Page 26 of Jayson
I drag the blanket tighter around my shin, feel the grime on my skin. “Speaking of staying where you can see me—another shower wouldn’t kill me.”
A dry scoff leaves him—closer to a laugh than anything I’ve heard. “Smart request from the girl who tried to Houdini herself through a window last time.”
“It was a calculated risk,” I say.
“You’re terrible at math.”
His mouth twitches—could be annoyance, could be something dangerously close to amusement. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, produces a small bottle and two pills. He crouches, holds them out in his palm. The distance between us feels electric.
“Antibiotic and a painkiller,” he says quietly. “You keep the leg elevated. You stay off it. Shower is off the table until you can stand without screaming.”
I hesitate, then take the pills, feeling the brush of his calloused fingertips. A jolt shoots up my arm—a chemical spark I try to ignore.
He rises, towers. The anger in him is still there, but muted by something I can’t name.
“You heal.” His voice dips, soft but cut with steel. “Then we’ll talk again. And if you try to run before both happen?—”
“—you’ll break something that can’t be fixed,” I finish for him, the threat already memorised.
His eyes flicker, acknowledging the echo. Then he walks to the door, hand on the lock. Before he turns the key, he looks back—just a heartbeat too long.
“Ten foolish minutes nearly crippled you,” he says, voice low. “What do you think would have happened if you’d been out there for sixty?”
The lock slides into place with a heavy, deliberate click. His footsteps retreat, each one softer than the last until they dissolve into the hush of the corridor.
I tip the pills into my mouth and swallow them dry. They drag down like ground glass, lodging bitterness at the back of my throat. Then I ease onto the cot, foot propped on the rolled-up towel, and stare at the ceiling’s spider-veined plaster.
The pills leave a chemical aftertaste, and I close my eyes against it, tasting fear, defiance, and something sharper—possibility. Because if ten minutes could cost this much, then sixty—used well—might still be enough to rewrite the ending.
13
JAYSON
Keira paces, but it looks more like she’s a seesaw tipping off balance with her bum leg.
Back and forth, like a tethered animal. Controlled. Measured. Silent.
She’s not the kind of girl who screams or begs for mercy. And she’s definitely not the kind who bargains for her life. That should make her easier to handle. Predictable. Contained. But her defiance only makes me respect the hell out of her.
I watch her on a grainy old monitor in my grandmother’s study, the feed hooked up from the basement below. It flickers once, static bleeding across her image like ghostlight.
She’s wrapped in the same blanket I left her with, but she moves like she doesn’t feel the cold. Or the pain in her leg. As though discomfort isn’t new to her. Like she’s endured worse in warmer rooms. She pauses near the bars and stares out into the dark. But she’s not looking for escape. She’s just listening.
For what? I don’t know.
But I hate how long I’ve been watching. Hate the weight in my chest when she finally moves again. Hate the relief I feel when I see she’s still there.
“Why did you bring her here, Jayson?” Nina says from somewhere behind me. I don’t turn around when she speaks.
“I needed somewhere safe for her to stay.”
“Who is she?”
When I don’t acknowledge her, she steps into my line of sight, planting herself right in front of the monitor. Like a shadow swallowing all the light in the room. Like an unspoken command I’m supposed to obey.
The image of Keira disappears behind Nina’s figure, and I feel the loss like a punch to the ribs. Goddamn it. I drag my eyes up, slow and deliberate, until they meet hers. Sharp. Knowing. Unapologetic.
My hands move to my hips on instinct, jaw tightening as I shake my head with a dry, humorless breath. A long exhale spills from my chest—half frustration, half surrender.
