Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jax
Kira Noland is pretty when she sleeps. She’s pretty all the time, even when she’s clammy and pale or angry and stubborn.
She was even pretty when I held her unconscious body in my arms. But there’s something special about seeing her at peace.
Her lashes rest against her cheeks, dark and soft, and the line between her brows is gone.
The doctor says the procedure went flawlessly, but that the twilight sedation would take a bit to wear off. I take this opportunity to watch her, to run my fingertips up and down her arm, to just be with her before she never wants to see my face again.
Because she’s going to hate me.
Detective Layton has something—or enough to get something. But honestly, he doesn’t need much. A judge will approve just about any warrant for a case that involves an officer. There are all types of strings that get pulled behind closed doors, and without James, there’s no way of tugging back.
I only have one option left to protect Kira. One that ensures Layton gets nothing.
But I don’t think she will forgive me.
Sighing, I drag a hand down my face. Everything in me feels the need to ask her permission, but she will only tell me no. And while I can live with her hating me, I can’t live with her behind bars.
“Hunter…”
I look up. She’s awake—sort of. Her eyes are half-lidded, lashes fluttering like she’s still dreaming.
“Hey.” I sit forward in the chair I’ve been glued to for the past two hours. “You with me?”
“Hunter…” she says again.
I blink.
What?
Is she calling me that?
I lean in. “What did you say?”
Her arm shifts enough to lift her hand a few inches off the blanket. She points at me with an unsteady finger. “Hunter.”
My jaw tightens.
Hunter.
Some other guy’s name doesn’t get to show up in her mouth while she’s drugged and pliant. Who the fuck is Hunter?!
“No.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m Jax.” And I’m going to kill whoever the fuck Hunter is. This is really the first guy that comes to her mind when waking up? My heart does a sagging thing in my chest.
Her eyelids droop, then flutter back open. She frowns like I’m being difficult on purpose. Then she nods, slow and solemn, like she’s solved a riddle.
“You kill rabbits,” she slurs.
My brows come together. “…Rabbits?”
“Little sad eyes.” She pouts. “You kill them.”
The dots finally connect, and I laugh as relief floods me. She doesn’t mean Hunter. She means hunter like camo and a rifle.
“No, buttercup. I kill people.” I smile brightly. “Not rabbits.”
She whines, which only makes me laugh harder.
“That’s worse,” she mumbles, and then smacks her lips together like she’s thirsty. “Your hand is warm.”
I glance down, and my thumb is brushing lazy circles over her knuckles like a habit I’ve always had. I don’t let go.
“They gave you some nice stuff,” I mutter, watching her struggle to keep her eyes open. “Bet this is the first time you’ve been relaxed in your whole life.”
She huffs. It might be a laugh. Or maybe she’s annoyed that I’m still talking. Hard to tell with her like this, with her sedated and soft, edges blurred and sharp tongue on pause. It’s unnerving.
“You’ve been watching me sleep,” she whispers.
“And enjoying every minute of it.”
She hums like that’s an amusing answer. Her fingers twitch in mine, then go still again, and I watch her for a moment. Her messy hair splayed across the hospital pillow, her face slack with exhaustion, but calm now. Peaceful. And she’s going to need it, considering what’s coming.
“Hey,” I say, quieter now. “You scared the shit out of me, you know that?”
She doesn’t respond. I don’t think she’s asleep yet, but she’s close.
“You don’t get to do that again.” My voice cracks, and I clear it. “Collapse like that.”
I cut myself off before I say too much. Before I tell her I thought she was dying. Before I admit I begged the nurse for a fucking update like a pathetic… boyfriend? I don’t even know what we are—what she’ll allow—but regardless, she’s mine.
“I’m fine,” she murmurs suddenly, even though her eyes are still closed.
“You’re not.”
“I will be.”
And there it is. That stubborn little edge buried under the drugs. It soothes me, and I lean back in the chair but don’t let go of her hand. “And you will be in my bed when you get out of here,” I say, sure she won’t remember how true my words are come morning.
“You wish,” she slurs.
I don’t tell her that I don’t have to wish when I know it as a fact.
Because Kira Noland won’t have a bed of her own pretty soon.
She’s not even going to have a house.