Chapter 55
Fifty-Five
NOW | JAX
Iwake up before her. The only good thing about this hour is that the rest of the city is still quiet. Even Tar City needs a minute before it starts gnawing at itself again.
Sisk is draped over my chest, one leg thrown over mine. There’s a red line on her cheek from the pillow. I breathe in her hair and my whole body reacts. It’s not her shampoo, it’s just her. A warm scent that awakens a primal instinct to pull her closer and never let go.
There’s a round dark bruise on her thigh with the perfect shape of my grip. I flex my hand slowly against the sheet. I don’t remember squeezing that hard, that’s the part that fucks with my head. Not that I left marks, that I didn’t feel when I did.
She presses closer unconsciously, like she doesn’t even question whether I’m safe to lean into. She stirs but doesn’t wake. Last night I edged her for too long, I told myself I was teasing, pacing, that I was in control. I wasn’t, I was starving.
The full moon’s still weeks out and I can already feel it.
The fucking pull, the itch in my blood that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with hunger.
Sisk thinks this is some kind of game. She thinks I’m being dramatic, overprotective.
She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand what it feels like to be inside her, knowing that one wrong second, one lost second of control, could hand her over to that black fucking hole in the ground we call a landmark.
Last night, she told me to finish somewhere else, offered her face like that was a solution.
Risk isn’t fucking negotiable anymore. I told her I needed a day.
A day to fix it. To cut whatever needs cutting so this body stops being a goddamn liability.
To make sure I can be inside her again without the risk of creating someone that doesn’t belong to us.
Her fingers slide over my stomach. “You’re thinking too loud,” she mumbles.
My hand comes down on her wrist, stilling it.
She rolls on top of me like we didn’t stand in an alley last night watching tar crawl back into my fucking skin like it belonged there.
“I told you it’s fine,” she says softly. “I can’t get pregnant.”
My body reacts instantly to her weight. I grip her hips to keep her still. “Stop fucking grinding, things are different now.”
She exhales through her nose. “Why?”
“Because now I know,” I say. My voice is rough. “And the tar knows I know.”
She turns against me and every muscle goes tight, fighting the urge to flip her over and forget every rational thought I’ve had since yesterday.
“There are other things we can do,” she says carefully.
“I don’t fucking trust myself to stop at a blowjob,” I say, my voice a low growl. “Not when I can smell your cunt from here.”
“You can… smell me?”
I don’t answer. How the fuck am I supposed to tell her that when the moon’s effects are on, I can smell her cunt from across the goddamn room? Because I know her. She won’t hear a warning if I do tell her, she’ll treat it as a challenge.
The hunger’s already there. Not just for her, for violence, for blood, for the quiet that falls over the city when I let myself loose.
I need to get this surgery done as soon as possible. The tar shifts under my skin, a silent objection to the thought.
My grip tightens before I even realize I’m doing it.
“Jax.”
I release her immediately and the decision settles into place. “I need you to stay the fuck away from me today.”
She pulls back.
“I need to do this,” I say, sitting up. “For us.”
“Can’t I come with you?”
“You can’t.”
I see what it does to her so I lean back down, cup her face between my hands. “Let me get this done, and tonight I’ll go back to being your fuckboy.”
I bite her lip gently and her smile breaks through despite herself. “Promises, promises.”
She slides out of bed, already reaching for her clothes. “I’ll go to the studio. Lou’s probably losing his mind anyway.”
I watch her pull her hair up.
“You better stretch, ballerina. You’re gonna feel me tonight.”
She glances back. “Jax, you’re going to need time to heal.” She stops herself, her eyes widening as the realization hits her. “Holy shit. You won’t.” She says it like a fact. “You’ll be good to go by tonight.”
I look at her. “It’s not a perk, rabbit. It’s a fucking curse. But if it means I’ll be inside you again tonight, I won’t stop it.”
* * *
The chime over the door is a fucking ice pick in my ear, and the black seam in my palm itches immediately.
Every step feels like a decision I’m not supposed to make, although I’m certain it’s the only option I’ve got.
The tar stays quiet and that bothers me more than if it were screaming. Why isn’t it fighting me on this?
