Page 93 of Jagger's Remorse
Then he's gone, leaving me reeling.
I stumble back inside, find Jagger pressing napkins to his chest.
"He ordered it," I tell him numbly. "Eduardo ordered my father's death."
"Scarlett—" he starts.
"This whole time, I've been serving the man who destroyed my family," I laugh, sharp and broken. "And now I'm bringing you into the same trap."
"Hey," Jagger catches my hands. "Look at me."
I meet his eyes.
"We survive," he says simply. "That's what we do. We adapt, we survive, we find a way to win."
"This isn't winning," I protest.
"It's not losing either," he counters. "Come on. Let's go home."
Home.
When did the compound become home?
When did his room become mine?
When did I become this person who cares more about belonging than revenge?
The ride back is silent.
At the compound, we're met with stares.
Everyone knows where we went.
Everyone's waiting to hear their fate.
"Church in an hour," Jagger tells Squirrel. "We need to vote."
"On?" Squirrel asks.
"Our future," Jagger says simply.
In his room, I tend to the brand, cleaning it carefully.
I apply antibiotic cream and bandage it with gentle hands.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
My hands won't stop shaking as I clean the burn.
I've done worse to enemies, inflicted more pain without blinking.
But this—marking him, claiming him for an organization that destroyed my family—makes me feel like I'm becoming Eduardo.
"Lo siento, mi amor," I breathe when his eyes flutter closed. "Perdóname."
He probably doesn't hear me. I hope he doesn't. Some apologies are meant for God, not men.
"Sorry for what?" he asks.
