Chapter 22 Violet
VIOLET
Okay, no smiling for the foreseeable future. Add it to the list, right next to breathing. Got it.
“What the fuck?” a low voice murmurs.
I realize I’m staring at the ground, so I peek up, forcing my swollen eyelid to lift for a second longer.
“Jagger!” Ford yells. “Get your ass out here!”
Hurried footsteps manage to cut through the throbbing pain that’s been demanding ninety-nine percent of my attention since the moment my dad’s fist connected with my cheekbone. I try to blink away the swelling and force a smile at a stunned Ford when his oldest brother comes into view.
“What the fuck?” Jagger growls. It’s less confused than Ford’s sentiment and more…
lethal, almost. Like he’s already plotting the demise of whoever did this to me.
“Ford, give us a minute,” he orders. Ford retreats into the house until I’m left alone with the one and only Jagger Harden.
The same black orbs threaten to swallow me whole as he stares at me, unsure what to do.
I lick my split lip, wincing. “I, uh,” I swallow past the metallic tang in my mouth. “I didn’t know where else to go.” It’s nothing but a whisper, and I hate how I can’t even look him in the eye, let alone see past the blur painting my vision.
Jagger isn’t my friend. He isn’t my confidante. He’s…he’s an asshole. He’s someone who doesn’t look at people like they’re human, yet here I am. On his doorstep. Wanting to cry and run and hide and…
Suck it up, Violet!
Except I can’t. I’m so tired. My head throbs.
My mouth throbs. My eyes throb. My side throbs.
Everything. Hurts. And it’s not only my face and my ribs.
But my soul, too. Does it make me weak? Probably.
Not that it matters. None of it does. I freaking hate it.
But it’s true. I didn't know where else to go.
And what does that say about me? What can I do?
“Come on, Little Thief.” Careful not to hurt me, Jagger wraps his arms around my shoulders, helping me inside. “Let’s get you fixed up.”
It’s cleaner than before. The floor. Last time, it was littered with discarded red Solo cups, beer bottle caps, and the occasional condom wrapper. Now, it’s nothing but freshly mopped, dark stained hardwood.
“What happened?” someone demands. Hawke, I think, though I’m too distracted by the pain to bother looking and confirming my assumption.
“I’m fine,” I mumble.
“Give us some space. I’ve got her.” Jagger loops his arm beneath my knees, keeping the opposite around my shoulders as he lifts me and cradles me to his chest.
With a sharp inhale, I try to breathe through the jostling no matter how gentle Jagger is, but shit, it hurts. Seriously, my ribs feel like they’re on fire.
“You good?” he asks.
I don’t bother answering his question. I’m far from good. Obviously. I feel like I was run over by a truck. Instead, I shift against his chest, surprised by how comfortable it is compared to standing, but I’d never admit it out loud. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Carrying you.”
“I can walk.”
“Want to get there by tomorrow,” he says, with an almost endearing dryness. “Let me take care of you, all right?”
Take care of me? No one wants to take care of me. The idea alone is enough to make me want to cry. I didn’t come here to be taken care of. I came here to… Why am I here? I shouldn’t be here.
As if he can feel my reservations and the way I’m seriously second-guessing the decision to show up here, he rasps, “I got you, Vi.”
Giving in, I tuck my head against the crook of his neck and nod, too exhausted to fight it. My thoughts. My indecision. Everything. “Okay,” I breathe out.
We make it up the stairs, passing Hawke’s room and a small study, finally reaching a large bedroom.
It must be his. Jagger walks through it to the connecting bathroom and sets me on the counter as if I’m made of broken glass.
“You good?” he asks. He keeps his hands on my waist on the off chance I keel over right here and now.
Then again, with how I feel, it’s not an entirely ridiculous assumption.
I force myself to nod. “I’m good.”
His gaze bounces around my face as if he doesn’t believe me before forcing himself to let me go. “Where does it hurt?”
“Ribs, and…” I lift my hand and motion to my face.
“Got it.” Gently, he clasps my chin with his thumb and forefinger, inspecting my mouth, nose, and the raccoon eyes I know I’m sporting thanks to the glimpse I caught of myself in my rearview mirror in my car before I finally managed to knock on Jagger’s door.
“Trust me,” he murmurs. It isn’t a request, but I lift my face a little higher as he carefully runs his forefingers along both sides of my nose. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
I don’t think so, either. If it was, the scent of his cologne wouldn’t fill my nostrils, and I’d be more focused on the pain instead of just how close Jagger is.
