He clicks a key, freezing the footage right as a girl steps off the bus.
Me.
My stomach cramps, not scared, just worried.Like finding out he can record the thoughts in my head.
“What is that?”I whisper.
“I’m learning how to control the public cameras.”He doesn’t look guilty.He looks smug.
“Why?What for?”
“If you won’t tell me who hurt you, I’ll figure it out myself.”He taps a few keys, rewinding.
The screen shows the bus pulling up again, the whole street shifting backward like he can control time.
My pulse spins.
He switches to another tab, a black window filled with green letters streaming down like rain.I don’t understand any of it.I only know he taught himself this stuff when we still had parents.
“What else can you do?”I inch closer to the screens.
“I can break into school records.”
He shows me how he changes my grades when we move, so I don’t have to repeat classes.He digs up addresses of foster families before I meet them, tracks bus schedules and routes so he never loses me, and disables door alarms so he can sneak into houses and get supplies.
All of it is for me.Every single thing.
He clicks another screen.A live feed from a camera near my school.Then another from the porch at my foster house.Then one I don’t recognize at all.
“You can’t do this,” I whisper.
“I already am.”That angry line between his brows deepens.“I’m not letting anyone touch you.Never again.”
A part of me knows this isn’t normal.Other kids don’t have someone watching every sidewalk they step on.But the bigger part of me, the part that aches when he’s not near, loves it.
If Jag is watching, I’m safe.And if I’m safe, he’s calm.
He rewinds the footage, frame by frame, eyes narrowed as he scans every person on the sidewalk.
He’ll find her.
“Jag…” I step between him and the screens, twisting the hem of my shirt in my fingers.
His eyes drop to the movement of my hands.Then lower.
He chokes.“You’re bleeding.”
“What?”I look down.
A thin red river trails down my thigh.It’s dark and sticky and startling.
“Oh.”I have no idea what else to say.
“Did you cut yourself?”His eyes dart around the room, trying to find what stabbed me.“Where did you—?”Slowly, his head lifts again.He studies my face, his mouth opening, closing, and opening again.“Did you get your period?”
“My… Period?”
“Your cycle.”His voice drops even quieter.“Like… Your monthly.Blood.”
