“On three?” I confirm, but she just shakes her head, not wanting a countdown, and I yank the knife out, making her clamp down on her bottom lip as a scream nearly escapes, and I quickly chuck the knife on the floor and hold my hand out before a rag is placed, and I push it hard against the wound making her gasp, her nails digging harder into me.
My brave fucking girl.
“The knife wasn’t that big,” Anchor states, “so she was right, it didn’t do any damage, just hurt like a bitch.”
Jas breathes heavy as sweat drips from her forehead, and she digs her nails even harder into my arm.
“Talk to me,” I basically plead, needing to know she’s okay.
“I hate to say I told you so, but…” She croaks, and I chuckle lightly as I press a kiss against her forehead before checking her wound, pulling the rag back only to find three fucking holes.
“She stabbed you three fucking times!” I growl, and Jas hums as she leans her forehead against my shoulder, taking a deepbreath, breathing me in, and I relax a little with her touch and murmur, “You need stitches, preferably before our girl sees her mama hurt.”
“Okay,” she chokes, and I hold her jaw even harder, the terror I felt seeing the fucking blood making it hard to breathe.
The brothers were right about one thing, Mama was getting others to do her dirty work, but she’s still going to pay for going after my family.
Chapter 22
Tank
I cross my arms over my chest as I lean against Aisling's doorframe and watch Jas grip our daughter's hand from where she’s kneeling next to our girl's bed. She keeps her eyes on her chest, her body trembling, everything that has happened slowly seeping into her, and I know she’s going to crash soon.
Aisling's been asleep for the past hour despite it only being noon, the morning taking it outta the sweetheart, and my girl hasn’t moved from her bedside. Meaning, I still haven’t stitched up her wounds despite the kit ready in our room and the brothers waiting for me back at the club.
Despite hanging up my leather, I still need to witness that my girls are going to be safe from now on, and maybe Jas and I can try to get back what we lost these past six years. I can try to learnto forgive her, especially after seeing things from her point of view today.
And I’ve gotta tell yah, the little voice telling me it and then seeing it, completely two different things.
I sigh as Jas drops her head and sniffles. After we got back from the park, the brothers took the soon-to-be-dead fuckers to the torture shack at the club, and I brought Jas home. Even though Jas agreed to let Aisling stay with Doc while I stitched her up, our daughter just wanted her mama and Jas hasn’t moved from Aisling’s side since, and I have no idea how to pull her away long enough to treat her wounds.
The rag I managed to tape against her at the park is already drenched in her blood. She’ll become lightheaded soon, and don’t get me fucking started on infection.
I saw the knife, the blade was rusty.
“Buttercup,” I finally say softly, and she flinches, making me sigh, “come on, I need to fix your wounds up.”
I watch as she takes a deep breath before she slowly stands, her body jolting at the pain she’s feeling, and my jaw locks as I stay deathly still, giving her this moment as she slowly bends down and presses her lips against Aisling's forehead.
As soon as she struggles to straighten, I instantly push myself off the door and walk over to her in three large steps, my arm instantly but carefully going around her waist, and frustration pulls at me feeling her body tremble.
I get she didn’t want to leave our daughter but for fuck’s sake, she’s in pain.
Trying not to snap at her, I gently pull her back to my front and slowly walk us backwards out of our girls' room, and she grips my arm around her as I kiss the back of her head and guide her towards our room. The same room by the way, she is fucking sleeping in tonight, whether she likes it or not.
I help Jas sit on the edge of the bed, then kneel and gently gather the bottom of the shirt—one I gave her years ago and carefully ease it off her, helping her good arm out first before removing it from her injured side. I toss the shirt on the floor and watch as her eyes follow it, and she mutters, “That one was my favorite…”
“I know, buttercup,” I whisper, knowing it will have to be thrown out with the holes in the side. “You can take any other one you want,” I offer, but she doesn’t answer me. Instead, she stares at the shirt on the floor, at our past.
I gave it her the first time we slept together and I never got it back, not that I cared. The fabric looked better on her than it did on me.
Sighing, I look down her body, my eyes going to the tattoo that makes my dick twitch like a jackass, and my heart squeeze seeing she still has it. Though, now she’s got some more meat on her bones, it looks even hotter.
She’s struggled that fucking much over the past six years. She’s barely been eating, giving the food to our daughter, and that just makes my resentment grow because she knows wherever she went, I would have followed but instead she chose to struggle. She believed she was doing what was right when she wasn’t. I would have protected them like I did earlier but I can stupidly see her point of view as well. Fuck, my head is all scrambled after today.
Shaking my head, I slowly remove the drenched rag and inspect the three wounds. The first two look small, but the third, the one I had to pull the knife out of, looks a little bigger and deeper.
Fucking bitch is going to feel my wrath for this…