He skates his fingertips beneath the hollows of my eyes, following the bruising I know is there.
All things considered, it shouldn’t feel good, but it does.
His touch. Or maybe I’m so starved for gentleness, I’ll take it wherever I can get it.
Guess that says more about me than it does him, and it’s best I remember it.
Somehow, his already black gaze seems to darken even more. “Who did this to you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
His eyes drift to mine. “Who did this to you, Vi?”
There are rules in The Drift. They might not be written down anywhere, but they’re there nonetheless.
And one of them is simple. What happens in The Drift stays in The Drift.
You don’t go running to Harden Heights for help.
You don’t go running to their politicians or their police or their people, and you sure as hell don’t go to their crowned princes themselves.
They’ll only find a way to use it against you.
But for some reason I can’t explain, maybe it’s an accumulation of the haunted house and the run-in with my dad and the drive here and the feel of Jagger’s calloused hands on my busted up face, but I’m too tired to fight it.
To lie or to deflect. Tomorrow, maybe. But tonight? Tonight, I can’t do it anymore.
“He, uh, he got mad he lost a bet,” I whisper.
Recognition dawns on him. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“Don’t.” I reach for his wrist and keep Jagger close. “He’s nothing more than a pathetic old man who only knows how to pick fights with people who are smaller than him. He isn’t worth your time.”
“Debatable.”
“He isn’t,” I push. Lifting my gaze from his chest, I peer up at Jagger. “Promise me.”
“Little Thief.”
“Promise me,” I beg.
“If he touches you again…” His voice trails off, but it doesn’t take a genius to piece together what he’s putting down.
“He won’t,” I tell him.
“And how do you know that?”
“Because he won’t.” It’s not an answer. I know this. But even so, it’s the only assurance I can offer.
Jagger’s nostrils flare, but he lets me go and searches the top drawer for something. Washcloth in hand, he turns on the faucet, soaking the terrycloth in cold water, then brings it to my mouth. When it connects with my split lip, a hiss escapes me.
“I knew I should’ve pushed her on the move-in date,” he mutters.
My brows pull as I register his words. Move-in date? How would he know about my move-in date? And who would he push? “What did you say?” I ask.
Jagger shakes his head. “Nothing.” He dips the wash cloth into the water. Pink swirls down the drain as he lifts it back to my mouth, treating my wounds like a seasoned doctor. “Looks like most of the bleeding has stopped.”
“Yeah, my shirt did a good job catching the excess on the drive over,” I joke.
He doesn’t find it very funny.
His focus sweeps across my body. “Can you hold this?” he asks.
I assume he’s talking about the washcloth, so I nod and take it from him, replacing his hand with mine.
When our fingers brush against each other, I fight the urge to pull away, surprised I can still find a way to be affected by the bastard, even in the worst of times.
You know, like when I’ve had the shit kicked out of me.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises. But he doesn’t leave. Not until I nod.
Satisfied, Jagger disappears from my line of sight, and I look around the bathroom.
It’s so…neat. And tidy. And…masculine, I guess?
Dark tile. Clean countertops. A single towel hangs on a hook outside a shower.
Inside is exactly one bottle of shampoo, one bottle of body wash, and one bottle of conditioner.
All of which have matching, expensive labels I could never afford.
Not a single watermark taints the glass or mirror.
Everything’s in pristine condition. So pristine, I can’t help but feel like I’m dirtying the entire place with my presence.
Jagger returns with a large black T-shirt and a bag of frozen peas in his hands. “Here.” He sets them beside my hip on the counter.
“You were fast,” I note, unsure why I can’t look him in the eye.
“Hawke brought up the peas while I was looking for a change of clothes.”
“Oh.”
He reaches for the washcloth still pressed to my mouth and nose, careful not to make the problem worse than it already is. I hand it over, and he tosses it into the sink, then gives me another once-over. “Do you want to shower?”
The suggestion is enough to seep the last of my energy, and my body sags even more on the bathroom counter. “Honestly, I just want to…sleep,” I admit.
His head bobs in understanding. “You should at least change into a clean shirt.”
I look down at the blood staining the same, threadbare T-shirt I sleep in most nights. “Probably a good idea.”
“Do you think you can handle it on your own?”
His question hangs in the air. Can I change by myself? The answer should be simple, but my body feels heavy and sore and…it’s not like I have any other choice.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Yeah, I’m sure I can handle it.”
“I’ll be outside.”