Page 110 of Jagger's Remorse
He looks like shit—stubble darkening his jaw, eyes bloodshot, still wearing the same clothes from the party.
The blood-stained clothes.
"You haven't left."
"No."
"Jagger—"
"Don't." He moves to the bed, sits carefully on the edge. "Don't tell me I should have gone to church, handled business, done anything other than make sure you kept breathing."
His hand finds mine, gentle like I might break.
Maybe I might.
Everything hurts—shoulder screaming where the bullet went through, knife wound throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat.
But I'm alive.
"Help me up," I say.
"Scarlett—"
"I need to pee, and I need a shower. Unless you want me to piss the bed like the dog you once said I was."
That gets a smile, small but real. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything."
He helps me sit up, and the world spins for a moment.
I grip his arm until it settles.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Doc says the blood loss was bad. You're gonna be weak for a while."
"Weak." I taste the word, hate it. "Can't afford to be weak."
"You took a bullet for Raven. That's not weak."
"That was stupid."
"That was what people do for family."
The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning.
He helps me to the bathroom, and I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Pale as death, bandages covering my shoulder, bruises painting my skin in purple and yellow.
I look like a corpse trying to remember how to be alive. "Sexy," I mutter.
"Always," he says, and means it.
The shower is an ordeal.
He has to help me undress, help me stand under the spray.
His hands are clinical, careful, but I catch him looking at each wound, each mark.
