Chapter 23 Blood on Your Hands

Chapter 23 Blood on Your Hands


The thing about anger is that it sneaks up on you. One second you’re holding it in, keeping your voice calm, your hands steady, your mask in place. The next, it’s a wildfire, burning through reason, scorching every ounce of control.

That’s exactly what happens with Jace and me.

We’re standing outside the gym, the lights buzzing overhead, the night pressing close around us. He’s still gripping my wrist, not hard, just enough to keep me there. And I hate it. I hate the way my skin burns under his touch. I hate the way his eyes won’t let me go. But most of all, I hate the words he just said—his version of Noah, his supposed attempts to help.

Because if there’s even a shred of truth in them, then the last few months of my life have been built on a lie.

I rip my arm free, my voice sharp. “You think you can just say that and I’ll forgive you? That I’ll believe you?”

Jace doesn’t flinch. He just looks at me, calm in that dangerous way that makes me want to scream. “I don’t care if you forgive me. I just need you to stop aiming at the wrong target.”

My laugh comes out broken, ugly. “Wrong target? My brother is gone. And the one thread I have—the one person every road leads back to—is you.”

Something flickers across his face. Not anger. Not pride. Pain. And for some reason, that hurts worse.

“Then blame me,” he says, voice low. “If that’s what you need, do it. Put it all on me.”

The words slam into me, jagged and cruel.

My hand moves before I think. A sharp crack slices through the night as my palm connects with his cheek.

The sound echoes. My own breath shudders in my chest. His head turns with the force of it, but he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t even raise a hand to defend himself.

The sting in my palm is nothing compared to the way my heart races, guilt and rage tangling until I can’t tell them apart.

“Don’t you dare,” I spit. “Don’t you dare make yourself the victim here. You’re not the one who vanished. You’re not the one who left a family in pieces. You’re not the one I buried.”

Slowly, Jace lifts his head. His cheek is red where I hit him, but his eyes… they’re hollow. Haunted.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to bury someone?” His voice cracks, barely audible. “You think I don’t wake up every damn day wondering if I could’ve stopped it? If I hadn’t been such a coward—” He cuts himself off, teeth grinding, like the words themselves are knives.

For a moment, he looks like he might break right in front of me. Like he’s balancing on the same edge I am.

I swallow hard, my throat raw. “Coward? You think that’s an excuse?”

“No,” he says sharply. “It’s the truth. You want someone to blame? Blame me. Fine. I failed him. I fail everyone. But don’t pretend you know what it’s like to be me.”

His chest heaves. His hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.

And I realize something terrifying: he’s not performing right now. There’s no smirk, no mask, no carefully constructed persona. This is the boy underneath—the one who’s crumbling, who’s been carrying too much for too long.

It should make me feel vindicated. Instead, it just makes me feel sick.

Because I can’t tell if I’m seeing the truth, or just another layer of his manipulation.

“You’re lying,” I whisper, but the words don’t land the way they should.

His laugh is hollow, bitter. “If only.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. The sound of the field lights hums like static in my ears. I want to run. I want to scream. I want to curl up and disappear.

Instead, I stand there, my hand still trembling from where it struck him, staring at the boy I thought was a monster and seeing something far more dangerous: humanity.

I hate him for showing me this side. I hate myself for caring.

“You never wanted this,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His head tilts, eyes burning into mine. “You think I asked to be born into this? To spend my whole life cleaning up after my father’s messes, trying to keep people from getting swallowed whole? You think I wanted to watch your brother drown in it while I stood on the shore?”

His voice cracks again. And for the first time, I wonder if maybe Jace Langston isn’t untouchable after all.

My chest aches. I want to believe him. God, I want to. But belief is dangerous. Belief got Noah killed.

So I force steel into my voice. “You’re still responsible. You could’ve done more. You could’ve—”

“Could’ve what?” His voice rises, sharp and raw. “Gone to the cops? They’re already on my father’s payroll. Exposed him? He’d burn me alive before letting me ruin his empire. You think I didn’t try? You think I didn’t bleed for this?”

Bleed. The word lingers, heavy, almost too heavy to hold.

I search his face, desperate for the tell, the smirk, the slip-up that proves this is all an act. But there’s nothing. Just exhaustion and pain and a kind of despair that looks far too real.

The wildfire inside me falters. The ground feels unsteady.

Because if he really did try, if he really did fight and still lost, then maybe I’ve been fighting the wrong battle. Maybe the monster I’ve been chasing isn’t Jace—it’s the man who raised him.

But admitting that means rewriting everything. It means letting go of the one thing that’s kept me breathing: my hate.

And I don’t know if I can.

Jace takes a shaky breath, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to believe me. But stop pretending like your war with me is the only war that matters. Because while you’re busy slapping me, my father is still winning.”

The words slice through me. He’s right. God help me, he’s right.

But I can’t let him see that. Not yet.

So I take a step back, putting distance between us. My voice shakes, but I force it out. “Stay away from me, Jace. I mean it.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move closer. He just watches me, eyes dark and unreadable, like he’s already bracing for the next blow.

And maybe that’s the worst part—that for all his bravado, he looks like someone who expects to be hated. Who expects the slap, the blame, the endless accusations.

Like it’s the only thing he’s ever known.

I turn away before my resolve cracks. My heart is pounding, my thoughts a tangled mess of anger and pity and something I don’t dare name.

But as I walk off into the night, one thought won’t stop echoing in my head.

What if I’ve been wrong about him all along?

And if I have… then who really has blood on their hands?

Behind me, Jace’s voice carries through the darkness, quiet but sharp enough to pierce bone.

“You’ll find out soon enough, Ava.”

I freeze. My whole body goes cold.

Because the way he said it—it wasn’t a threat.

It was a warning.