Page 9 of Jayson
“She’s going to fall,” I mutter, half-prayer, half-curse. I pick up speed.
She does. A foot catches on a root and her body skids down a slope of mud. She slides like a stone on greased glass—arms flailing, voice ripping upward in a raw scream. I leap, grab a branch, swing after her. My boots hit soft ground and slip; I ride the same muddy trail, controlled chaos, palms burning.
She lands hard on her hands and knees at the bottom, hair plastered to her cheeks, breath high and ragged. She tries to stand, but her legs buckle. Yet she still digs her nails into the muck and crawls forward. Tenacious. Stupidly brave.
I sigh as she tries to hobble away, knowing well and true that now I’ll have to carry her sorry ass back to the house. I reach her in three strides, hook an arm around her waist, and haul her up. She kicks, twists, spits mud in my face. One heel catches my shin; pain flares sharp. I like that. Reminds me that I’m still human.
“Let go!” she snarls, voice wet with terror and rain-slick grit.
“Can’t,” I growl into her ear. “Already did that once. Look what happened.”
She claws for my eyes. I swing her around, pin her back to my chest, forearm across her collarbone. Her small body vibrates with fury—like she’s holding a live wire and she’s about to explode.
That little voice that’s been dormant in my head echos:She’ll be your key or your curse. Maybe both.
Yeah, well, I’m already damned,I snap right back.
The girl fights me. She doesn’t stop, determined to get away, although I don’t know how far she’ll get with that bum leg of hers. She bucks suddenly, ankles locking around my calf, leverage pure instinct. We go down hard. Mud explodes. Myshoulder eats a rock, stars pop behind my eyes. She scrambles free—almost. I grab her ankle; she twists and lands a foot in my ribs. Air whooshes out of me, but I keep hold and yank her hard.
She slams back, spine sliding across sludge, her night clothes now covered in mud. A sob wrenches from her throat, fury tangled with fear.
I lunge over her, pin her wrists above her head. It starts to rain, and droplets of liquid paint her lashes to make her look like she’s crying.
“Stop,” I rasp. “Stop.”
“Why? So you can kill me like you killed my father?”
I flinch. Not at the accusation—at the tremor of grief under it. She still loved the bastard. People cling to their monsters, even when they share blood.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say. “Too late for that.”
Thunder rolls distant, like God is mocking me. Taking sides with Ghost and reminding me that I should have done what needed to be done.
Her chest heaves. Mud streaks her throat. I watch the pulse there beat wild—proof of life I’m responsible for.
The voice in my head laughs.Thought you didn’t collect strays, Jayson.
“Get off me,” she whispers.
“If I do, you’ll run again.” I shift my weight, grimace at the ache in my side. “And I’ll chase you again. Maybe next time you break a leg. Then what?”
“I’d rather crawl away than be at the mercy of a killer.”
“You don’t know the first thing about killers, little girl.”
I get it. I chose violence; I deserve her hatred. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I loosen my grip. She feels it, freezes. Eyes the color of the darkest storm lock on mine.
“Why did you take me?” she asks, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you just kill me?”
My answer comes before thought: “Because I thought sparing you would earn me redemption. Now I’m not so sure…”
Her breath stutters. Mine too. It’s the truth—ugly, bare.
The insinuation sits in the heavy silence between us. I could still kill her. The fact that I didn’t doesn’t mean she’s guaranteed a free pass indefinitely.
She looks away first.
I push off her, stand, offer her a hand. She doesn’t take it. Fine. I grab her elbow and haul her upright. She yelps—sharp and sudden—and her weight buckles to one side.