“Dr. St. Clair here?” I ask the woman at the front desk.
She glances up and her smile falters when she recognizes me. I recognize her too, she used to slip me lollipops whenever my mom dragged me in here. “Your father will be out of surgery in a few minutes. You can wait in his office.”
My father’s office is a damn time capsule. Same heavy desk, same wall of certifications proving he’s a genius. Even the photo on his desk is frozen in time. It’s me, maybe six, pressing a toy stethoscope to his chest. We’re both laughing at the camera.
The door opens and he walks in without saying hello. “There are other doctors in this goddamn city, you know,” he says taking a seat.
“I don’t want to see you any more than you want to see me. You’re the only one I can afford.”
His mouth tightens. “You mean the only one willing to fix your problems for free.”
My hand curls instinctively and the movement draws his attention to my palm. The irritation drains from his face so fast it almost looks like fear. He braces his elbows on the desk. “When did that appear?”
“I need it done,” I say ignoring his question. “Today. Right now.”
“Whatever you think you need done can wait.”
“It can’t.”
“That’s not how this works. Procedures get scheduled. Consultations happen. You wait like everyone else sitting out there.”
“Unless you want another member of your family under control of that fucking thing,” I say, my voice rising before I can stop it, “you’re going to do this now.”
His expression changes. “Are you saying—”
“You need to make sure I never have a child,” I cut in. “Never.”
He studies me carefully. “And you can’t wait?” he asks. “You can’t control yourself that badly?”
I let out a dry laugh. “You know damn well I’m not the one in control of what I do.” I try to remain calm. “Go out there,” I continue, “and make sure it happens. If you can’t do it yourself, find someone who can.”
His expression hardens. “You walk in here demanding permanent decisions like a frightened boy,” he says coldly. “You think mutilating yourself fixes inheritance?”
I step closer to the desk. “You don’t have a fucking clue to what inheritance means. Just be grateful,” I say quietly, “you never had to choose between letting the dark in… or letting it swallow someone you love.”
His gaze moves again to my palm. “I can perform the procedure,” he says at last.
I breathe.
“And it will take weeks to heal,” he continues. “Longer before strain is safe.”
I hold his gaze. “Not a problem.”
* * *
He doesn’t have to ask me to lie down. I’m on the table, arms braced behind me, before he can point.
He preps the area like he’s cleaning a countertop—detached, clinical.
“This will feel like pressure,” he says.
“I don’t need the speech.”
He injects the anesthetic. There’s a sting, then warmth. The black seam in my palm tingles for a second, then nothing.
I watch the ceiling, counting the seconds.
“Can you feel that?” he asks, pressing lightly.
“Keep going.”
He makes the incision. There’s a dull tugging sensation deep in my body. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable.
He pauses and takes a step back.
“Problem?” I ask.
“No.” Although he doesn’t sound convinced.
I feel another pull, something tight, like resistance from inside, not from the scalpel. My pulse spikes for half a second. The seam in my palm flickers, darkening to true black for a heartbeat.
He adjusts his grip. Cuts. Ties. Clips. He finishes the second side the same way—efficient, measured, no fucking drama.
He removes his gloves. “It’s done,” he says.
Just like that. No mythic interruption. No lightning strike. No voice in my head.
“You’ll be sore for a few days,” he continues, already moving to the sink. “No heavy strain. No activity for at least a week.”
I nod, sliding off the table. Relief doesn’t hit like I expected because the tar is quiet. Too fucking quiet. Why the fuck is it so quiet?
I get to my feet, but my father’s gaze stays fixed on the counter. “There’s a chance,” he starts, his back still to me. He stops himself.
“A chance of what?”
He turns, and for a half-second, his eyes are on me, flat and unreadable. “Never mind. Keep the area clean.”
He turns away and leaves me like we didn’t just snuff out the St. Clair bloodline for good.
* * *
I’m feeling good, great even. Whatever soreness I was expecting is already gone. It’s been barely an hour and the tender feeling in my sack is already history.
I walk a little slower at first, testing it. By the time I hit the corner of 7th and Kingsley, I can tell I’m fully healed.
