“Go clean up,” Blackjack told us. “Church in the morning. We’ll put it in the book. For tonight, get the blood off.”
Nobody argued.
Jersey’s room felt different when we stepped into it this time. Same walls. Same crappy dresser. An air mattress now shoved near the foot of the bed. Just the knowledge that someone who’d stood in this yard that morning breathing was now room temperature on a nightclub floor.
The mirror over his sink caught me as I moved past. I stopped.
The woman looking back at me was one I both knew and didn’t.
Blood smeared on my hands, drying dark under my nails, in the lines of my knuckles. Spatter on my cheek. A streak across my throat where Raptor’s pulse had sprayed past my fingers. My eyes looked older. Like every death I’d seen had decided to stand up and crowd behind them all at once.
I’d lost people before. Sisters. Men who’d tried to hurt us and failed. Men who’d succeeded in hurting usand paid for it. I’d seen bodies broken by wrecks, bullets, and bad luck.
But for some reason, this hit different.
Maybe because Raptor had been looking at me when he went. Maybe because I’d told him he did good and it felt like something too small to hand him as he bled out. Maybe because we’d walked him into that room and brought him back out only as a story.
My chest tightened.
I swallowed hard. Blinked once. Twice. The image in the mirror blurred.
I didn’t hear Jersey come in. I just felt his presence at my back, big and solid and too warm.
His arms slid around me from behind. Not tight. Just enough to be there.
For a heartbeat, I almost pulled away on reflex. Armor wanting to snap back on. Jokes. Shrugs. Something sharp to keep the soft parts safe.
I didn’t.
I let my weight tip back into him instead.
He rested his chin lightly on my shoulder. We looked at our reflection together—two tired animals with blood on them, standing in a room that had seen too much and not enough.
I went to speak but only a sound came out. I hated it. “He wanted so bad to prove himself. I could see it in his eyes. I told him to take his time. Breathe. Sight. Squeeze. And he did. He hit one. Maybe others too. And it still… it still wasn’t enough.”
“It was enough,” Jersey said. “That bullet he landed was one less gun pointed at you. Or me. Or Turnpike. Or Dante.Thatmatters.”
“He died choking on his own blood,” I whispered. The images kept replaying. His hands on his throat. The way his eyes had widened when Jersey told him he’d done good. The way they’d gone empty after. “In a club that didn’t even know his name.”
“Weknew it,” he said. “And we’ll make sure the wall knows it. Roman will know it. Liberty will know it. That’s more than most people get.”
My vision blurred entirely.
I realized then, distantly, that I was shaking.
Jersey moved then—not away, but closer. He shifted his grip, turned me gently, and guided me backward until my shoulders hit the cool tile of his bathroom wall.
Then he reached past me and turned the shower on.
Water roared to life, beating against the glass.
“What are you—” I started.
“Getting you clean before this shit starts growing roots,” he said quietly. “Come on.”
He stepped into the shower fully clothed, boots and jeans and shirt and all. Then he reached out a hand.
I stared at it for a heartbeat.
