I pull my friends in for one more group hug, then wave goodbye to them before Jagger leads me to his truck, and we climb inside. Once the door is closed, and we’re finally alone, I study his profile in the moonlight shining in through the windshield. He looks…like he had the crap kicked out of him. Swollen eye. Busted lip. Sliced eyebrow. Mottled skin. My heart clenches in response. It all happened so fast, the tape is still wrapped around his knuckles. Reaching for his hand, I slowly unwrap it, careful not to rush the process or cause any more damage to his sore hands. I wish there was more I could do. I wish I could erase the damage from the fight as easily as I can remove the tape. But the truth is, he’ll be sporting these wounds for at least a couple weeks, and I hate that I’m one of the reasons they’re there in the first place.
I can feel him watching me as I slowly unwrap the tape. He’s so quiet. No words. Nothing but our steady breathing and the light of the moon. No engine. No crowds. No fluorescent lights. Only me and Jagger. It’s strangely…intimate.
“How did you know?” he finally rasps.
I peek up at him through my lashes. “You mean, why did it take me so long?” My lips lift. “You wouldn’t let me make a bet. You were willing to let your brothers lose money. And you to lose money,” I add. “But not me.” The familiar ache from earlier hits the back of my eyes, but I will it away.
“Figured you’d already lost enough,” he returns.
I wad up the used tape, set it in the cup holder, and place my hands in my lap. “I’m not getting my house back, am I.”
It isn’t a question. And honestly, I’m not sad about it, either. Okay, that’s a lie. I’m sad. Anyone would be sad. Not only was the house the keeper of memories. It was also my safety net and the last thing my mom ever gave me. I’d have to be heartless not to be sad. But I’m also…relieved. Because even though I loved the house until my dad tainted it, it was also the onlyammunition he could use against me. And now? Now, it’s…over. I don’t have any ties to Virgil Reeves. Not anymore. And that? Is cleansing as hell.
“I’m sorry, Little Thief,” Jagger murmurs.
I shake my head. “Don’t be.” With a shy smile, I say, “I’m proud of you, Jag.” The cab feels too big. Too cavernous. Shifting closer, I cup the side of his face, letting the prickles of his five-o’clock shadow tickle my palm as I hold his gaze, praying he can feel my sincerity. “I’m so freaking proud of you.”
His eyes close, and he leans into my hand. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I volley. “For not being too stubborn.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes when he opens them and looks at me. “What do you mean?”
Is he serious right now?
With a smile, I explain. “You could’ve sacrificed everything for me in there, Jagger. It could’ve ruined you. And even though I know you were willing to do it, the fact that you let me…”—I run my thumb along his strong jaw—“that you let me change your mind in that moment, it…” I push aside the kaleidoscope of possibilities. “It means more than you know.”
“I’d do anything for you, Vi.”
“I know you would. But I also know how hard it is for you to let me do anything for you,” I say, turning the tables. “It’s only a house. But you?” I shift even closer. “You’re my home.”
The callouses on his palms tickle my skin as he slides his fingers along the nape of my neck. Tugging me into him, he kisses me. Hard. So hard, I have no doubt his split lip will probably start bleeding again, but I welcome it. The kiss. The way it brands me. Marks me. Reminds me I’m his and he’s mine.
Buzzing cuts us off, and Jagger groans his annoyance. Shifting in the seat, he pulls out his cell and answers the call. “Yeah?”
Pause.
“Yeah, I’m still here. I’m in the truck.”
Pause.
Jagger frowns and leans forward, looking out the windshield, so I do the same. Who’s he talking to? Then I notice him. Roman’s jogging through the mostly empty parking lot, his focus shifting from left to right as he makes his way toward us.
“Did you forget something?” I ask.
Jagger shakes his head in response.
Ending the call, he turns on the car, then rolls down the driver’s side window. “Hey, what’s up?”
Unwinded, Roman stops on Jagger’s side. “We need to talk.”
“Okay?”
He lifts his cell. “Got a call.”
“What kind of call?” Jagger questions.
Roman’s attention drifts to me before returning to Jagger with a severity I swear I can feel in my bones. Whoever’s behind this call must be shady as hell because it’s clear Roman doesn’t want me to hear them discussing him.
