Chapter 21
Twenty-One
NOW | JAX
Ishove my face into the pillow like that might knock me out. It doesn’t. She’s asleep. Fed. Medicated. Healing. I remind myself of that over and over. But in twenty-eight days, the clock resets, the moon will come back and I have no fucking idea what will happen then.
I stare at the ceiling until my eyes burn. I should’ve stayed downstairs, should’ve stayed busy. Work keeps my hands occupied, keeps my head from spiraling. But until I get her crutches, I can’t leave her alone up here. One wrong step, one slip—
“Fuck,” I grunt, sitting up hard and swinging my legs over the side of the couch. I drag a hand through my hair and head for the kitchen. The tar inside me isn’t loud tonight. It’s patient, watching, like it knows I’ll crack eventually.
I open the fridge and grab a bottle, twisting the cap off as I lean back against the counter and take a long pull. My eyes close in the cool relief—until a soft thump breaks the silence, followed by another, forcing them open as I turn toward the sound.
She’s in the doorway, balancing on one foot with her hands braced against the frame. Her hair’s loose, her eyes tired and bright, which means she hasn’t slept at all. She hops once more and freezes when she sees me.
“Pitfire,” I snap, already moving. “What the fuck are you doing out of bed?”
“I can’t sleep,” she says, like that’s an excuse. “And you’re not supposed to be up.”
I close the distance and guide her down onto the couch before she can argue. “Sit.”
Her gaze flicks to the bottle in my hand. “Can I have one?”
I actually laugh. “Hell no.”
She raises a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re on pain meds,” I say. “You don’t mix those with alcohol.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she says coolly. “Dr. St. Clair.”
My jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
She blinks, like she hadn’t meant it that way. “I’m sorry,” she says immediately. “That was—I didn’t mean—”
I shake my head once. “It’s fine.” It’s not. I turn back to the counter and take another drink, longer this time.
“I’m thirsty,” she says, already shifting like she’s about to get up again.
I sigh and set the bottle down hard. “Stop.”
She ignores me.
I cross the space in two strides and catch her before she can hop anywhere, one arm steady around her waist. “For fuck’s sake, will you just listen for once in your life?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
“You’re not.”
I grab a glass, fill it with water, and press it into her hands. “Drink.”
She takes a small sip. “Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sorry to ruin your fun. I’ll go back to bed.”
She starts to shift again. I move closer and lift her, carrying her to the bedroom.
She keeps hold of my hand.
“Can you stay?” she asks.
“Sisk...”
“Just until I fall asleep.”
I let out a dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”
Her eyes drop to her leg. “I do.”
The words land exactly where she intends them to. She traces a finger over the blanket. “I hate that I’m hurt.”
My jaw tightens.
“I hate that every time I look at this thing, I remember what happened.”
I look away.
“I hate that I might never dance again. I hate needing help. I hate not knowing who I am if ballet is gone.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “And I hate that every time I look at you, you look even more miserable than I feel.”
My throat closes.
“You didn't want this to happen any more than I did.”
Silence.
“So I guess what I really hate is that we're both paying for it.”
Scotch shifts, crowding the space like he’s already decided which side is his by right. I nudge him aside and sit on the edge of the bed. There’s barely room.
Her breathing changes. I reach up without thinking and push a strand of hair off her face. My knuckles brush her cheek.
She looks at me and her fingers curl into my sleeve.
“Jax,” she whispers.
I should move. I can’t.
She leans in so slow it’s as if she’s giving me time to stop her. Her lips touch mine, soft and tentative. I kiss her back for a second before I pull away, my forehead resting against hers. “Sleep,” I beg. “Please.”
Her grip loosens. “Okay.”
I stay exactly where I am, staring at the wall, counting seconds like they’re the only thing keeping the monster quiet. Because if I let myself want more—I won’t be able to stop.
* * *
“Shhh.” I feel a touch on my stomach and my eyes snap open. Sisk’s fucking hand’s on me. “You’re okay,” she whispers gently.
My brain’s scrambled. The room’s wrong. The weight of her next to me is all wrong.
I jerk upright, dragging my hands down my face. “What—” My voice is wrecked. “What the fuck is going on?”
She doesn’t flinch or move away.
“I think you were having a nightmare,” she says softly, like I’m some small child.
My eyes dart around the room, the bed. Scotch’s on the floor, snoring his ass off, belly up like nothing’s wrong.
“I thought I went back to the couch,” I say, the words scraping my throat. “I—did I—”
Her fingers twist in the blanket. “I woke up,” she says slowly, carefully, “and you were here. Your arms were around me. You were shaking.”
My gut clenches. “Did I—” I stop myself. Try again. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She shakes her head quickly. “Nothing happened. You were just… holding on.”
“Fuck,” I groan, already pushing back. Already reaching for distance. “I shouldn’t have—”
I swing my legs off the bed.
“You were crying in your sleep,” she blurts out. “You were in pain. You were saying things—like you were back there. Something happening again.”
She places her hand on my back.
I bolt to my feet.
“If you don’t want me,” she says, wounded, “then why bring me here, Jax?”
I rake a hand through my hair and pace like a caged animal. “You think this is about not wanting you?” I snarl, the last thread of my control snapping.
She sits up. “You’re doing a hell of a job showing it.”
“You don’t fucking get it,” I say, voice low. “If I let myself have you the way I want to—”
I take a step toward her. “I won’t stop. I’ll fucking hurt you again.”
She just stares at me.
“You think I push you away because I don’t want you?” My voice roughens. “I push you away because I want to bend you over every fucking surface in this place and never let you leave.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying—or if the truth is worse.
I reach for her, yanking her close until our mouths are almost touching. “I want you,” I say. “Every second of every fucking day. When I’m awake. When I’m asleep. When I’m trying with everything I have not to.”
Her hand grabs mine. “Then stop punishing yourself and stop taking it out on me.”
For a moment, we just breathe.
She leans in. “Kiss me, Jax.”
My hands are shaking and I don’t even try to hide it. “Can’t,” I say—even as my hands stay locked on her.
“I’m begging,” she says, her hands flattening against my chest, right over my heart.
My fingers slide to her neck and tangle in her hair. She closes her eyes and her mouth opens for me. And in that moment, I understand, when it comes to us, she’s the one in control.