Chapter 17
Seventeen
NOW | JAX
Iwish she would just say that she fucking hates me.
Whatever this silent treatment is, it’s brutal.
But I keep my mouth shut. My eyes keep drifting back to her leg.
Honestly, it’s a miracle she can even sit like this already.
My father made sure to tell me that on the way out—that her healing rate isn’t human.
What was I supposed to say? That I bargained with The Pit again?
People are so quick to judge decisions they’ve never had to make.
And yeah, I know the drill. People who bargain don’t live long enough to enjoy it.
What he doesn’t get is that his son is a beast shaped by The Pit itself.
Not living long would be a mercy. One I know I won’t be granted.
At least the old bastard let me borrow his car.
“What about my things?” Her voice brings me back, a reminder this isn’t a nightmare where I hurt the only person I care about.
“I think I got everything you need,” I say, eyeing the bag on the backseat. “I can go back if I forgot something.”
“You went to my place?” she asks. “Talked to my dad?”
“Well. Not much talking.” I turn into the narrow alley behind the bar. “I told him you were fine. Said I was surprising you with a trip.”
“He barely knows my name these days.”
“Not gonna lie,” I say, cutting the engine, “your dad’s memory loss worked in my favor.”
She huffs despite herself. “He would’ve never let you set foot in there otherwise.”
“I made up a name anyway.”
“Was Millie there?”
“Not yet, but she lives two blocks away. They’ll be fine.”
“Jax, Millie can’t even take care of herself.”
“I’ll keep checking on them.”
She closes her eyes as if she’s taking the weight of everyone’s problems and packing it into her own ribs.
“Are you in pain?” I ask.
She wiggles her toes once, testing the limits of the bulky white brace. “No. Whatever pills your dad gave me are doing their job.”
I get out and jog around the car, opening her door carefully. The snow melts into gray slush beneath my boots, but it’s not enough to cover the sour stench of trash and urine. I rethink for a moment if this is what she deserves, to live above a fucking bar.
“Look,” I say, crouching. “This is going to work. You’re going to recover. You’re going to dance. You’re going to do whatever the hell you want. Soon.”
She stares at me. “You got twenty-nine days to convince me of that,” she says flatly.
I slide an arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lift her. Her arm loops around my neck, her fingers brushing the skin there, and my whole body fucking betrays me. Instantly, I’m hard as a rock. Just from that simple touch.
This is the one person in the world I’m supposed to be protecting, the one I swore I’d never hurt again, and my own dick is acting like a fucking animal.
I grit my teeth, a silent, furious promise to myself: never again.
I will never lose control near her again; I will never risk her safety, even if it means never touching her body again, never fucking her again, never letting myself feel that goddamn peace that comes when she’s under me.
“Shit,” I curse halfway up the stairs.
She grips my shoulder. “You can put me down.”
I look at the steps—cracked, damp, stained with things I don’t want her touching barefoot.
“Fuck it.”
The keys slide from my pocket and snap into the lock like they know perfectly what to do. The door clicks open and I kick it the rest of the way.
She freezes in my arms. “I thought—”
“I don’t use it,” I say quickly.
“You just—”
“Can we not talk about it?”
“Jax—”
I carry her straight to the bedroom and lower her onto the bed. Scotch launches himself like a missile, licking her face with zero restraint.
“Scotch, down!” I bark.
She laughs—real, startled—and scratches behind his ears. He thumps his tail and curls up beside her like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
“Well,” she says, looking around slowly, taking it all in. “I can see why you never let me come upstairs. What happened here?”
I drop the bag by the door and toe off my boots. “I happened.”
She gestures weakly at the clutter—clothes half-folded, empty bottles, a stack of notebooks threatening collapse. “Jax… I know you don’t like using the magic, but cleaning up would take, like, two seconds.”
“No fucking way.” I turn sharply. “It doesn’t work like that. I’ve told you a hundred times. It controls me, not the other way around.”
She rolls her eyes, slow and unconvinced.
I grab an armful of clothes and shove them into an already overstuffed hamper.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean to… I can’t sit here and—what am I supposed to do?”
“Rest. Recover. Physical therapy starts in a week, I think. Depends how you’re doing.”
“In a week?” Her brows knit. “That’s too fast. Nobody heals that fast.”
“You will.”
“I appreciate the confidence.” She looks around. “I need—”
“I’ll get it. Do not move. You need to stay in bed.”
“I’m gonna need crutches.”
“Not yet.”
“I can’t have you getting me water, food—what if I need the bathroom?”
“I’ll do whatever you need.”
I don’t think before saying it. Somewhere inside me, the tar stirs—amused, the motherfucker.
“Jax, you have the bar. I need crutches.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll go pick them up.”
