“We didn’t know how you’d be,” Sisk adds quickly, like she’s trying to cover her ass. “You know.”
I flex my hands, testing the chain. It’s tight.
My head pounds like a motherfucker, but otherwise?—
“I’m fine.”
No one relaxes. Murtaugh steps closer, watching me the way people watch unstable machinery that’s about to explode. “The tar isn’t pushing right now,” he says slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Which means you fed it.”
Sisk shifts, her whole body tensing.
“If you hadn’t,” he continues with his analytical tone, “the pressure would still be building. The behavioral agitation would be escalating.”
I stare at him.
“We’re also off the cycle now,” he adds, like he’s talking about the fucking weather. “Which means we have no idea when it’s going to want more.”
Sisk studies my face like she’s waiting for me to sprout another head. “What happened?” she asks.
“You saw what happened,” I tell her.
“No, Jax,” she says quietly. “After you left.”
I search my memory. The alley. Matt. Tar. Hunger. Then—Nothing. A big, fucking black hole.
My brow tightens. “I…” The harder I try to remember, the emptier it gets. “I can’t remember.”
A voice from the back of the room scoffs. “Convenient,” Viper lets out.
I ignore her. “Why are you all here?” I ask instead, trying to rub my head with the limited movement the cuffs allow.
I look down and curled against my leg is Scotch. He lifts his head slowly when I move, and his tail thumps against the floor.
“He’s been here the whole time,” Sisk says softly. “Day and night.”
I reach down and scratch behind his ear. He sighs like everything is finally back where it belongs.
The back door swings open and Matt stumbles in, already halfway through a bottle of ashbrew.
He stops dead when he sees me. “Oh, thank fuck.”
Every head in the room snaps toward him.
Matt grins, a real shit-eating grin. “Because if you died without me getting the chance to properly make fun of your new… jewelry—” He says the word ‘jewelry’ like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “—I would’ve been extremely pissed.”
When he turns to take a long swig from the bottle, I see it. A raw, red line cuts across his cheek and into his eyebrow, the skin puffy and tight around a neat row of fresh black stitches.
I fight the urge to fucking puke.
“Matt, I?—”
“I know,” he says immediately, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re sorry. Whatever.” He points a finger at me, swaying slightly. “What’s pissing me off is you hiding all this shit.” He squints. “You got fucking superpowers now or something, man?”
I roll my eyes so hard I almost see my own brain. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.”
“Can we please take this seriously?” Murtaugh cuts in.
Only then do I really look around the bar. It’s a wreck—tables shoved against walls, blankets thrown on the floor under me like I’m some kind of fucking animal they’re trying to keep comfortable. Empty ashbrew bottles are everywhere, piledalongside a mountain of takeout containers on the counter. A first aid kit sits open, bandages scattered around it.
