O snorts. “Riiiight, and I’m young and full of hope.”
I slide onto a stool. “Morning to you too.”
He throws a rag in my direction. “If you’re standing, you’re working.”
I start wiping down the counter.
Jax pulls out a chair and turns it backward, straddling it, forearms resting on the back like he’s settling in for a fight.
O finally looks up. “So. What’s the plan?”
Reality crashes back in, the warmth inside me fades under the reminder—we’re not here for fun.
Forty-Seven
THEN | JAX
The scrape of gravel against my back wakes me and I realize I’m being dragged. My head lolls to the side and the pain brings me back to life.
“Drag him in there.” The voice is familiar. Too fucking familiar.
Another voice answers. “Show me the money.”
“I told you,” the first voice snaps, low and irritated, “not until you’re done. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“I think you’re a coward,” the second one mutters. “Or you’d be doing this yourself.”
“Stop talking and just throw him already.”
Throw me.Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I let my body stay limp, letting them think I’m still out. I can feel we’re moving downhill, sure that we’re headed toward the Pit as that wet, low bubbling sound creeps back into my ears.
My pants catch on something and the grip on my legs tightens. “Fuck me, he’s heavier than he looks,” the second voice grunts.
“Hurry up.”
My eyes open slightly. The guy dragging me by the ankles is bent over, struggling. And ten feet back—A silhouette I know. Even without seeing his face. He shifts his weight, impatient.
“Do it.”
That’s my cue to move. I twist hard, planting my palms into the gravel and yanking my legs free in one quick motion as the guy stumbles forward, and I surge up. Pain explodes through my skull, but adrenaline drowns it out as I drive my fist into his throat. He chokes, gagging, and his legs give out, sending him to the ground. “Wait—” he wheezes. I don’t give him the chance to finish. I grab his neck and slam him backward into the dirt.
He swings blind, his fist catching my jaw. I grab his hoodie, yanking him in as my hand goes to his neck. My fingers brush against a dog tag. I don’t give a shit what it says, I just drive my other fist into his ribs.
“Get up,” the dipshit yells from my right.
The guy beneath me wheezes, scrambling to crawl away. I could break him. I should. I could rip his mask off and make sure he pays for it later. But Ivan’s already stepping back, retreating like the fucking coward he is. My rage finally has a place to land. Ivan didn’t plan to do it himself, he planned to watch. I shove the man aside and take off after him.
Behind me, I hear the guy curse, “Fuck this,” already running in the opposite direction. I don’t look back.
Ivan isn’t fast, but I’m bleeding, dizzy, and my vision is flickering at the edges. He gets a few steps before I catch him, and by the time I do, I’m actually laughing.
I slam into him from behind, both of us crashing into the ground. He cries out as we roll, my fist already finding his ribs. I drive another punch into his face. He blocks the third hit, surprisingly quick, his elbow catching my ribs hard enough to make me suck in air.
“This isn’t—” he pants, scrambling. “This isn’t how this is supposed to go?—”
I grab his shirt and he tries to twist out of my grip. I start dragging him toward the Pit.
“What are you doing?” he cries.
