“You are the girl who reminded me what it is to feel,” he whispers, and my heart is caught in my throat. “So now, I am going to teach you how to be numb, baby.”
Before I can protest, he leans down and lifts me effortlessly into his arms. I don’t fight him. I don’t flinch. My body folds against his instinctively, like it’s always known how to fit there.
His steps are slow but sure as he carries me down the hall and into the bathroom. The soft hum of the light flickers overhead. I hear the water turn on—hot, steady, soothing—and then his hands are back on me, gentle as they tug my shirt over my head, in a way that makes me feel precious when I’ve never felt anything but wrecked.
He helps me step into the bath, the water already steaming and laced with something that smells like lavender, salt and firewood—like him. I sink into it with a sigh that sounds too broken to be mine. Landon doesn’t leave. He kneels beside the tub, sleeves pushed up, and picks up the sponge with one hand, cupping water and pouring it over my shoulders like he’s washing something sacred. He washes me carefully, and I take my time being completely sad, feeling every emotion I can. Holding my breath when I realize that Willow may never forgive me for my crimes. That I have lost the man I considered my father, and my best friend, but that pain is held in my chest. I’ll unleash it later. I can’t do that now.
After, Landon is quiet. He offers me a towel without a word, wrapping it around my shoulders when I don’t reach for it fast enough. His fingers are careful, always careful, as he squeezes the water gently from my hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head like it’s a prayer.
He doesn't ask me to talk.
Doesn’t expect anything.
He juststaysaround in a way no one has before. Most people leave, but I know he’s not too far away from me. He can’t handle the distance, and for some deranged reason it brings me comfort.
By the time I step out of the bathroom, skin flushed warm and clean for the first time in days, the apartment smells like butter and cheese. The kind of smell that makes your stomach turn with hunger even when your heart still feels hollow.
He’s in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, one hand pressed to the skillet handle and the other holding a spatula like he’s preparingfor war. I watch him for a minute. Watch the way he moves. The way his hair hangs in his eyes, the way his tattoos flex every time he shifts his grip on the handle.
There’s a single plate on the counter—grilled cheese, cut diagonally. A glass of cold water. A folded napkin.
He doesn’t look at me when he speaks.
“Eat all of it,” he says simply. “You need strength for murder.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, I pad over, pick up the plate, and take a slow bite. The bread is perfectly crisp. The cheese is gooey and rich and slightly salty, and it melts on my tongue like it was made just for me.
I eat in silence while he cleans the pan, wipes the counter, dries his hands on a rag. Then he disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes, and when I follow, still chewing the last bite, I find an outfit already laid out on the bed.
Black jeans. My combat boots. One of my cropped tanks. A leather jacket—hisleather jacket.
Landon doesn’t say anything when I step into the doorway.
He just nods toward the clothes.
“You’re going to give them exactly what they deserve, Peach.”
21
JASMINE
The driveto the Raider’s hangout feels different this time. I don’t know what about this drive makes it harder for me. Maybe it’s the weight in my chest, tight and unmoving, or the way my fingers can’t stop picking at the frayed hem of Landon’s leather jacket. The one he insisted I wear, as if it could shield me from what’s coming. Maybe it’s the silence in the car, thick and thoughtful—not heavy, not uncomfortable, but full of things we aren’t saying out loud.
Or maybe it’s because this time, I’m not just walking in as a girl pretending she belongs.
I’m walking in as a reckoning.
The trees blur past in the dark, tall shadows leaning in like they know something I don’t. Gravel grinds under the tires as we turn onto that narrow, hidden road, and the cabin appears like it’s been waiting for me. Like it’s always been waiting.
And still—my stomach twists.
My mind spins with doubt, rage, grief, all of it layered and bleeding together. I think about Tommy. I think about the wayCast’s voice cracked when he told me. The silence on the other end of the line when I couldn’t respond. The way his death settled over everything like ash.
I should be on fire. Iwantto be. But beneath the fury, I’m still asking myself the same brutal question:
Can I actually do this?