Something useful, at least. Something good about this fucking curse. Most men would be icing their balls right now. I feel… reset.
I flex my hand and the black seam doesn’t move or pulse.
I’ve handled it. It’s done.
A group of kids crosses the street in front of me.
One of them, a boy with a skateboard tucked under his arm, bumps my shoulder.
“Watch it,” he says, looking me up and down like I’m a lamppost he just walked into.
He jogs to catch up with his friends. I roll my shoulders and keep walking, reminding myself I would’ve been a terrible father anyway.
I look up, hesitating before going in. I’ve been here a million times and somehow never noticed the snake in the logo.
I got my first piece here at eighteen. Months before I went to find Sisk.
I was a fucking mess then. Too angry, too lost. Each piece helped.
Viper did that one, and she’s done most of them since.
Murtaugh and her have known about the markings from the start, so asking her to cover certain things hasn’t been an issue. Doesn’t hurt that she’s crazy talented.
The first one was right over my heart. A chain wrapping around it, a promise to the ballerina who already owned it.
Most of my ink is a graveyard now, buried under layers of newer mistakes, a map of all the ways I’ve fucked up since.
But not this one, this one is clean. I look at it sometimes, a reminder of why I do what I have to do.
I’ve never told Sisk what that chain means.
I’m starting to think that after all these years, the biggest mistake I ever made was never telling her how I really feel.
Viper and I were never a couple. Our “relationship”—if I can even call it that—was mostly me killing time. Or trying to carve Sisk out of my skin, and Viper pretending it meant something bigger. I never lied to her, I just didn’t make it brutal enough.
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon after our little chat about your girlfriend’s dark secret.” She steps around the divider.
“Yeah,” I say. “Been a day.”
Her eyes drag over me slowly, like she’s trying to read the story I’m not telling. “So. How may I be of service today?”
“I need Quentin.”
She blinks. “He’s booked,” she says. “I’m not.”
“I need Quentin today.”
Her head tilts. “That’s funny. I’ve done almost every piece on you since you were legally allowed to bleed in here. I know your skin better than you do.”
“This is different.”
She studies me properly. The seam in my palm itches like a son of a bitch. Her eyes lower and she locks onto it.
“New mark?” she asks lightly.
“None of your business.”
She steps closer anyway, invading my space. Her expression shifts from teasing to something else. “You covering that up?”
“No.”
“So what now?” she asks, a cruel little smile returning. “You’ve got a girlfriend and suddenly I’m disqualified? You on a leash, Jax?”
I hold her gaze, trying to keep my voice steady. “Something like that.”
Her brows lift. “So what should I tell him you want?”
Already had my balls mutilated this morning. Might as well finish the job, I think. “Six.”
She pauses. “Six what.”
“Six curves,” I say. “A ladder of them. Straight down the shaft. Even spacing.”
She coughs surprised. “A full ladder?” she asks, and for the first time, she sounds genuinely impressed. “You planning on keeping it functional?”
“Yes.”
She exhales slowly through her nose. “This about her?”
“Yes.”
She leans back against the counter, arms crossing. “You know,” she says casually, “some people buy a ring.”
“Well, I’m not some people.”
“Why not a tattoo for her?” she says, her gaze dropping pointedly to my crotch. “Piercing that masterpiece feels like vandalism.”
“Fine,” I say evenly. “Let’s add her name too. My neck.”
Her eyes narrow. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not.”
She looks almost… unsettled. “Beads both ends?”
“Yes.”
“Vertical?”
“Yes.”
“Placement?” she asks, her voice pure sugar. “Base? Midline? Or are we going all the way? Putting the first rung right under the crown?”
I shake my head. “Top.”
Now her eyes snap back to mine. “Top of the shaft?”
“Yes.”
A slow breath leaves her nose. “That’s not for you,” she says.
She studies me another second, like she’s measuring exactly how far gone I am. “For her,” Viper mutters.
I don’t bother denying it.
Her mouth twitches then she turns sharply toward the back.
“Quentin!” she calls. “Full ladder for you.”
Then, louder—
“Apparently he can’t stay soft if I’m the one doing it.”