Chapter 1
Liam POV
My body is wrecked, screaming at me to stop, but stopping isn’t an option. If I stop… no, fuck that, I’m not stopping. I can’t.
My hand snatches the bottle from the side table, and I stagger forward, swaying so hard I nearly lose my balance. A hand catches me before I hit the floor.
“You good?”
I turn, blinking at the guy holding me up. “Am I good?” I echo, staring at him like the answer might be written on his face. He nods, waiting for me to say something. Am I good? Do I look it? Not a fucking chance. “Sure am. I’m fucking brilliant,” I mutter, wobbling as I take another step.
His hand clamps around my elbow, steadying me before I tip over. That throws me. People don’t hold me up. People don’t stop me from falling. I’m supposed to crash. That’s how it works.
“What the actual fuck?” I breathe, looking down at his hand still on me.
“Do I know you?” I squint at him, but my vision is fucked, sliding in and out like I’m underwater.
“Zain, remember?”
Remember? My brain claws at something, anything, but comes up empty. “Did we fuck?”
He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. “Not had the pleasure yet. We’ve spoken often at these parties.”
Maybe we have. Maybe I don’t remember. I stagger, my fingers digging into my pocket, searching until they close around the small bag. I pull it free.
“You don’t need that,” he says, snatching it from my hand before I can react.
“I don’t, but I want it,” I snap back, lunging for it. The motion tips me forward, too fast, and once again his arm is there, catching me.
“Should’ve let me fall,” I grumble against his chest.
“Not this time, Bear. I’ve watched you fall too much.”
The nickname burns through me. My body leans into his without permission, and then his fingers drag lightly down my spine. Fuck. That shouldn’t feel good, but it does. It feels better than anything I’ve touched tonight, and it pisses me off that it does.
“Let’s get a drink,” he says, pulling me upright and steadying me against him.
“Got one,” I reply, throwing up the bottle triumphantly. The liquid sloshes over both of us, splashing across my shirt and his, and he laughs.
“Yeah, I meant something more like water. Coffee maybe.”
I let him go, flipping him off, and stagger back a step. His hand catches me again before I topple.
“Maybe one glass of water,” I whisper, though the words come out weaker than I mean them to.
He doesn’t argue, just pulls me forward, guiding me through the crush of bodies and the roar of the party until we end up in a bedroom. He sits me down on the edge of the bed.
“Stay here. I’ll be back in two minutes. Don’t move, Liam.”
I salute him, smirking, and watch him walk out the door. Then I fall backward across the mattress and stare up at the ceiling, the world tilting and spinning.
Fuck I might puke. The ceiling won’t stay still. It tilts, dips, and slides until finally it steadies, and I let out a long breath. For a second, I almost feel fine. The kind of fine that only comes when my body is too heavy to move and my brain is too clouded to think. Just silence. Just nothing.
But nothing never lasts.
It creeps back, slow at first, then sharper, memories pushing through the haze. My chest starts to tighten, my stomach knots, and I groan, rolling onto my side. I shove a hand into my pocket, searching for what will shut it all up again. My fingers scrape against fabric, empty. My groan grows louder, frustration curling through me as the pieces click. Zain took it.
“Fucking bastard,” I mutter, dragging myself upright. My head spins, but I push past it, fumbling into my other pocket. Relief sparks when I feel the crinkle of plastic. My hand pulls it free, the bag glinting in the dim light. Salvation.
Before I can open it, the door clicks. Zain strides back in, and his eyes lock on me instantly. His hand shoots out, quicker than I expect, and the bag vanishes from mine.
“Not happening,” he says, calm but firm, as if he isn’t holding the only thing keeping me from tearing apart.
“Give it the fuck back,” I snap, reaching for it, but he’s already sliding it into his pocket like it belongs to him. Who is this fucking asshole? Seriously, who is he?
Instead of answering, he presses a glass of water into my hand.
I glare at it, at him, at everything. “I don’t want fucking water.” The glass shakes in my grip before I shove it back at him. “You think this is gonna help? You think a sip of water is gonna shut my head up?”
“Liam—”
“I need it. You don’t get it. I need it.” My voice cracks with desperation as I try to push past him, reaching for his pocket. I just need it, he wouldn't understand, he can't fucking understand. No one can.
His hand catches my face instead, firm fingers clamping around my jaw and forcing me to look at him. My breath hitches. I should fight, should shove him off, but I freeze under the intensity in his eyes.
Then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss crashes over me before I can even think, rough and sudden, a distraction sharp enough to rip me away from the hunger clawing through my chest. For a heartbeat, the world blurs into nothing but the heat of his lips, the pressure of his grip, the way his body presses into mine like he refuses to let me slip away.
Fuck. I've already fucked someone tonight, but the way his hand holds my face. I don't even know how to explain it, it feels... different. Good, somehow.
