That one hits a nerve. A clean shot right through the ribs. Which means she’s dead on, but I’ll die before I let her see it. “I guess we’ll see if I get the girl at the end,” I say, keeping my voice light.
Her mouth opens—locked and loaded, ready to fire the final round but right then—like a goddamn ghost materializing out of thin air—Ivan steps out of the building. His eyes sweep over the scene: the wall, the crowd, me, and then her. And he just… keeps walking. Right past us, without a word, straight to the black SUV that’s pulling up to the loop.
Behind me, the crowd starts to thin, people drifting toward the parking lot, but a core group stays. Watching. Whispering. Fucking vultures.
“St. Clair!”
Detective Rosen gets out of the driver’s side, sunglasses shoved up into his hair. He takes in the wall, the spray can in my hand, and then me. The whole damn picture.
I smile wide, like he’s the guest of honor I’ve been waiting for. “Save the evidence,” I say, and toss him the can in a perfect arc. “Wouldn’t want to lose your case.”
He snags it out of the air and stares at me for a long moment, then jerks his head toward the car. “Let’s go.”
I nod, falling into step beside him like we’re old pals. Ivan’s already in the back seat, staring straight ahead like a fucking robot. Doesn’t even spare me a glance. Which, somehow, pisses me off more than it should.
Rosen opens the back door and I glance over my shoulder. Sisk is still there, standing in the same spot, watching me go. I give her a sharp, two-fingered mock salute, then I slide into the car and let the door thud shut behind me.
As we pull away from the curb, I lean my head back against the cool leather and close my eyes. I let out a long, slow breath becauseeverything is going exactly according to plan.
Twenty-Six
NOW | SISK
Iopen my eyes and stare at the ceiling like I haven’t spent the last few hours twisting and turning.
Scotch is passed out beside me, one leg twitching like he’s having the best chase dream of his life. His whole body’s warm against mine—loyal, calm, comforting. Everything Jax could be if he didn’t have his head so far up his own ass.
He’s gone.Of course he is.Slipped out sometime in the early hours like a man running from his own shadow. I stare at the water stain on the ceiling and try to feel something other than completely, cosmically done with the way he handles things. But nope. All I feel is clarity. And rage. A blissful combo, really.
I replayed everything. Every word. Every look. Every moment he touched me and then tore himself away like I was something dangerous. The conclusion I’ve come to—after hours of overthinking, under-sleeping, and one particularly humiliating dream involving him—is this:Jax St. Clair is full of shit.
He thinks he’s protecting me by keeping his distance? He thinks pushing me away is some noble act of self-sacrifice? Please. He thinks I don’t know what’s really going on? If he thinks he can scare me off with cold distance and martyrroutines, he really doesn’t know me at all. Or worse—he doesn’t know how well I know him.
He does want me, that much is obvious. It’s in everything he doesn’t say, everything he does when he thinks I’m not looking. It’s in how he watches doorways before I move. How he notices every change in my breathing. How he carries the weight of my safety like it’s a debt he owes the universe. But wanting isn’t the problem, letting himself have anything good is. And I’m done waiting for him to figure that out on his own.
It’s been years of this. Years of almosts and interruptions and misunderstandings. Years of circling each other. This whole push-and-pull thing we’ve been doing? It’s a cycle. One of us leans in, the other flinches. One of us cracks open, the other slams the door. Or life intervenes with impeccable timing, and I’ve had enough.
I shift slightly, careful of my leg. Jax thinks distance protects me, then I’ll change the rules. I remind myself, I have twenty-eight days. Twenty-eight days until the moon resets whatever clock is ticking inside him. Twenty-eight days to get answers. To push. To challenge. To stop letting him decide everything unilaterally because he’s convinced himself he’s the villain of the story.Let’s see how long it takes for him to break.
If ballet might be out of my life for good, I’ll pour all that focus into him. I’ll make breaking through his walls my new project. It’s a hell of a lot easier than facing the real challenge, the one I can’t even let myself think about yet—my leg.
I’m not tiptoeing around his moods or waiting patiently for him to be ready. If he thinks he can keep nursing me back to health, playing the brooding martyr, and refusing to fuck me—he’s got another thing coming. Because I’m done playing patient. I’m done being grateful for scraps. Done hoping he will let me shake some sense into that beautifully tortured skull.
I’m not afraid of him, I never have been. The scariest thing in my life is how good it feels to be near him. How safe I feel when I’m under those arms, tucked into his chest, with his rough voice in my ear and that heartbeat thundering like I’m the only thing keeping it going.
I don’t care how broken he thinks he is. I’m not scared of his darkness, and I’m so fucking done letting him hide behind it.
So I get up and with a very ungraceful, borderline humiliating hobble, I make it to the bathroom.
Then the kitchen. Then—finally—to the counter by the coffee machine.
A pair of crutches are leaning there, perfectly placed. Like he knew exactly how far I’d make it before getting pissed. There’s a note tucked underneath one handle. I unfold it.
Coffee’s in the pot. Fridge is stocked. Take the pill with food, not like last time. Got a delivery coming in I have to handle.
If you need anything, send Scotch downstairs. I’ll get the message.
I let out a short annoyed laugh.Busy with the bar? Midday? Yeah. Right.And somehow he already found time to get me crutches. It’s a calculated move—give me the tools to fend for myself, and he can keep his precious distance while pretending he gives a damn.
