She points a finger in my face. “Behave.”
I get Faith moving again, directing her down the hallway. Past the two spare rooms and guest bathroom. To the last bedroom on the left, with its crisp, woodsy scent and a fresh set of black sheets on the big ol’ king-sized mattress.
She skids to a stop, and we nearly collide before she turns her suspicious glare on me. “Nice try, Jester, but no. Not happening. I’m not staying in here with you.”
“I don’t care where you sleep.”Liar. I fucking care too much. In fact, I physically ache to have her body curled up next to mine. “But my shower is nicer than the guest bathroom’s.”
She puts the heel of her palm to her forehead and squeezes her eyes closed. “My head hurts. Actually, everything hurts.”
Given the life I chose, I’m obviously no stranger to having the shit beaten out of me, but for fuck’s sake. Her admission levels me. Rips my heart right out of my chest. If I could take every ounce of her pain into myself, I would, in a New York minute.
“I know, Fizzle.” I’m exceptional at two things. Playing the clown and hurting people. But right now, I want to take Faith in my arms and soothe away her misery. Cradle her until her pain fades—and once it does, make the motherfuckers who did this to her bleed. Make them scream the same way she screamed. But I can’t do any of that because I’m friggin’ helpless right now, and it sucks. “Jamie assumed you’d want your own space, so she set you up in one of the other bedrooms. Go grab clothes, and I’ll get the shower ready for you.”
She doesn’t leave. Instead, she lingers for a second. Stands there staring at me, and she’s so damn small and tragic. Finally, she says, “How much did you hear?”
I scrub a hand over my stubbled chin. Every second of what I heard is an echo in my ears stuck on repeat. “All of it.” She notches her chin, and her bottom lip quivers. But she doesn’t cry. “Fizzle, I swear to God, I’m going to cut off their fucking hands. Like, literally. And then I’m going to mount them on my wall like coat hooks.”
“You can have their hands.” Faith licks fresh blood from her bottom lip. “But I want their fucking heads.”
* * *
Not to toot my horn, but…Toot toot. I became a somewhat decent chef after we got Wraith back from Gomorrah. It wasn’t like I could leave the cooking up to him or Jamie. They were too busy in the bedroom to worry about what went on in the kitchen. Can’t say I blame them. They had eight years to catch up on, and they didn’t waste a second of it slaving over a stove. But they had to eat, and me being a nice roommate, I made sure they were fed proper.
While Faith took an epically long (and much-deserved) shower, I whipped up a breakfast fit for royalty. True, we haven’t slept yet, but who the hell wants pizza or some such shit this early in the morning—especially after the night she had?
And there’s no way she can go to bed hungry because of her diabetes.
Look at me, racking up positive abilities.
Faith is my first female sleepover. Yep. That’s what we’ll call this.
And holy hell, she’s adorable in an oversized T-shirt and pajama shorts as she picks at her fluffy pancakes. She doesn’t touch the bacon. Drinks all the water, though. Forces down a spoonful of apple and cinnamon oatmeal. She eats only enough food to cover the insulin she injected into herself at the meal’s start but practically nods off while I clean the kitchen. She wants to help, but I insist she keep her cute ass in the chair. By the time I get her upstairs and tuck her into bed, she’s already passed out.
An hour later, I’m still awake with my mind focused on her in the other room. A single wall separates us. One wall and one massive fuck up that happened seven years ago. Every time she looks at me, the hurt and distrust in her eyes reminds me that I’m a flaming piece of shit. And yep, I own it because I’m Jester, The Asshole. The Ruiner of All the Things.
But I’m still the person Faith called at the worst moment of her life.
That means something.
Right?
Unable to sleep despite being awake for over twenty-four hours, I kick off the blanket and climb out of bed. No clue where I’m headed. Out of the room. Down to the kitchen. Outside for air. I need to move because when I remain still, I keep going back to the sounds of Faith’s attack, and it puts me in a dangerous state of mind.
When I pull open the door, I expect an empty hallway. Instead, there’s Faith, right outside my bedroom with her fist poised in the air mid-knock.
Startled, she drops her arm. “Don’t tell me you’re psychic now.”
God, she’s fucking perfect. But also too goddamn pale. Her ashen complexion makes the bruise on her face more prominent and fuels my temper. I cover my rage with a smirk and my customary humor. “Here to complain about the mattress being lumpy?”
She shakes her head and examines the charcoal carpet. Red flags go up. This isn’t the confident (and audacious) woman who had no problem keying a cock and balls into the side of my Jeep. But here she is, shy as hell, and it’s one more reason the fuckers who hit her will die a slow and agonizing death. “I can’t sleep.”
“Same.” I mimic her whisper.
“I thought…” She swallows and backs up a step. “Never mind.”
Before I can stop myself, I grab her and pull her into my room. “Sleep with me.”
“Wow. Right to the punch, huh?”
