"Good." His smile is weak but real. "You should be terrified. I'm a wildcard. You never know what I'll do next."
"I'm starting to realize that."
He reaches up with his free hand, touches my face. His fingers come away stained with dried blood.
"Is this yours?" he says. “I saw you get shot.”
"Minor scrapes. The one on my shoulder has been stitched. I’m fine."
"How many?"
"A dozen."
He almost grins. "Webb?"
"Dead."
"How?"
"You don't want to know."
"I do, actually. I want to know everything." His eyes search mine. "I can’t remember, just pieces. I want to know what you did for me. I don't want you to hide any of it."
I think about Webb's head in my hand. The weight of it. The way his eyes were still open, still surprised. The satisfaction I felt, carrying that trophy out of the burning house.
"I decapitated him," I say. "With a knife I took from one of his men. I put him on his knees, and I cut his head off while he begged for his life, after I cut his cock off and skinned his chest."
Jonah doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. "He deserved it all.”
"I made sure of it."
"Then good." He closes his eyes, exhaustion pulling him back under. "I'm glad you killed him. I'm glad you killed all of them. They were going to take you from me."
"I was going to say the same thing about you."
His mouth curves. "Look at us. Two broken people who'd take bullets and skin people alive."
"Is that what we are?"
"That's exactly what we are." His eyes open again, just slightly. "I love you. I know I said it before, when I was drunk, but I mean it now too. Sober and shot and drugged out of my mind. I love you."
"I love you too. Also, sober and drugged don’t work together. You’re one or the other, but not both. Dumbass." I smile when he rolls his eyes. "Get some rest. We have to move tomorrow."
"Move where?"
"Somewhere safe. Jinx has a contact."
"Of course he does." Jonah's eyes drift closed again. "Wake me when it's time to go."
"I will."
His breathing evens out. Sleep pulls him under, and I watch him, memorizing the lines of his face, the rhythm of his breath, the way his hand still curls loosely around mine even in unconsciousness.
Then I stand, finally, and go to find a shower.
The clinic's bathroom is small but functional. White tile, harsh fluorescent lighting, a mirror that shows me exactly what I've become.
I barely recognize the man staring back.
