I sit on an overturned crate, knees pulled up, watching him watch the door. He hasn’t let go of my hand since he found me. Even now, his fingers keep brushing mine like he’s groundinghimself with the heat of my skin. I’m not complaining though. It just means he’s still here. He’s real and breathing. I should make a joke and laugh, or maybe I should scold Jethro for humming so loudly in my head like a broken fucking wire. But all I can do is stare at Jagger’s naked back and think about the way he broke through that door for me. The way he said “always” like it cost him something. It did. It was a promise he didn’t know he made.
“You’re bleeding,” I whisper, but he doesn’t turn.
“Not mine,” he says, and I smile.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I ask.
“No… but—did it?”
“A little.” I giggle, and his shoulder shifts like he laughed but no sound came out.
The hallway outside erupts with distant shouting. Boots pounding and doors locking. The voice on the loud speaker telling everyone to remain calm, like that’s a fucking thing that survives in this place. Jagger’s hand tightens around the weapon he took off a guard.
“Stay behind me if they come in,” he tells me, and I tilt my head.
“You keep saying that.” I giggle.
“Because you keep not listening.”
“I listen,” I huff, and he finally turns to look at me. The look is hot enough to steal the air out of my lungs.
“No, Riot. You hear. Different thing.”
Riot, there it is. His name for me. Rough in his mouth—made of smoke and broken glass.
“You mad at me, Big Bad?” I ask as my fingers curl against my knee. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I lick my lips.
“I’m mad at everything,” he says, and I tilt my head.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he admits, turning fully now. The room gets smaller, or maybe he gets bigger, but he crosses the space between us intwo steps, then stops like he’s forcing himself not to come closer. My insides ache. Not from fear or pain… something worse—want. I look up at him through messy hair and smeared paint.
“You’re staring,” I whisper, and his jaw flexes.
“You look wrong,” he says, and my chest tightens. I hate that his words hurt but they do.
“I know,” I answer, then look down, but his fingers find my chin and force my face up.
“No, I didn't mean it like that,” he whispers, and I blink as he crouches in front of me slowly. His hands hover over my knees, like he’s waiting for permission.
“You can touch me,” I say, and his eyes lift to mine. Something moves across his face.Want. Anger. Relief. All of it ugly and beautiful.His hands settle on my knees.Warm. Heavy and real.My breathing catches, and Jethro goes very still.
“Careful,”he mumbles, but I ignore him. Jagger’s thumb moves once, inching up my thigh.
“You were gone,” he says, his voice low. Not accusing—hurt. “They took you, and I couldn’t—” He chokes like the words are caught in his throat like barbed wire. I lean forward, lift my hand, and gently caress his face.
“They took you, too,” I whisper, and his eyes darken.
“Not the same.”
“No?”
“No!” His hands tighten, not enough to hurt, but enough to tell me he wants to break something. Not me—the world.
Dragging my fingers down his face, he freezes like no one has ever done that before without expecting blood in return.
“You came back,” I whisper, and his eyes close for half a second. When they open, something in them is worse than rage—need.
