Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
NOW | SISK
Iwake up and something’s off. Like, really off. My leg doesn’t hurt.
I blink at the ceiling, then roll so fast I nearly tumble off the bed. Did I already take this morning’s pill? Last night feels like a fever dream—a blur of hands and heat and whispered words—but no, I haven’t taken anything yet.
Since the accident, pain has been my constant companion. A searing current that tears me from sleep and makes every step a negotiation. But not today. I even slept in.
If it weren’t for the brace still wrapped around my leg—and the tightness of the thick surgical bandages beneath it—I’d almost joke that I never got hurt in the first place. But that would be obviously insane, no one heals this fast.
I saw my leg, I heard the doctors whisper when they thought I was asleep. “Ligament damage. Muscle tear. Limited mobility, if any.” Their words, not mine.
My head spins, half expecting the pain to catch up with me, to explode out of hiding. Nothing.
Without thinking, I slide my foot to the floor, putting weight on it. I reach for the crutches then stop myself. Do I need them?
“Holy pitfire,” I whisper.
I can walk. I step, slowly, then practically dance, toward the kitchen, still waiting for the pain to hit, like maybe it’s hiding behind a corner.
I’m grinning like a madwoman when Jax’s voice lifts my gaze.
“Coffee’s fresh. Got you a—”
He stops mid-sentence. His whole body stiffens. “Where are your crutches?”
I open my mouth, realize I don’t have an answer, then settle on: “I… don’t think I need them anymore.”
He rushes toward me. “Fucking hell. You used them for one day. Of course you need them, you shouldn’t put your weight on it—your brace—what are you—”
“No, Jax, look!” I lift my uninjured leg and balance easily on the healing one.
Jax St. Clair looks like he’s about to faint. Never thought I would see this look on his face.
He steps in, like he thinks I’m playing some elaborate prank. He lowers to a crouch in front of me and lays a hand on my leg, like he needs to feel the truth for himself. “Does it hurt when I do this?”
I shake my head, grinning so wide my cheeks ache. “No.”
“This?”
Another shake. I’m laughing now. I can’t help it. “Still no.”
He laughs loudly too. A wild, unhinged sound that makes his whole face light up with disbelief and joy. He grabs my waist and lifts me off the ground with one arm and spins me toward the couch, but he’s moving so fast we nearly crash into the wall.
“Jax!” I scream-laugh, clinging to his shoulders.
“Had to make sure you weren’t faking it,” he grins, setting me down gently on the cushions. He crouches again, fingertips brushing my leg brace.
“This is… You could barely—” he starts, voice cracking with emotion.
“Impossible?” I finish, my smile faltering under his gaze. “I just woke up and the pain was gone!”
He stands abruptly, running both hands through his hair, a gesture that looks more like frustration than celebration. He comes back quickly and kisses me—hard and desperate, like he’s trying to convince himself this is real. Then again, slower, deeper, like he’s memorizing this moment.
“We should go see my father,” he says, pulling back slightly, eyes wide with wonder. “Right now. Let him take a look.”
I nod, grinning. “Yeah. Probably a good idea.”
He kisses me again.
“What were you saying a second ago? You got me something?”
“Oh!” He gets up and practically bounces to the counter and returns with a small paper bag.
He opens it, triumphant. “Your favorite. The blueberry one. Try not to act surprised that I pay attention.”
I take a bite, still smiling. “Thank you.”
He turns to pour me coffee, already reaching for the mug when I stop him with a raised hand.
“Pleeease don’t.”
He stops mid-motion. “What?”
“I’m not sure how to tell you this, but… you make the worst—and I’m not exaggerating here—the worst cup of coffee in this entire city. No. The world. Jax.”
His mouth falls open. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. For a bar owner who works mostly nights, how do you survive without caffeine?”
“I don’t,” he says, pointing over to the windowsill with a grin.
I turn and I see it—a can sitting next to an ashtray. The label is matte black with jagged red font and a scratchy illustration of what looks like a radioactive crow. The name reads: “WAKE THE DEAD.”
I snort. “Every day?”
He shrugs. “It works.”
I take another bite of my muffin and laugh until tears stream down my face.
The mix of emotions too much to contain—joy, disbelief, terror—all swirling together until I’m a complete mess, hiccuping between sobs and laughter, the blueberry filling smearing on my cheeks as I try to wipe my eyes with my sticky hand.
* * *
Dr. Daniel St. Clair taps a pen against my file, then shifts my leg again.
“Any pain here?” he asks.
“No.”
He moves to my knee. Twists. Presses. “Here?”
“No.”
He frowns, looking up at me. “You’re sure?”
I glance at Jax, who’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, then back to his dad. “Completely.”
He pulls back and sets the pen down. “You had three partial tears, internal swelling and deep tissue bruising.” He looks me dead in the eye. “You should be in agony.”
Jax steps forward, his shoulders tense. “She’s not.”
“I can see that,” his dad says impatiently.
Daniel strips off the gloves and tosses them in the bin. He crosses his arms and looks at Jax like he’s the one under examination now. “She doesn’t flinch once,” he says, his voice devoid of warmth. “Not from pressure. Not from impact. You expect me to believe she’s feeling nothing?”
“She’s not on anything,” Jax grinds out.
His father raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something—disappointment?—in his eyes. “You sure? No injections? No patches? No herbal bullsh—?”
“You think she’s on Ash?” Jax cuts in. “Seriously?”
“I’m right here,” I say, my own temper flaring. “You can ask me.”
The doctor ignores me completely. “Well,” he says, flipping the chart closed. “With her sister’s history…”
Jax stiffens, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “She’s not her sister,” he growls.
“Hello?” I snap, louder this time. “Still in the room, by the way.”
