“He talked to you about Jinx?"
"Before. When we were planning the op." Her voice softens. "He was worried about you. Said you were getting too attached too fast. Said it was going to get you killed."
"He wasn't wrong."
"He was wrong about one thing." She stands, brushes off her pants. "He thought I'd be the one to save you if things went sideways. Instead, it was Jinx. The asshole who wasn't supposed to feel anything took a bullet for you."
"What's your point?"
"My point is that maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe the conditioning isn't as permanent as I thought." She picked up the whiskey bottle, held it out to me. "Or maybe I just want to believe that. Because if Jinx can break free of what they did to him, then maybe there's hope for the rest of us."
I take the bottle but don’t drink. "There's always hope."
"That's a pretty sentiment. Not sure I believe it." She heads for the door, then pauses with her hand on the frame. "For what it's worth... I'm glad you're still alive, Asher. Dom would have been devastated if he'd lost you."
"He lost himself instead."
"Yeah." Her voice cracks, just slightly. "He did."
She goes inside.
I rinse out my glass and head back upstairs.
Jinx is awake when I slip back into the room.
He's propped against the headboard, one hand pressed to his side, his face tight with pain he's trying to hide. The light through the window catches the angles of his jaw, the dark fall ofhis hair, the shadows under his eyes. He looks like shit, but the most beautiful shit I ever did see.
"Where'd you go?"
"Kitchen. Couldn't sleep."
"Marlee?"
"Yeah." I cross to the bed, sit on the edge. "We talked. About Dom. About... things."
"She still want to kill me?"
"Little bit. But she's coming around."
"Progress." He shifts, winces. "Help me up. I need to move."
"You need to rest."
"I've been resting for four days. My muscles are atrophying."
"Your muscles are healing. There's a difference."
"Asher." His voice goes hard, the stubborn edge that I've learned means he's going to do something stupid whether I help or not. "I'm getting up. You can either help me or watch me fall on my face."
I sigh and offer my hand. He takes it, lets me pull him upright, and we stand there in the dark, his weight leaning into mine, my arm around his waist.
"Better?" I ask.
"Getting there." He takes a few experimental steps, grimacing. "Fuck. Everything hurts."
"That's what happens when you get shot, sweet pea."
"Thanks for the medical insight, doc." But there's no heat in it. He's too tired for heat. "Walk with me. Just to the window and back. And stop calling me sweet pea. Makes me sound weak."
