“Is that what you want?” Lucian asks.
I don’t need time to think.
“Yes,” I say.
And this time it isn’t dragged out of me. It comes from somewhere solid.
eighteen
Jackson
The apartment feels wrong without them in it.
It isn’t quieter in a way that settles anything, and it isn’t empty either, because everything that’s happened over the last three days is still sitting in the space, pressed into the walls, into the furniture, into the air itself. I can feel it every time I move, every time I shift my weight, every time I try to focus on anything that isn’t her.
I’ve been sitting at the table for long enough that my body has started to register it, a dull stiffness settling into my shoulders, my neck, but I haven’t moved because every time I do, I end up right back here anyway.
The video is still open and paused halfway through.
I don’t remember how many times I’ve watched it.
Enough that I know it without needing to.
Enough that I know exactly what’s coming before it happens, and still can’t stop myself from pressing play again.
Her body fills the screen as the footage continues, the frame shifting just enough to keep her centered, like whoever is holding the phone knows exactly what they’re doing and exactly how long to hold each angle for.
She’s lying on the bed. Not resting. Not still in a way that feels natural.
Just...there.
There’s something wrong with the way her body moves, or doesn’t move, something slightly out of sync with everything I know about her, like whatever he gave her has slowed the connection between her mind and her body just enough to make it obvious.
My jaw tightens as I watch it, my hand coming up to press against my mouth without me thinking about it, like that’s going to stop the reaction that keeps rising in my chest every time I see her like this.
The camera moves.
Slow.
Deliberate.
It drags across her, not rushed, not careless, taking its time in a way that feels intentional, like the person behind it wants whoever watches this to sit in it for as long as possible.
Then it reaches her collarbone.
I pause it.
I don’t need to watch it play out again to know what’s there.
My gaze drops to the screen, to the words that are still visible beneath the damage, to the way the cuts have been dragged across them without any attempt to make it clean or precise, like he kept going over the same place until it felt like enough.
Property of Jackson.
My tattoo.
Or what’s left of it.
The sight of it hits harder this time, not just because of what it is, but because of what it means. She chose that. She chose to carry that on her body, to mark herself in a way that tied her to me, and he put his hands on it like it meant nothing, like it was something he could just carve away.
