Jag keeps pace beside me, barefoot, shirtless, every inch of him streaked red.His body wobbles on sputtering adrenaline, each step costing him a world of pain.I would offer to carry him, but he would never permit it.So I keep him close enough to catch him if he tips.
We don’t stop running until the stairs spit us out into the vacant nightclub.The lights pulse to nobody, the bass thudding like a dying heart.
A few guards hover near the exits, weapons lowered, eyes wide.No one wants to tackle the psycho in a skirt with a live bomb and a bloodied smile.
We burst through the door into humid air and neon glare.
Monty is there, hands catching Jag’s shoulders, checking him for injuries, and finding too many.Kody flanks me, one hand on my back, the other on Jag, his eyes black and furious.
“Move.”Monty herds us forward.“Now.”
Sirens rise in the distance, swelling fast.
We half-jog, half-stagger down the block.Someone yanks the van door open, and we pile in.The sirens scream, and Monty slides behind the wheel.A second later, we’re moving.
Jag drops to the floor with his back against the wall, legs spread, head tipped forward.
He looks wrecked, face covered in stubble, skin blotched with bruises, hair standing in blood-soaked spikes.No less lethal.
“Where are you hurt?”I sink between his knees, hands already moving, scanning him by muscle memory and instinct.
“You came for me.”He lifts his head and stares at me as if trying to decide if I’m real.
“I was in the neighborhood.”A crooked grin pulls at my mouth despite everything.
His gaze darts around the van, at Monty, Kody, Mikhail’s calm silhouette, and Oliver already moving toward my vest.
“You came…” His voice scrapes.“With the Russian mob.”
“I saw what you did in the tattoo shop.The surrender.”I meet his eyes.“I knew you didn’t take her.”
He doesn’t soften.I’m not sure he knows how.But his expression eases, the smallest give, as his body stops arguing with reality.
The van makes a sharp turn, and I brace a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.
Oliver crouches and starts stripping the vest off me, fingers quick and practiced.Wires disengage.Explosives disarm.The weight lifts.
“That was a real bomb?”Jag watches in disbelief.“It was live?”
“It would’ve made a helluva mess.”I remove the earpiece and pass it to Oliver.
“Suicidal drama queen.”
“That’s me.But you’d already know that if you read my journal.”
“I did.”
“You did?”
“Every word.”He lines up his glare with mine.“I started reading the second you left and finished it right before the power shut off.I tried to hide it under the mattress.”
“We found it.”My throat closes, and traitorous heat crawls behind my eyes.
I look away before it spills and scrub a hand down my crusty face.
He reaches for me, his fingers tracing blood and ink from the corner of my mouth, along my jaw, and back toward my ear, slow and knowing.The compassion in his swollen, amber eyes says he remembers what I wrote about the last time I wore the Glasgow smile.
He knows about the devil’s bargain, the lifetime of abuse, the cliff, and the scalpel.He knows all my despicable secrets, and he doesn’t look away.
