Chapter Twenty-Five
Jackson
Ishould bail out. That's what I always do with her when she's a crying, senseless mess.
A man like me doesn't have time for redundant things like breaking down.
In prison, you get killed for less. In prison, I have killed for less.
Perhaps she really is giving up the pursuit to save her own life.
If that's the case, I'm a little disappointed.
It's been entertaining to watch all the ways she tries to trick me into saying yes.
She curls herself even more tightly, like some timid creature. I fight the urge to comfort her. To let her know that she’s better than her trauma. Unlike me. But why would she feel safe with me when I just told her I can’t let her live?
Her wound is still bleeding, but instead of on me, the blood is getting all over Gateley’s carpet.
I hover between the door and her. In front of me is the coward’s way out.
One that allows me to break what emotional restraints Madelyn has placed in my mind.
But all I can think of is getting her off that fucking carpet and, at least, into the warmth of a comfortable bed. Dumb bastard, I think to myself.
Before I can stop myself, I make my way back over to her. Leaning down, my hands brush against the back of her head. Her hair feels soft as I twirl a few strands around my fingers.
Her body flinches at my touch, and even more tears fall.
My jaw tightens at the way she shuns me. Although warranted, it falls on deaf ears. I scoop her up like a little kid and am met with a fist to my shoulder. Pain radiates down my arm; the effect allows me to hold on to her tighter.
Madelyn flails around until I toss her onto the bed. She jerks herself into a sitting position as soon as her ass connects to the sheets, as if that will stop me from anything.
I point a finger at her. “Stay,” I order, my voice coming out harsh. When is she going to learn that if I want to touch her, I will? If I want to fuck her, there’s no other option? And if I want to kill her, there is no way out?
My eyes scan the floor for the platter that I know houses medical aid.
Even though I stitched myself up in Gateley’s office, the thought occurred more than once to stitch up Madelyn as well.
When we meet Oliver, she needs to look in good shape, just like I promised.
But also…too much blood loss…well, we can’t have that.
Finding the first aid kit, I bring it over to a still Madelyn.
She looks me up and down until finally landing on the kit in my hand.
“Why even bother?” she sniffles. Her fingers poke at her wound, causing a section of skin to break away.
I force down a growl at how she hurt herself.
“You wound me. Then break me. And now you want to mend it all back together?” Her wet eyes meet mine.
“Why? When you are going to shatter me so badly, there’s no coming back? ”
My hands fumble with the kit, eventually opening the plastic clasp.
Because you are so beautiful when you are mended together with imperfections.
And even more so when I find cracks in you to break…
is what I want to say. But if I do, Madelyn will just keep going on and on.
I need her to be quiet. I need her to shut the fuck up.
Because I fear the more, she keeps running her mouth, the farther I’m going to fall.
For her, that would be even worse than death.
I take all the tools out of the kit and lay them gently on the bed and reply with the only thing I know will clamp her up.
“Do you think Oliver would give me top dollar for you if his product is still leaking bodily fluids?” I say, not believing the question I had just asked.
I don’t think Oliver would give a shit, but maybe I do.
My muscles tense. Maybe I just can’t stand to see her hurt. Not like this.
Grabbing the alcohol bottle from the lineup, I unscrew the lid and wait to see if my words had the desired impact.
“If you are truly only doing this for Oliver, you are wasting your time and effort,” she says with her lips in a thin line and her mind lost in thought.
I close my eyes for a second to shut down the thoughts of torture floating around in my head. Madelyn just doesn’t stop. “Is that so?”
She opens her mouth to speak, and I use that opportunity to pour the alcohol directly over her wound.
She scoots away and puts space between us for all of two seconds.
That’s how long it takes for me to feel the shift of her fleeting presence before pulling her back to me.
My hand snatches her wrist. “I cut you to get Oliver’s attention.
He didn’t want to listen otherwise.” I place her arm at an angle so that the skin around the cut comes close to touching.
She tries to pull away, but I just grip her tighter.
“It worked. So, cutting you was not a wasted effort. Neither is this.”
I use my other hand to prepare the suture and needle. “Now, because I’m feeling a tad sympathetic, I’ll give you a choice of pain management before I start.” I nod toward the platters. “Vodka or pot.”
“Vodka, asshole.” Madelyn glares at me.
My eyebrows raise up, and I let her go in order to grab the bottle. I don’t know why, but I fully expected her to choose the pot. Taking the half-empty bottle, I make my way back.
“Give it here,” she says with no emotion whatsoever.
I smile and bring the drink to my lips, downing over half of it. “Just a few swings ought to be enough,” I say while holding it out to her.