“And?” she presses, leaning forward.
I stare at the floor, at a scuff mark I’ve never noticed before. “And apparently my family has been making deals with the thing for over a hundred years.”
Sisk slowly sets the bowl aside on the nightstand. “Jax.”
“My grandfather said it started with the first St. Clair to arrive here,” I continue. “Some kind of bargain when the mine collapsed.”
“With the tar?” she whispers.
I nod, unable to look at her. “He says it wanted blood. A bloodline. Something to keep the deal going.”
Her eyes flick to my hand, then back to my face.
“The baby,” she says softly, the words hanging in the air between us.
“Yep.”
She leans back against the pillows, the color draining from her face. For a moment neither of us speaks, the weight of a hundred years of St. Clair bullshit settling in the room.
Then she turns her head slightly. The lamplight catches something on her cheek.A thin, red line.
My chair scrapes against the floor. “What the hell is that?”
Her brow furrows in confusion. “What?”
I step closer, grabbing her chin before she can pull away. The cut sits just below her cheekbone. Fresh. “Who did this.”
Her eyes widen at the tone in my voice. “Jax?—”
“Who.” My voice comes out low enough to make Scotch lift his head, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
She gently pushes my hand away. “I’m fine.”
“Tell me.”
“I scraped it getting off Matt’s bike,” she says, her voice steady.
I don’t move. “You expect me to believe that.”
She shifts on the bed.
“I’m gonna kill Matt.”
“Shouldn’t joke around with that anymore, Jax. And he had nothing to do with it. Let it go.”
She slides off the bed and steps closer, her bare feet silent on the floor. She reaches up and presses a quick, soft kiss to my mouth. “I’m fine,” she says softly, her lips brushing mine. “See? Still breathing and everything.”
“Sisk, tell me what happened,” I say, my voice still tight.
She walks back to the bed and pulls the blanket over her legs again, a deliberate dismissal. “All went as planned,” she adds, a little too brightly. “Thanks for asking.”
“The fucking plan doesn’t matter anymore,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes.
She looks back at me. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“My grandfather is running the drugs.”
She freezes, her hand stilling on the blanket. “What?”
