Chapter Eighteen
Jax
Bleeding and going on seventy-two hours with no sleep, all because I wanted to give a girl a ride home.
And what kind of girl closes up a bar by herself and walks home alone at four a.m.?
Fucking Kira Noland, that’s who. The idea that she’s been doing this for years almost makes me wish she had stabbed me deeper; at least then I would have some peace of mind that she could hold her own.
I’m not saying she didn’t put up a fight, but she couldn’t stop me, and I wasn’t even trying to hurt her.
“You’re getting blood everywhere,” she huffs from the passenger seat.
I raise a brow and glance down. Dark red drips into the seams of the seat belt, and I track the smears to the key in the ignition and my bloody prints on the touchscreen. I shrug as my hand slips in it, turning the wheel. “Nothing my car hasn’t seen before,” I say.
She rolls her eyes but leans over the center console. “Just let me look at it.” She sounds exasperated, even though she’s the one who did it.
“Feelin’ guilty?” My cheek lifts as she paws at my shirt, trying to push up my sleeve.
“No. You’re driving, and I don’t want you to faint from blood loss at the wheel.”
That’s a stretch, considering I can feel plenty of blood in my system—pumping straight down my pants at her proximity.
Her fingertips are gentle, and I have no problem letting her do what she needs to feel better about stabbing me.
Even if I have to clench my jaw to stop from pulling her into my lap.
She would probably hit me, and then we really would crash.
“It’s deep.” Her voice is quiet, and I don’t have to take my eyes off the road to hear the frown in it.
“I’m fine, buttercup.” She doesn’t need to worry about me. I’ve been stabbed, shot, strangled, broken, and concussed. Name it, and I’ve handled it.
She clicks her tongue and pulls her own sleeve down, wrapping it around her finger and dabbing at the wound. “Do you have any gauze in here?”
“Do I look like the type to carry a first aid kit?” I angle my chin down, her hair tickling my face.
Her lip twitches. “Right. You only carry gasoline to burn bodies.”
Is that—is that a smile she’s trying to suppress?
Well, fuck me. I’ll take a stab any night to see that.
I drink it in, unable to control my own grin as she examines my shoulder.
She really is gorgeous, even if she is exceptionally pale right now.
The urge to start a line and give her my blood fills me.
She could drain me dry, and I’d die a happy man just to see some color in her cheeks.
“I think you need stitches,” she sighs, pressing the fabric of her sleeve against the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
Tensing at the touch—which is more from her touch than pain—I force my gaze back to the road. “And I think you need rest,” I say. “How much did you make tonight, anyway?” My jaw flexes.
It couldn’t have been worth it—if the deep circles under her eyes are any indicator.
“Two-hundred,” she says too quickly, falling back in her seat and looking out the window, my wound all but forgotten, her defenses back up.
“Huh,” I grunt. “That’s not bad.”
If it were true.
“Nope,” she chirps, still not looking at me. “It was a good night. Well, until you showed up.”
“Yeah.” I nod as if in agreement, going along with her obvious charade. “It was a good night for me too, you know… until I got stabbed.”
“Grazed.”
“You said it needed stitches.”
“I lied. It barely needs a bandaid.” She folds her arms tightly over her chest, a small scowl on her lips as she keeps her gaze out the window.
I can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes me, an actual tear springing to my eye. “Wow,” I sputter. “You are a terrible liar, all things considered.”
She sears me with an irritated look, but I press on.
“Oh, come on,” I try to stifle my laughter. “How much did you really make?”
She’s quiet for a moment but eventually sighs, her fingers toying with the bloody end of her sleeve. “Eighty-seven.”
Eighty-seven bucks. Four a.m. Walking home alone in the dark for eighty-seven goddamn dollars. My hands tighten on the wheel, fresh blood slicking between my fingers.
“That’s it?” My voice comes out even despite my agitation.
“Not all of us can kill for a living,” she says sharply.
I clench my jaw and exhale through my nose, loosening my grip before I rip the wheel off.
She’s going to throw that in my face until the end of time.
If she only knew that at least I’m merciful, because everyone else in this business relishes the kill.
Like Arnold. Every job is an opportunity for him to get his kicks in.
With him, there’s no simple bullet to the chest, no sedated strangulation.
He likes to break people, toy with them, and have his way—have them praying for death before he actually serves it.
It’s sick. And it’s only a matter of time before Kira meets him.
She really can’t be walking home alone anymore.
“Listen,” I say as I pull us in front of her place. “We have to talk.”
But her fingers are already coiled around the door handle, and I haven’t even cut the engine yet.
“I got the memo earlier,” she says and opens the door. “We don’t need to go over it again. I’m not going to pin anything on you.”
“This isn’t about that,” I growl and lean over her, pulling the door shut with a thud. “We have a different problem.”
She groans, falling back in her seat. “God, can’t we get a break?” She blows out a breath that warms my cheek. “I’m running on fumes.”
I pause in front of her, amused by her emphasis, and angle my face just slightly. “I’ll try to pencil one into our schedule.”
She stiffens, and my eyes fall on her lips. Jesus, she’s tempting. She licks them, just barely, but I catch it. It’s the kind of unconscious movement that tells me she’s thinking the same thing I am, even if she doesn’t want to. Even if she’s fighting it with everything she’s got.
“Um,” she murmurs, fingers tightening around the door handle again, but I don’t move back. I don’t give her space. I don’t want to. I want to know what she tastes like.
She sucks in a breath, her gaze flicking to my shoulder—where I can feel a fresh flood of blood from my movement. “You should really take care of that.” Her voice shakes.
She’s trying to divert my attention, but I could be choking on my last breath, and I still wouldn’t be able to look away.
She has me hooked, lured in. She’s a rabbit, I’m a wolf, and I’m starving.
Kira Noland has me ready to pounce when I normally have more control.
Maybe just a taste will satisfy me. I’m sure she’ll punch me for it, but it would be worth it if it can quell this insane need.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I brush my knuckles against her jaw, skimming away her hair before palming her cheek. She’s cold. Not enough blood flow. I will the warmth of my hand into her, sure that her lips will feel like ice too, and I don’t hesitate as I lean in, desperate to warm her.
“Just a taste…” I whisper.
She stills, but she doesn’t bat me away.
Tentatively, I press my burning lips against hers.
She parts for me, and I bring her bottom lip between mine.
Soft. So soft, but so cold. I want to ignite her with the fever she’s given me, tuck her against me so she’s never cold again.
Without thinking, my hand slips behind her neck, and I pull her into me. She gasps into my mouth.
I swallow it.
I swallow her.