected back at me. Pain and panic.

“Take a deep breath,” I tell him. John simply stares, panting and wide-eyed, and I stroke his arm. “For me?”

Slowly, he draws in a breath, then lets it out. He keeps doing it, slowly in and out, as I hold onto his hand.

“Is there anyone you want me to call?” I ask when his color returns a little.

“No.” His fingers clench and unclench. “There is no one.”

God, his hair is damp with sweat. He shivers a little before tensing. There’s a throw on the armchair, and I grab it to wrap around John’s shoulders. He lets me. Then again, he doesn’t seem to notice what I’m doing.

“I don’t like this.” The tone of his voice is so hollow, he doesn’t sound like himself.

“What don’t you like?” I ask softly.

His gaze slides away.

“This,” he says through clenched teeth. “I don’t like this … feeling.”

“What are you feeling?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t like feeling.”

“John.” I stroke his arm. “You’re not making sense. Let me call your doctor—”

“Don’t touch me.” With a snarl, he shakes off my hand. I can only gape, my heart pounding hard and fast as he glares. “Don’t. Patronize. Me.”

“I’m not.” My butt hits the ground as he stands and stalks away. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need help,” he snaps, pacing. “I’m not a project.”

I stand too. “I never said you were. But something is obviously upsetting you, and I want to …”

“Help?” he cuts in dryly.

Heat swamps my chest and runs over my cheeks. “What’s wrong with helping? What would you do if you found me curled up on the floor? Ignore it?”

“But I wouldn’t find you like that.” He runs a hand through his damp hair and then flings his arm wide. “You wouldn’t have a panic attack after having a dream.”

“I might. Depends on the dream.”

John doesn’t reply but folds in on himself, his body so tense he trembles.

“Have you gone to see Dr. Allen lately?”

He snorts. For a second, I don’t recognize him; he’s too full of anger and disdain—for me.

“You know damn well I haven’t,” he bites out. “When I’ve spent every minute I have with you.”