Chapter 37 JACE
JACE
I come up out of sleep all at once.
Body tense. Hand reaching for the nightstand.
Then I see the time on the clock.
12:34 PM.
Jesus.
I have not slept past five-thirty in fifteen years.
I have not slept like this—out, hard, gone—since I was a kid.
She did that to me.
I turn my head. She’s curled into my side with her face against my chest, hasn’t moved an inch.
The night. The morning. What I did in the warehouse at two a.m. What she did to me on my couch this morning. I am not the same man I was twelve hours ago.
I ease back enough to look at her. The sheet is down to her waist. The rest of her is bare.
The first thing I see is the bruise—four purple fingerprints on her bicep, deep, going to last.
That piece of shit put his hands on her. Never again.
Then I take in the rest of her, and she’s so beautiful it makes my chest hurt. My body responds before I can stop it. Twelve hours since I had her and I already want her again.
I press my mouth to the top of her head and let her sleep.
I am going to Dawson today.
He wanted me gone.
I’m done being gone.
* * *
She stirs.
Her hand finds my chest before her eyes open. Her palm flat over my heart, fingers spread. Like she’s checking I’m here.
“Hi.”
Her voice is rough from sleep.
“Hi, baby.”
She opens her eyes and looks up at me. The afternoon sun catches the green in them and turns the hazel almost gold.
Then she sees the clock.
“Holy shit, it’s one in the afternoon.”
“It is.”
She drops her head back onto my chest.
“Oh my God.”
I press my mouth to the top of her head.
“You needed it.”
She lets out a small breath against my skin.
Then her hand finds my right hand and lifts it into the light between us.
She runs her thumb across my split knuckles. Once. Soft.
She doesn’t look up at me.
“Where is he?”
I feel her hold her breath.
“In custody.”
Her thumb stops.
“NYPD picked him up early this morning. They had everything they needed—what he did last night, what he’s been doing for months. My team has had a file on him since week one. He’s going away for a long time, Wren.”
She closes her eyes.
I bring her hand to my mouth and press my lips to her knuckles.
“You’ll have to give a statement at some point. We’ll go together when you’re ready. That’s the only piece you have to carry.”
“And if he—”
“He won’t. Not after last night.”
I bring her chin up so she looks at me.
“You’re safe now, Wren. You can have your life back. Your apartment. Your shop. Walking to the bodega at six a.m. Whatever you want. You’re free.”
Then she smiles.
Small. Real. The first real smile I’ve seen on her face in weeks.
Something in my chest lets go.
“Thank you, Jace.”
I kiss her forehead.
“You don’t thank me for this.”
I push a piece of hair off her face and let my thumb trail down to her jaw.
“I’m going to Brooklyn today. To talk to your brother.”
Her eyes search mine.
“Okay...”
“I’m not waiting for him to decide how this goes.”
“I’m coming with you.”
My jaw tightens.
“Wren—”
“Don’t, Jace. He doesn’t get to be angry at you alone for something I did with you. I’m coming.”
I want to tell her no. I want to put her back in this bed and lock the door and keep her away from any room where someone is going to raise their voice about her again.
I won’t.
She is twenty-six years old. She broke a man’s nose with the heel of her hand last night and dropped him with a lamp. She’s not a woman I get to leave behind on a couch while the men talk.
“Okay, baby.”
Her eyes go soft.
“Okay.”
I lean down and kiss her once.
“Get dressed.”
* * *
I pull up in front of Susan and Tom’s.
The front door opens before we’re out of the car.
Daws.
He’s in a worn Army t-shirt and jeans and bare feet and his face is the face of a man who hasn’t slept much. He sees me first. Then Wren in the passenger seat.
His expression doesn’t change.
That’s how I know he’s furious.
We get out. Her hand finds mine and stays there.
Dawson comes down off the stoop to meet us on the patio.
“It’s been one day, Jace.”
“I know how long it’s been.”
“I told you to stay away.”
“I’m not going to.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Because I’m not going to hide from you like I did something I’m ashamed of. I didn’t.”
Dawson’s jaw flexes.
“I asked you for one thing—”
“To keep her safe. I did. The rest of it I’m not going to stand here and apologize for.”
Wren steps forward.
“Daws.”
He looks at her, and his face changes for the first time, the anger giving way to something he hasn’t let himself look at since this whole thing started.
His little sister.
“Wren.”
She lets go of my hand and walks the rest of the way to him.
“I am not a thing you and Jace get to decide about. Not on that patio yesterday. Not now.”
“Wren—”
“I love him.”
His mouth works.
“I have loved him for longer than you know, and I’m not asking you for permission. I’m telling you because you’re my brother and you deserve to hear it from me.” She holds his eyes. “He makes me happy.”
Dawson’s eyes move from her to me, and he breathes out slow.
I take that as my opening.
“I know what I did, Daws. But I’m not going to apologize for loving her.”
His eyes close for a second, and when he opens them he doesn’t say anything.
I step forward, face to face with him now.
“I love her. I’m not walking away from her.”
He holds my eyes for a long moment, and then he nods, slow, like the words are landing as he hears them. His shoulders come down the smallest amount, like he just set down something he’s been carrying all night.
“There’s something else.”
Wren puts her hand on his arm.
“Tyler broke into my apartment last night.”
Dawson’s whole body goes rigid.
“What?”
“I’m okay. Look at me. I’m okay.”
He looks at her, hard.
“I broke his nose. I put him down with a lamp. Jace taught me how, and he was already on his way to me when I called. He came for me.”
Dawson goes very still, and his eyes come to me.
“Tyler.”
“Handled.”
He holds my eyes for a long second. He doesn’t ask how. He knows what I do for a living, and he knows what handled means coming from me.
The corner of his mouth moves.
He drops onto the bottom step of the stoop and runs both hands over his face.
“Jesus Christ.”
Wren sits down next to him, their shoulders touching. I stay standing.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” he says, not to either of us so much as to the patio, to the afternoon, to fifteen years of his life rearranging itself in front of him.
“You don’t have to know yet,” Wren says.
“I’m angry.”
“I know.”
“And not at you, Wren. Not really. At him.”
“He can take it.” She glances at me with a small smile.
Dawson lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. Wren shifts closer and rests her head against his shoulder, and he lets her.
After a while he pushes to his feet, and Wren stands with him. He pulls her into his chest and holds her there for several quiet seconds, his hand cupping the back of her head, his eyes closed. He murmurs something into her hair, too quiet for me to hear, before he lets her go.
He looks at me for a second before his gaze shifts back to Wren. He doesn’t offer his hand, and I don’t ask for it.
“Drive safe.”
“I will.”
He gives a small nod, then turns and heads back inside without looking at us again.