Page 6 of Jagged Burn
Scars And Bruises
Stefan Grey
I keep my eyes on the road, knuckles tight around the wheel, because if I look in the rearview mirror again, I’ll crash this damn truck.Anna’s curled up on the back seat, hair still damp from the rain, makeup smudged, and her cheek already swelling from where that bastard hit her.I’ve seen a lot of shit in my time as a firefighter—burn victims, car wrecks, kids pulled out of houses when we were too late—but nothing makes my blood boil the way seeing her like this does.
The girl who used to tag along behind Matt and me, insisting she could play football if we’d just “throw the damn ball already.”The one who always slipped me half her Halloween candy because she said, “You like chocolate better than Matt, don’t even argue.”That girl has been beaten down into someone I barely recognize.And I fucking hate that I didn’t notice sooner.
“Are you okay back there?”I mutter.Stupid question.Of course she’s not okay.
“I’m fine.”Her voice is small, almost defensive.
I bite back a laugh that sounds more like a growl.“Bruises on your throat, a nose that might be broken, and you’re trying to tell me you’re fine?You always were a terrible liar, Annie.”
Her lips press into a thin line at the nickname, and I instantly regret it.I used to call her that all the time, back when things were simple.When she was just Matt’s kid sister, trailing after us, driving me nuts but secretly making me grin.
“Don’t call me that,” she says flatly.
“Sorry.”I clear my throat.“Anna.”
We ride the rest of the way in silence, tension filling the cab until it’s hard to breathe.When I finally pull into my driveway, the storm’s still coming down, lightning splitting the sky like jagged veins.Fitting, because my chest feels cracked wide open.
My house isn’t much.Just a one-story brick ranch on the edge of town, with an old oak tree that nearly touches the roof.I used to think it was too big for one man, too quiet.But tonight, it feels like the safest place in the world.
“Come on,” I say as I jog around to open her door.
She hesitates but then slips her small hand into mine.The contact nearly levels me.Warmth, trust, and something I don’t deserve all rolled into one.
Inside, I flip on the lights, leading her into my bedroom before I head straight for the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet.
“Sit,” I tell her, pointing to the edge of the bed in my room.
Her eyes flash.“Don’t order me around.I’ve had enough of that.”
I freeze.Then nod slowly.“Fair point.Would you ...please sit?So I can take a look at your injuries?”
Her chin lifts like she’s daring me to push back, but after a long moment she lowers herself onto the quilt.I kneel in front of her, the kit open on the floor.When I reach for her face, she flinches before she can stop herself and my stomach twists violently.
“I’m not him, Anna.”The words come out rough, scraping against my throat.
“I know.”Her voice is a broken whisper, but her shoulders soften just a little.“I know, Stefan.”
I tilt her chin gently, wincing at the mottled purple blooming across her jaw.My scarred hand looks monstrous against her delicate skin.I see it in every reflective surface, every mirror—the melted, ridged flesh running from my temple down my cheek to my jaw.Half of my body and face changed irrevocably in a single instant.Most people can’t look at it for long.Hell, I can barely look at it myself.
But she doesn’t pull away.She just studies me with those stormy eyes, and I realize she’s not staring at the scar at all—she’s staring at me.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“Don’t,” she cuts in.“Don’t you dare apologize for being the one who survived.”
My chest squeezes tight.I want to say something back, something smart, but all that comes out is a strangled laugh.“Guess we’re both a little broken, huh?”
“Jagged,” she corrects softly.“But not broken.”
Her choice of words hits me like a damn sucker punch.Jagged.Like the burns that tore through me when that roof collapsed eighteen months ago.Like the way my soul feels every time someone stares too long, then looks away.And now, like the bruises patterned across her skin.Jagged edges cutting us both to pieces.
I clear my throat and busy my hands.I clean the cut on her lip, tape up her ribs where she winces, and when I brush my fingers along her wrist, I see fingerprints darkening the skin.My vision blurs red.
“He did this tonight?”
