He stands. “What—what happened?” He takes a step toward me, then hesitates like he’s not sure if getting closer is safe.
I shrug off my black jacket, and the movement sends pain tearing through my ribs. I don’t hide the wince fast enough. Micah sees it.
“Jesus Christ.” His hands fly to his mouth. “Who did this toyou? Alexei? Nolan?” He’s shaking. Actually shaking. And something inside me snaps. Not at him.
At myself.
At Alexei.
At Nolan.
At the man who died under my knife tonight.
I don’t have space for Micah’s worry, softness, or, especially, his breaking. “Don’t,” I rasp. My voice sounds like gravel. “Just...don’t.”
Micah steps closer, ignoring me. “Jude, your ribs, your hands—fuck, you’re bleeding. Let me get the first aid kit. We should call Heather.”
“Micah.” I look up.
He freezes.
I’m not glaring or yelling, but the look in my eyes must be wrong enough, gone enough, that he stops breathing. “Shut up,” I say quietly. “Or get the fuck out.”
His face crumples, like he’s pained seeing me like this. I can’t fucking stand it. “Jude…” It’s barely a whisper. Pleading.
I walk past him, limping toward the hall. He reaches out, fingertips brushing my shoulder. I flinch. I know I’m hurting him. Scaring him. And I can’t stop. I can’t be soft right nowwithout falling apart. Without sobbing or breaking or begging him to save me.
I can’t be saved. I know that now.
I close the bathroom door behind me and strip off my shirt, hissing when the fabric drags across the bruises. The shower hits me like a thousand needles. I scrub hard, trying to get the blood smell off, the alley off, themanoff.
By the time I walk out, dressed in new jeans and shirtless, Micah’s waiting in the hallway with this shattered look. “Oh my god, dude—” His voice cracks, obviously seeing the fresh bruises. “Your ribs...please talk to me.”
“Stop,” I snap.
He flinches like I hit him. Good. I need him to shut up. I need the world to shut up. Because the crash is already coming.
Fast.
Hard.
The high I had earlier that got me through the meeting with Alexei, Nolan, and Adriana is fading. I feel it slipping out of my bloodstream, taking whatever numbness I had with it, leaving everything raw.
No. Fucking no.
Micah must see it happening because he whispers, “Jude...don’t. Please. Not again tonight.”
But my body is already moving. I check the coffee table and see that the black case isn’t there. He must have used earlier. I go into his room, and he tries to follow, but I slam the door in his face.
His desktop screen glows faint blue across the bed,Dark Beachby Pastel Ghost spilling from the speakers. It’s loud, dreamy, and eerie. I find the case sitting on his bed.
“Jude, stop.—” His voice is muffled on the other side of the door.
I ignore it. I sit on the edge of his bed, pull the tie tight around my arm. The bruises bloom dark up my torso, but not on the face—Nolan’s orders. Keep the face pretty. Keep the product clean. My hands shake, but never enough to stop me.
The needle finds the vein on instinct.
The rush hits in a single violent flash, like lightning under my skin, burning through the fear, the guilt, the kill, the bruises. My heart kicks up. My thoughts sharpen and scatter at the same time. The faster part of the song suddenly matches my heartbeat. They’re in sync, dancing together…
