20. Jasmine #2
“Kelly,” he says, voice like gravel. “They killed her. She was in love with Marcus, and strung out on drugs, and they…when she was too much for them to control, Marucs had her killed.” He swallows, hard. “And when I tried to leave they beat me halfway to death.”
Silence hums around us like static. He’s not crying.
But I can see the weight of it—the grief pressed so deep it’s just become part of him.
It makes me want to wrap myself around him, drag him into the dark spiral of my grief.
Make him cry with me, but the look in his eyes tells me that the time to cry is over for him, and for me.
“So no,” he continues. His voice is a low gravel that makes me instinctively want to run and hide. “I’m not going to let you sit here and rot in the wreckage. I’m not going to let you give them one more fucking piece of yourself.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“You did enough, ” he says, cutting through the air between us.
“You did more than anyone should’ve asked of you.
You lied, and you kissed someone you were falling for, and you walked straight into the lion’s den for a man you loved.
That is not failure.” He moves closer, brushing his knuckles down the side of my face with a tenderness that makes my chest twist. “They don’t get your tears, Peach. They’re not worth them.”
He pulls back, just enough to stand. Just enough to tower over me in the low light of the room, broad and unyielding, anger rolling off him in steady waves.
“You’re going to get in the bath,” he says again, firmer now.
“You’re going to wash off this day. You’re going to eat.
And then you’re going to skip the part of grief where you cry on the floor and jump straight to the part where you cut their throats with your fucking teeth.
” I stare at him, chest heaving, throat full of fire and I am enthralled with how much he makes me want to burn myself alive.
“Because they took Tommy. They took someone you love. And now?” He leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Now, baby, we make them pay.”
I stare at him, chest heaving, throat full of fire, and for a second—just a second—I can’t tell if I want to cry or scream or throw myself into him like he’s the last solid thing left in the world.
“I can’t,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Landon… I don’t have anything left. I don’t even know where to start.”
His eyes soften—not weak, never weak—but with that kind of depth that makes you feel like you’re being seen, completely and without judgment.
“You are the girl who reminded me what it is to feel,” he whispers, and my heart is caught in my throat. “So now, I am going to teach you how to be numb, baby.”
Before I can protest, he leans down and lifts me effortlessly into his arms. I don’t fight him. I don’t flinch. My body folds against his instinctively, like it’s always known how to fit there.
His steps are slow but sure as he carries me down the hall and into the bathroom.
The soft hum of the light flickers overhead.
I hear the water turn on—hot, steady, soothing—and then his hands are back on me, gentle as they tug my shirt over my head, in a way that makes me feel precious when I’ve never felt anything but wrecked.
He helps me step into the bath, the water already steaming and laced with something that smells like lavender, salt and firewood—like him.
I sink into it with a sigh that sounds too broken to be mine.
Landon doesn’t leave. He kneels beside the tub, sleeves pushed up, and picks up the sponge with one hand, cupping water and pouring it over my shoulders like he’s washing something sacred.
He washes me carefully, and I take my time being completely sad, feeling every emotion I can.
Holding my breath when I realize that Willow may never forgive me for my crimes.
That I have lost the man I considered my father, and my best friend, but that pain is held in my chest. I’ll unleash it later. I can’t do that now.
After, Landon is quiet. He offers me a towel without a word, wrapping it around my shoulders when I don’t reach for it fast enough. His fingers are careful, always careful, as he squeezes the water gently from my hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head like it’s a prayer.
He doesn't ask me to talk.
Doesn’t expect anything.
He just stays around in a way no one has before. Most people leave, but I know he’s not too far away from me. He can’t handle the distance, and for some deranged reason it brings me comfort.
By the time I step out of the bathroom, skin flushed warm and clean for the first time in days, the apartment smells like butter and cheese. The kind of smell that makes your stomach turn with hunger even when your heart still feels hollow.
He’s in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, one hand pressed to the skillet handle and the other holding a spatula like he’s preparing for war. I watch him for a minute. Watch the way he moves. The way his hair hangs in his eyes, the way his tattoos flex every time he shifts his grip on the handle.
There’s a single plate on the counter—grilled cheese, cut diagonally. A glass of cold water. A folded napkin.
He doesn’t look at me when he speaks.
“Eat all of it,” he says simply. “You need strength for murder.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, I pad over, pick up the plate, and take a slow bite. The bread is perfectly crisp. The cheese is gooey and rich and slightly salty, and it melts on my tongue like it was made just for me.
I eat in silence while he cleans the pan, wipes the counter, dries his hands on a rag. Then he disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes, and when I follow, still chewing the last bite, I find an outfit already laid out on the bed.
Black jeans. My combat boots. One of my cropped tanks. A leather jacket— his leather jacket.
Landon doesn’t say anything when I step into the doorway.
He just nods toward the clothes.
“You’re going to give them exactly what they deserve, Peach.”