Her mouth moves; the words are thin.
“Don’t talk,” I tell her. “Save it. I’ll get you out.”
This is my fault.
All of it.
Her lashes drop like she doesn’t believe me, but I scoop her up anyway. The Camaro waits at the mouth of the alley, engine still hot, doors ajar. I lift her into the passenger seat as gently as I can and slide behind the wheel. My hands shake, but when I turn the key the engine roars and drowns everything else out.
I tear out of the alley with blood on my hands, bodies cooling in the dark, knowing I just killed four men for her.
And I don’t care.
Kill or be killed. I’d kill twice over if it meant Lark could live.
She doesn’t. The thing I will later brand my personal curse takes her hostage and never lets her go.
I get exactly what I deserve.
Pain. A lot of it.
“Okay, I didn’t want to say anything at first because I didn’t want you to feel pressured intowearing this,” Talon says, casually pinching the waistband of my sweatpants as we climb the concrete steps back into the hospital, “but I literally had to win a race just so this guy I know would make this. For you.”
I glance down at the bright, aggressively cheerful block letters plastered across my hips, then slowly back up at him.
“…What?”
I slap his shoulder. “No, you didn’t. That is the dumbest lie I’ve ever heard come out of your face.”
“I absolutely did,” he says. “Three laps. In the rain. Against a guy who drinks raw eggs like they’re tea.”
“That’s—” I gag a little, then make a face as if my soul is leaving my body. “That’s disgusting. Also, fully unnecessary. I would’ve worn whatever.”
“Yeah, but ‘whatever’ isn’tcustom, babe.” He flicks the edge of one of the letters. “That’s quality ink right there. Artisan. Hand-painted.”
I stop at the landing and just stare at him.
“Artisan,” I repeat flatly. “Did the sex turn you into a salesman or something?”
He shrugs, deeply pleased with himself. “Listen, Little Grim, the things you wear say something. Dress for who you want to be and all that shit.”
“Talon,” I say slowly, “I want you to take a good, long moment and really think about what message you’re trying to send me by branding me as property of a morgue.”
He just grins. “You’re ours.”
“Did you—” I inhale. “Did you hear anything about that conversation we had about ownership?”
“I did.”
“And…?”
“Alright,” he breathes, nodding solemnly. “Shared, not owned. Yeah?”
“Exactly.”
He hums and rocks back on his heels. “Cool. Should I race for a correction? How do you feel about ‘shared by the county morgue’ instead? I can get reflective lettering.”
I snort so violently it echoes off the nearby forest. Something in the trees panics and flaps off.