They both pause, then it’s like I never spoke.
“You’d see it,” Jax pushes. “You always say there’s a look—”
Daniel’s expression doesn’t change, but I notice the grudging acknowledgment. “She’s not showing the signs of Ashlyron addiction,” he admits reluctantly. “No tremor or delay. Her pupils aren’t blown. And there’s no shadowing of the gums.”
“But?” Jax says.
“I don’t believe in miracles,” his father finishes, his tone final. His gaze sharpens, turning from me to his son with sudden focus. “But I do believe in consequences.”
Jax goes perfectly still. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” Daniel says. “The tar doesn’t give gifts, Jaxwell. It takes payment. What did you do this time? What did you promise to make this happen?”
I can’t believe what they’re saying. Of course. How stupid of me. Of course Jax did something. Nobody heals this fast—I might be the dumbest girl alive, to overlook this whole thing and call it what, a miracle? Stupid dumb girl. And Jax acted like he had no fucking idea. I’m going to kill him.
“I didn’t fucking do anything,” Jax snaps, but there’s a tremor in his voice that gives him away.
“Don’t lie to me,” Daniel steps closer, his presence suddenly oppressive. “I’ve spent my entire life cleaning up this family’s messes. I know the look of it. The wrongness of it. This has your fingerprints all over it.”
“It’s not like that,” Jax insists, running a hand through his hair in agitation. “I wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t you?” his father cuts in. “You’ve never been able to resist. Is that what she is? Another broken thing you’re trying to glue back together with stolen power?”
I don’t speak because I know Jax will deny this till forever. I need to get him talking, but asking point blank won’t do. As usual, it’s always a stupid game with him.
“You don’t know anything about it,” Jax growls, his whole body vibrating with tension.
“I know enough,” Daniel says, turning away with a dismissive wave. “I know that when the tar is involved, someone always pays the price. I just hope you’re the one writing the check this time, and not her.”
Daniel stands, already done with the conversation. "You take care, Sisk. Come back if anything changes. The nurse will be by in a few minutes to have that brace removed and check the incision site. She'll want to document the... accelerated healing." He exits without waiting for a response.
Eventually, I swing my legs over the edge of the examination table.
Everything in me is screaming to take his head off for acting like an innocent fucker, for standing there like he didn't just unleash some dark magic inside me.
But I force my hands to unclench in my lap.
He'll just deny it, flash that disarming smirk and tell me to “ask him again when the new question of the day is clear,” the condescending prick.
I have to play this differently. Let him think I'm letting it slide, that I'm just a grateful, slightly dazed patient who got impossibly lucky.
Step two: get him comfortable, get him talking.
Jax always gets cocky when he thinks he's in control.
I'll just have to let him believe he is.
“So…” I say, arranging my features into a mask of weary relief. “Guess I can go home now.”
Jax’s head lifts, and for a moment, I see the raw fear he’s been hiding beneath the gruff exterior. “Or you could stay.” His eyes are soft, pleading. “I mean,” he adds quickly, “One more day. Or two. Just to be safe.”
Before I can answer—before either of us can say anything else—the light shifts. We both turn to the window instinctively.
Outside, the daylight doesn’t just fade, it’s devoured. One moment, it’s a normal afternoon. The next, the sky is a black void. The eclipse swallows the sun whole.
The machines in the room stutter, their rhythmic beeps increasing slowly. The overhead lights flicker then surrender to darkness. A monitor on the wall lets out a piercing whine that cuts off with a final pop.
Jax is at my side in an instant, his body positioned slightly in front of mine, but he’s trembling.
“What’s happening?” The question is a choked whisper.
Jax turns to me and his irises are blood-red—brighter than I've ever seen them be.
“Jax?”
He doesn't respond, his neck tendons taut as he fights to hold something in. Jax turns toward the window, his whole body coiling like he’s being summoned by something in that unnatural darkness.
“Jax, what’s—?” I start, but he raises a hand.
His eyes dart, unfocused, and a thin line of dark fluid drips from his nose.
In the dim emergency lighting, I can’t tell if it’s blood.
It’s too thick, too dark. A cold dread curdles in my stomach.
Tar. It has to be tar. He uses one hand against the wall for support, and his other comes to press hard to his head.
His breathing turns shallow and frantic.
Suddenly, without warning—he collapses to his knees. “No—” he chokes out, a sound like tearing flesh. “It’s not her fault. Stop!”
I scramble to the door and scream for help, my voice splintering with panic. Someone shouts in the corridor, attempting to break in. I grab the door handle, but it rattles violently—locked. I twist. Slam. Nothing. “JAX!” I sob, turning back to him.
His nostrils flare. He’s hurting. A low growl rattles in his chest, something that should never come from a human throat and he convulses like he’s been electrocuted.
He grips the side of the exam table and drags it a full foot across the floor. I step toward him, hand extended, but he hurls a chair between us with impossible speed, the metal skidding to a halt just inches from my feet, blocking my path. The force sends me stumbling back, shielding my face.
“HELP!” I scream.
His whole body pulses like something is trying to rupture through his skin from within.
Out of nowhere, light floods the world as the sun returns, and it's so bright I flinch, my hands flying up to shield my eyes.
The overhead lights stabilize. One by one, the monitors reboot with their cheerful chimes. A defibrillator in the corner chooses now to run its diagnostic, beeping insistently.
Jax’s still on the floor, but his eyes are changing. The red slowly disappears. He stares at me as if he’s just surfaced from a nightmare and isn’t sure which world is real anymore.
“Are you okay?” I rasp. “What the hell was that?” My throat is so tight with fear I can barely speak.
He doesn’t answer, and that’s what really terrifies me, because the look on his face tells me everything. He has no idea.