Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 69

Wang's Pov.

Zhan doesn't look up. He doesn't even flinch. Just keeps drinking like none of this concerns him. But me? I hear every word, and every damn syllable grates against my skin.

Considering your past, Ezra's smug little jab echoes in my head like a drum.

Dre's crying. Real, broken crying. His voice shatters as he swears he's done, swears he has no feelings for Zhan. And maybe that should comfort me. Maybe it should put the fire in my chest out.

But it doesn't.

Because all I can picture is Zhan with him, not now, not even recently, just the thought of it ever happening has me burning.

My fists ache from how hard I'm clenching them. My jaw's locked so tight I can feel the veins pulse in my temples.

And Zhan, my Zhan, sits there quiet, drowning in his damn drink, letting them throw his name around like a knife on the table.

I can't take it anymore.

"You two done?" My voice cuts through the room like a blade. Dre freezes, Ezra finally looks away from him, and Zhan slowly lifts his head, his eyes bloodshot from liquor and whatever storm he's holding inside.

I step forward, every word sharp. "If either of you brings Zhan into your circus again, I swear I'll end it. I don't care about your fights, your jealousy, your history, none of it. But don't drag him into your mess."

Ezra opens his mouth, but I slice him off. "Not. A. Word."

The silence that follows is heavier than any fight we've had so far.

Then my gaze finds Zhan, and the anger twists into something darker, jealousy, fear, love all tangled in one ugly knot. My voice softens, but it's still hard around the edges.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He blinks, confused. "Tell you what?"

"That it happened," I bite out. "That once upon a time, he had his hands on you. That you let him close enough to even become your past."

Zhan flinches, and it's like gasoline on my fire. My chest feels like it might explode.

Because deep down, I don't even care how long ago it was. I just care that it was.

And now I don't know if I want to pull him into my arms or push him as far away as possible.

His voice slices through the air, sharper than anything I've ever heard from him.

"Well, since you care to know, I'll tell you."

Zhan stands, and suddenly the room feels too small. His eyes are cold, distant, lock onto mine, and every word he spits feels like a blade.

"I was born unlucky. My mother is a drug addict. I was used up as a sex toy by Ziyi and her friends. My mother gave me up for sex in exchange for drugs. She gave up our house in exchange for drugs. My grandmother was sick, and I needed money for hospital bills and a new home. Luckily Black introduced me to Dre and his ex-friend. I made good money from it. Oh sure, out of all that fortune, I just had to splurge on that shiny little masterpiece dangling on your neck. I was a man whore. And you knew before you came for me."

His voice doesn't break. Not once.

Then he leans forward just enough, his words dripping ice as he stares me down.

"So, is there anything else I left out?"

My throat goes dry.

It's not the confession, it's the way he says it. Like the past isn't something that scarred him but something he's branded himself with, so no one else gets the satisfaction of shaming him. His eyes aren't pleading, they're daring. Daring me to flinch, to recoil, to confirm every ugly thing he already believes about himself.