I collect the cups and wrappers from the bedside.
“Will you just take a seat?” She grabs my arm, and I freeze—aware of how badly I want more of her touch and how I will never let myself have it again.
She pats the edge of the bed. “Here. I mean… if we’re sharing the bed.”
“We’re not.”
“And where will you sleep?”
“On the couch.” As if I'm gonna let myself anywhere near her when I sleep, as if I need to give my sorry-ass subconscious a chance to tear her apart.
“Jax—”
“You staying here doesn’t change anything,” I say, my voice flat, hard. “I’m not crossing lines.”
Keep telling yourself that, you piece of shit. I’ve been a motherfucker to her for months, pushing her away, all for her own good. If she thinks I’m over her, maybe this won’t hurt as much. For both of us.
She looks down. “Of course.”
“You don’t have to worry,” I add, because I’m a fucking asshole who has to twist the knife. “I won’t make you uncomfortable. Think of me as a… nurse.”
“A nurse?” she repeats.
“Yes.”
She exhales. “Okay, nurse. Can I please have a glass of water?”
I grab a cup from the kitchen, gripping it harder than necessary, and I take a look around the place—the mess, the stench of beer and disinfectant. She deserves better.
“Sleep,” I tell her when I return. “Rest. I’ll grab some food.”
She’s already sinking into the mattress.
Minutes later, a trash bag hangs heavy from my hand. I reach into my pocket and pull out a letter—the one I found at her place this morning. From that piss-his-pants-when-things-get-tough asshole. Gotta give it to him, the son of a bitch has some balls.
Don’t worry. I’m coming to rescue you.
Look at that, the piece of shit also has a sense of humor. I shove it into the bag.
* * *
“Jax?”
Her voice carries down the room and my heart stutters like I missed a step.
“I’m here,” I say, probably too fast. “What’d you do, fall?”
“I’m fine. I just need…”
She hesitates, cheeks coloring. “…pee.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Right.”
I help her sit up, careful, slow. She keeps her weight light, like she’s already trying to make this easier on me.
“This is why they wanted me to stay longer,” she mutters as I lift her. “They have people for this there.”
“Yeah,” I say, carrying her to the bathroom. “But hospitals reek like sick people and death. And—well. My place only smells like beer and wet dog.”
She snorts softly. “Jax St. Clair, did you just make a joke?”
“Fuck no. I was stating a fact.”
The bathroom is small—too small. “Do you need me to…?”
“I think I can handle it from here,” she says, leaning a hand on the toilet tank.
I step out to give her privacy. I’m not even a foot away when— “Holy pitfire!”
I’m back instantly. “What? What happened?”
She’s got one hand clamped over her mouth. Her panties are halfway down her thighs. Her bare ass is right there. It takes all I have to drag my eyes up to what she’s actually staring at.
“What the hell, Jax?” she says, pointing at the floor.
The towel. Soaked. Bloody.
My spine locks up. “Fuck.” I move to grab it.
“Is that MY blood?” she asks.
The bathroom light flickers. Somewhere outside, a siren screams. I want to lie. I want to say yes, and make it smaller. I want to say anything that won’t make her look at me like this, but I can’t hide anymore.
“No.”
“Oh.” She looks at the towel again, then at me. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.” I cram the towel into the small trash can. “Better not to ask me questions, Sisk.”
She stiffens, then yanks her panties up in a rush. I watch it all—can’t fucking stop myself—the way the fabric drags over her skin, the way her body tightens like she knows I’m looking.
I reach for her without thinking.
“I can pull my pants up, Jax.”
I stop and pull my hands back in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry.”
I steady her anyway and it’s a fucking war not to just grab her.
“You didn’t piss,” I say, my voice low.
She shoves my hand off her hip. “Get out, Jax.”
I wait for her to call me back, but she doesn’t. The silence stretches, then I hear the toilet flush. That’s my cue.
I grit my teeth as I bring her back to the bed. My jaw aches from the effort of holding myself together. I step away fast, like distance is the only thing keeping the monster in check.
I feel the shift—the reminder snapping back into place between us. This isn’t just caretaking out of guilt. This is a bloodsucking hunger. The thing I keep locked under my skin doesn’t stay quiet for long. And she needs to be far away from me before it comes asking for more.
She exhales hard when I set her down. “All these years, Jax…” Her voice shakes. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Be around you.”
“Sisk, it’s just for—”
“No.” She cuts me off. “Don’t ask me questions. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t come close.”
Her breathing turns sharp, furious. “I am so fucking tired of you telling me what I can’t do.”
She looks straight at me. “If you want me to stay here, I’m going to ask questions, Jax. And you are going to answer them.”