Chapter 15
Fifteen
NOW | JAX
The door slams hard as the lights flicker—black, white, black—before dying down to that dim, hazy glow they always have.
The tar stirs and I feel a pressure inside my own skull. A voice that isn’t mine, slithering through the tar in my veins. It’s primal, guttural, the sound of oil bubbling in a hot pan.
DON’T FORGET… IF YOU DON’T OBEY…
I stop breathing.
…SHE WILL PAY.
“Touch her and I’ll burn this whole fucking city to the ground,” I snarl, but the words are useless. The voice isn’t listening.
The tar can’t fucking touch me. It’s already seen every trick I’ve pulled on myself, every scar I’ve carved just to feel something. It knows I’m a lost cause. So it goes for her. She’s the one soft spot left, and the tar knows that’s the only goddamn way to make me obey now.
I take three steps toward the mirror behind the bar and stop.
A fucking monster looks back at me, a creature so soaked in blood and tar I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
My shirt is stiff with it. My hands are painted with it.
I wipe my palms on my jeans, but nothing comes off.
Not the blood. Not the dark power. Not the memory of her bleeding out in my arms, and my throat closes up like a fist.
I grab the closest bottle, uncork it, and take a brutal swallow that burns all the way down.
The whiskey does nothing to wash away the image of her, so I shove myself down the hallway and into the bathroom.
I watch as her blood circles the drain, and I whisper to the tar inside me—the magic that never sleeps, never forgives: “She will dance again. I don’t care what I have to do.
” It hums back—pleased, as if it’s been waiting for me to finally break.
* * *
A nurse glances up as I slip past the automatic door. She sees the exhaustion on my face and looks away instead of stopping me. Smart.
I find her room number on the board. 309.
I knock once, don’t wait for shit, and just push in. Sisk is lying on the bed, wearing a thin hospital gown, swallowed by white sheets. Her leg is hidden, but I can see the brace bulging under the blanket—evidence of damage I can’t take back. She looks small. Fragile. Broken.
The door behind me opens and my father walks in. He doesn’t look at me and goes straight for her chart, all business.
“Did you fix her?”
“She’s alive,” he replies without warmth.
My stomach knots. “Will she fully recover?”
He exhales, irritated by the hope in my question. “She’ll need extensive physical therapy. Three to six months. There’s no guarantee she’ll regain full range. Scar tissue could limit extension. Running and advanced movement are… uncertain.”
He never says the word dance but the word detonates in the room without being spoken.
I sag into a chair. I didn’t just hurt her leg, I broke her life.
My father doesn’t notice. Or he does, and doesn’t care.
“The PT,” I rasp. “Here?”
He pauses. “Does she have insurance?”
“I’ll cover it.”
He snorts. “With what? Beer tips?”
My rage spikes and the machines beep faster. My voice cracks open: “Answer. The. Question.”
Sisk stirs, and her eyelids fight to lift. “Jax?” Her voice is thin, frayed at the edges.
The doctor steps closer. “You need rest. We’ll discuss your prognosis later.”
He walks out like she’s a complication—not a girl whose world he shattered with a sentence.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
Her lip trembles. “Am I going to dance again?” she whispers. Her voice is hope fighting death.
My lungs seize. “Yes.”
Her eyes sharpen—cutting straight through me. “Jax. The truth.”
“I’m going to fix this,” I whisper.
She turns her face away. “I want you to leave,” she says.
“Sisk—”
“Go, Jax.” Her voice is final. “You’ve done enough.”
I can’t even fucking argue. I want to hit something, to smash a face into the pavement, but there’s no one to blame.
There’s only me. I’m the only one who deserves to suffer for this.
She’s finally seeing me for what I am, and she’s right.
Nothing else matters right now. All that matters is making her whole again and making sure this never happens again.
I’ll do whatever it takes. If that means finding a way to put myself in the ground for good, then so be it.
* * *
Three days of no sleep, of her not wanting me in the room, of me not being able to do a damn thing but wait. By the time the nurse came in with the discharge papers, I’ve worn a groove in the waiting room floor.
I find Sisk half-awake, her face wiped clean. All the fire, all the fight, just gone. She looks like a stranger, someone emptied out and left vacant. She’s staring at the wall, but she turns her head when I push the door open.
“I told you I don’t want to see you,” she says exhausted.
“I know.”
“So why are you here?” Her eyes are unfocused.
“I’m taking you home.”
She sits up higher. “They discharged me? Did they send a message to my dad? Maybe Millie can help, they have a hospital car service don’t they?”
“You know damn well the runners won’t be back from the outer districts until nightfall,” I say, my voice rough. “And I already talked to Millie.”
Her head snaps toward me. “You did?”
“Yes. She’s staying with your parents.”
“What?” Her breath catches in her throat.
“You can’t go home, Sisk. Three flights of stairs. No elevator. No weight-bearing for six weeks.” I gesture at her leg. “You can’t get to the bathroom. You can’t do this alone.”
Humiliation colors her cheeks. She hates pity more than pain. “I’ll figure it out,” she whispers.
“You don’t have to. You come home with me. I’ll carry you. I’ll get you to PT. I’ll do the work. One month. Until the next full moon. After that, you never have to see me again.”
Her voice breaks on a single word: “Why?”
“Because I’m the one who put you in here,” I say. “So I’m the one who gets you out.”
“I’m not your fucking motorcycle, you don’t get to fix me because you broke me,” she spits.
“The studio’s covered,” I continue. “Lou’s got all your classes. He’s taking your privates, the whole damn thing. It’s handled.”
She flinches. “I told you long ago,” she says, her voice shaking, “I don’t need your charity.”
“This isn’t charity.” My voice roughens. “It’s a debt.”
She looks at her leg—not the brace, but everything she’s afraid it means.
“One month,” she surrenders.
I take it with a nod. It’s not forgiveness, it’s a sentence and I deserve every second of it.