The Breaking Point [POV: Nate]
The whiskey burned on the way down, but it wasn’t enough. It dulled the sharp edges of my thoughts, blurred the memories clawing at the back of my mind, but it didn’t erase them.
I poured another drink.
The bar was loud, but not in a way that mattered. Music thumped from speakers overhead, conversations overlapped into meaningless noise, laughter rose and fell in drunken waves. It was all background static, a setting made for men like me—men looking to forget.
I traced the rim of my glass, staring at the amber liquid inside.
It was pathetic, really. I knew that. I wasn’t the kind of guy who drowned his problems in alcohol, wasn’t the type to sulk in the dark corners of a bar, stewing in self-pity.
But tonight, I didn’t know what else to do.
I had done everything right. I had been patient, kind, steady. I had opened my heart, let her in, let myself believe that for once, maybe I had a chance.
And yet, Abigail still chose him.
I gritted my teeth, knocking back the whiskey in one rough gulp. The burn hit my chest, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the thought of her voice, the finality in her words when she told me not to wait.
The bartender gave me a knowing look. “Rough night?”
I let out a hollow chuckle. “You have no idea.”
He nodded like he understood and poured me another.
I didn’t touch it right away. Instead, I sat there, shoulders hunched, staring at nothing.
Then, I felt it—a delicate touch trailing down my arm, soft fingers brushing against my skin.
I turned my head, and there she was.
A woman.
She had dark waves of hair cascading over one shoulder, a tight dress that left nothing to the imagination, and a smile that promised trouble. She leaned in, her perfume thick and sweet, something warm like vanilla mixed with something sharper, muskier.
“You look like you need a distraction,” she murmured, her voice honeyed and smooth.
I exhaled through my nose, tipping my head back slightly.
Maybe I did.
She slid onto my lap like she belonged there, her body warm against mine as she moved, slow and deliberate. The alcohol in my system made it easy not to care, easy to let my hands rest on the curve of her waist, easy to forget why I was here in the first place.
Her lips brushed against my ear, her breath hot against my skin. “Private room?”
I hesitated. Only for a second.
Then I nodded.
She smiled, taking my hand and guiding me away from the bar, leading me toward the dimly lit backrooms.
The club pulsed around us, the music vibrating beneath my feet, the alcohol thrumming in my veins. It was hazy, distant. I didn’t care where I was going—I just needed to go somewhere.
But just as we were about to slip behind the heavy black curtain, a hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back.
The grip was firm, strong.
Possessive.
I turned, my mind still sluggish, my body slow to catch up.
And then—
A voice. Low, sharp, and unwavering.
“He’s mine.”
The words sliced through the haze like a blade, cutting through the noise, through the alcohol, through everything.
My pulse jumped.
Because that voice—I knew that voice.
