His expression softens immediately. “I’m sorry, Sisk.”
I nod, pushing it down before it can turn into something bigger. This is not the place for feelings. We keep walking deeper. The streets narrow, the buildings packed so tightly together it feels like the air is being squeezed out of the space. The windows are boarded up, and I notice how the graffiti shifts from sloppy tagging to symbols I don’t recognize.
We pass a man sitting on a crate, muttering at the sky. Silver necklaces hang from every finger of his, clinking when his hands twitch. His eyes roll white as we pass. “THE PIT KNOWS YOUR NAME,” he croaks. “THE PIT HUNGERS. THE PIT?—”
“Keep moving,” I whisper.
The Cut isn’t really a neighborhood; it’s what’s left of the old mining quarter. We learned about it in school—one of those lectures everyone tunes out—but I remember enough. Tar City used to be a mining town before it became… this.
The first workers lived here, back when the city was barely a dot on a map. They dug too deep, pressure built and the tunnels collapsed. Toxic runoff leaked into the groundwater, and people started getting sick. The pit opened around then too, right under those same tunnels. No one calls that a coincidence. Families moved out and the district was condemned.
And now The Cut is just the bones left behind—rotting worker houses, broken processing buildings, and a few shops still hanging on. I understand why they tell everyone to stay away. Even the cops avoid this place, and because of that, it belongs to the kind of people who don’t worry about consequences.
I try not to look at the figures lurking in doorways. A fight breaks out across the street but of course, no one intervenes.
“Ivan said the old man would be here,” I say, pointing toward a stack of milk crates beside a burned-out storefront.
The spot is empty, all that’s left is a dented metal bucket and a cardboard sign that reads:
LOTTO TICKETS HERE.
BETTER ODDS THAN TAR CITY.
Voices rise behind us and my blood goes cold. “Split up! Cut them off!”
“Run,” I order Jax.
We sprint as someone shouts behind us—laughter or a threat, I can’t tell. A bottle shatters somewhere too close, and I don’t look back. We turn into a narrow alley and dive behind a dumpster, my breath tearing through my lungs. The voices follow us and when I open my mouth to scream, Jax’s hand comes up and clamps over it. His body cages me against the wall, chest pressed to mine, heat, fear and adrenaline mixing into something dizzying.
“Don’t move,” he whispers.
The footsteps slow to a stop. “Where’d they go?” “I saw the girl—pretty—’round here.” A laugh. “Bet the fancy boy’s showing her a real good time.” Someone coughs. Another voice calls, “Make her your whore!”
My heart slams against my ribs and Jax’s hand tightens on me. His fingers slide from my mouth to my hair, tilting my head—and his mouth is on mine. It isn’t a kiss. Not really. Not supposed to be. It’s camouflage, a performance, but my lips part anyway. His other hand closes around my arm, steady and warm, his body shielding mine completely, and for one terrifying second, I forget where we are.
The footsteps pass, the voices fade, and the alley goes quiet. Jax pulls back first, his breath is still on my lips when he murmurs, “I’m sorry, that was just to get them to leave.”
I nod and pretend my knees didn’t go weak. Pretend my whole body isn’t alert. Pretend I’m not disappointed to hear him apologize for it.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Of course. I know.”
Although his eyes tell me he felt it too.
I’m still pressed against the wall, breath tangled with his, when—a metal door slams open across the alley.
“HEY! You two!”
A man leans out, wild gray hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted. He squints at us, then his expression sharpens. “Get in.”
We freeze.
“St. Clair?” he rasps.
Jax stiffens beside me.
The man’s face drains of color. He glances up and down the alley like he’s checking for real problems.
“You shouldn’t be walking these parts,” he hisses. “Get in. Now!”
