I swallow hard. My whole body pulses.
“But you do not go behind my back to fuck yourself in my bed again. Understand?”
I hum in acknowledgment.
He steps in and snatches my hand, and the crutch doesn’t even wobble, just hangs there held by his magic. I barely register it because he’s already shoving my fingers into his mouth, his tongue hot and rough as he makes this low “mmm” sound in his throat, sucking off every trace of me. It’s so fucking filthy, the way he’s savoring it, his teeth scraping against my skin. He pulls back with a wet pop, his lips glistening. “Is this the kind of game you want to play?”
My voice is a shattered whisper. “Yes.”
He takes a long, slow drag from his cigarette, then leans in, and blows the smoke directly into my face. I cough, my eyes watering, but he doesn't back up an inch. His free hand comes up to grip my jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make a point. Then he presses the filter to my lips. “Breathe it in,” he says, his voice a low rumble. I do, deep and slow, the smoke filling my lungs, a strange calm settling over the chaos. He watches my exhale, his thumb stroking the corner of my mouth.
“Bed. Now.” His voice leaves no room for argument. He turns me by the shoulders and lands a sharp, stinging slap on my ass. “Don’t ever pull shit like that again without my permission.” I do as I’m told, walking away with a grin I can’t wipe off my face.
Thirty-One
THEN | JAX
We’re all sitting when Mom finally decides to make her entrance—dressed like it’s my goddamn wedding day. Floor-length silk. Her hair twisted up into some complicated knot on her head.
Sisk takes one look at her and immediately tries to shrink into herself, like an animal that suddenly wishes it had evolved a shell.Not a good first impression. Of either of them, to each other.
I clear my throat, trying to cut through the ice that’s forming fast enough to give you frostbite. “Mom, this is Sisk.”
She turns to her like she’s just been handed a stray cat she’s not sure she wants to pet. “Sisk?” she repeats. “That’s an unusual name, isn’t it? Is that a nickname or…”
Sisk straightens in her chair, a flicker of defiance in her spine. “First name. Last name’s even less usual—Zaitseva.” She says it like she’s ripping off a band-aid. “Fun fact, it means hare. Rabbit. My last name, I mean. My parents moved here when my sister was born. I was born in Tar City, though. So…” She shrugs, a little too casual. “Guess I’m local too.”
Mom studies her like a riddle she’s already decided isn’t worth the effort to solve. “I see,” she says.
The doors swing open and Oliver steps in with the first course. He nods toward my mother, but doesn’t speak.
I glance at the tray, half-hoping for one of my favorites—maybe the burrata with blood-orange glaze, or the duck crostini. But no, of course not, it’s my mother’s favorite instead. Steak tartare, stacked like some kind of fucked-up sculpture. Quail yolk cradled on top. Brioche toast points cut into perfect little triangles.
I scoop some onto a toast, press the back of my fork into it. Same ritual I’ve done since I was six.
Across the table, Sisk stares at her plate like it might still be alive and plotting its escape. “Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian,” my father says. “We can get something else brought out?—”
Her hand freezes midair.
Shit.
I nudge her foot under the table. She startles and looks up. I tilt my fork. Scoop. Press. Bite. She watches, registers the move. Her shoulders fall a fraction. She copies me, a little clumsy, but she does it.
Good rabbit, I think, out of nowhere. The words just land in my head. Weird, but kind of perfect. I wish I could say it, just to see what she’d do. Probably blush, or stab me with her fork, maybe both.
We’re seated formally across from each other like we’re in a damn royal court—napkins on laps, posture perfect, pretending this isn’t the most awkward dinner of all time.
She swallows. “Oh—no,” she says, a little too quick, mid-chew. “I eat meat. I mean… this is Tar City.” Then she adds, “Half the neighborhoods stinks like blood and bleach. There’s a butcher shop on every corner. You grow up here, you either eat meat or you starve. I was taught young to never ask what’s in the sausage.” It almost lands as a joke.Almost.She tries to laugh,but it comes out more like an exhale. “I’m not picky. This is just… fancy.”
Mom’s wineglass stills halfway to her mouth. She watches everything: every twitch, every syllable, like a hawk in a silk dress.
“So, Sisk,” my father says casually, like he’s just making conversation, “what are your plans after graduation?”
I see the question hit her sideways. I answer for her before she can fumble it. “She’s a dancer. I told you already. Atlantic Academy. Full ride.”
My father lifts his glass. “Is that so? That’s quite an achievement.”
“It is,” I say.
