Page 25 of Life Or Death

Spare her the pain of looking at me and let Tori handle things from here on out.

After all, that was the fucking deal.

But the only thing worse than watching my wife suffer, is the thought of walking away from her.

Her eyelids grow heavy, and her breathing slows—a sure sign the morphine is pulling her under again. Part of me is relieved. At least in sleep, she can’t wish for death.

Her breathing evens out, and the machines continue their steady, rhythmic beeping. I sit there in the silence, watching her sleep, and for the first time in my life, I feel the full weight of every sin I’ve ever committed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JESS

The darkness swallows me whole when I wake, and for one merciful second, I forget. Then the pain hits, a burning ache that crawls from my toes to my thighs, reminding me I’m still here. Alive and trapped in this broken body, married to a man I barely know.

I blink, willing my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room, and my gaze drifts to the chair beside my bed—the one where Lucifer sat, watching over me with those dark, unreadable eyes.

It’s empty now, and his absence leaves me feeling conflicted. He married me while I was unconscious, suffering from a trauma he caused. He may not have been the one to light the match, but I’m no fool. He’s the president of an outlaw motorcycle club. He has a million enemies and a bounty on his head. Whoever threw that bomb into the bar wanted to hurt him, and I’m the one who paid the price.

Now I’m indebted to a man who’s always looked at me like I was nothing more than an inconvenience. I’m supposed to be grateful he gave me his name so I can live and stay trapped in a body that will never be the same. I wonder how long it will be before I’m expected to get on my knees for him.

Men like Lucifer don’t do anything without expecting something in return.

I press my fingers against my face, tracing the rough ridges of stitches that cut across my forehead. It’s the least of the damage, and maybe that’s what I should be thankful for. I don’t mean to sound vain, but my face has always helped pay the bills. From the moment I started working as a bartender, it earned me tips, and it’s made men look twice when I poured their drinks.

My personality sealed the deal. I was good at reading people and making them feel seen. I built a life on a pretty face and a welcoming smile, and now I’ve lost both things.

What am I supposed to do now?

I’m twenty-three years old, and my life is over. One flaming bottle, and I’m in a position I fought so hard to never be in. One that leaves me dependent on others and at the mercy of a man.

Just like my mother.

I meant it when I told Lucifer he should’ve let me die.

Death is a million times better than this.

I lose track of time. The days and nights all blur together, and I’m not sure if that’s because I’m so doped up on pain meds or if I’m just depressed. It’s probably a combination of both, and yet there is no end in sight.

Tori was hopeful that my mood would change once I was transferred to the new hospital, but honestly, it feels like I swapped one prison for another. The room is somewhat different here, though. Smaller, but brighter, with a window that lets in sunlight.

“Okay, I think that’s everything,” Tori says, jarring my attention back to her. She’s been talking nonstop since she arrived an hour ago, unpacking a duffel bag she brought from our apartment. Every few minutes, she holds something up—a framed photo, a throw blanket, my favorite pillow—and waits for me to react.

“Wait, I almost forgot.” She spins around and makes her way to the cubby where she hung my clothes. Lounge sets I’m not sure when I’ll ever wear since my attire consists of hospital gowns. She grabs her purse and pulls out a stack of drawings. “Poppy made these for you. She gave me specific instructions to tape them to the walls so you can see them when you wake up and know she’s missing your pancakes.”

My heart clenches at that, but I can’t summon the energy to react. Instead, my gaze drops to the thick bandages wrapped around my legs.

Yesterday, the nurses changed my dressings, and for the first time since I woke up, I allowed myself to take in the damage. Raw, angry skin stretched taut over my calves, patches of pink, red, and white stitched together from parts of myself that weren’t meant to be there. The sight made me gag, and I had to look away before I threw up.

Could you imagine how a twelve-year-old girl would react?

Tori hums softly as she tapes the last drawing to the wall. When she finishes, she steps back to admire her handiwork, then turns to me with an expectant smile.

I stare at the drawings but can’t summon the appropriate reaction.

“Hey.” Tori’s voice softens as she crosses the room and lowers herself onto the foot of my bed, carefully avoiding my legs. “Talk to me, Jess.”

I shake my head, my throat tightening. The words won’t come, and even if they did, what would I say? That I’m drowning? That I wish the fire had taken me completely? That I’m terrified of what comes next?