“The hell are you talking about?” Jonah sputters.
“—I’ll shove that thing up your fucking ass and make sure to twist it good.”
Cold shock hits me. He knows. He knows Jonah cut my wrists, not me. Why would he say that otherwise? Pax flares his nostrils as he stalks forward toward Jonah. “Crazy how sound travels in places like this. You’d be amazed at what I just fucking heard,” he spits.
“You don’t know shit,” Jonah laughs. “And you can’t prove anything. I just came down here to make sure Presley was okay. That’s all.” He cackles, and the sound ricochets around the parking garage.
“So you weren’t about to rape your own sister?” Pure, unadulterated hatred drips from Pax’s words. “You weren’t about to force yourself on her and then fucking kill her?”
I thought I’d seen Pax angry before. I haven’t. The veins in his neck, and his arms, and his hands stand proud as he steps toward Jonah. He is something lethal and deadly, something to be feared.
Jonah doesn’t see the brutal desire to kill in Pax’s eyes, though. He darts forward, willing to risk capture to try and skirt around Pax…to get to me. It’s the worst move he could possibly make.
Pax roars as he slams into Jonah. They’re the same build, the same height, but it doesn’t matter. Pax is possessed. He hurls Jonah to the ground, and the two of them tangle into a confusion of arms and legs as they wrestle. Jonah lands a series of blows that look like they hurt, but Pax doesn’t even flinch. He’s a terrifying sight as he shakes off each hit and keeps coming for Jonah. Amongst the chaos, I don’t see the knife. Eventually, I hear it clatter to the ground, and I rush forward, kicking it out of the way so neither of them can use it.
It would be terrible if Jonah used it on Pax.
It would be just as bad if Pax used it on my brother. Jonah would be dead, but Pax is no good to me, locked behind bars. I can’t let him kill him. I can’t.
“Pax! God, stop! Let him up! Let the police handle it.”
Pax has no intention of letting Jonah up. He pins my brother beneath him, kneeling on his chest, while he winds back and brings his fist crashing down onto Jonah’s face.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I hear the crack of bone.
Blood sprays everywhere, spattering all over Pax’s face, his bare arms and the front of his chest with every blow. The sounds that come out of Jonah aren’t even human. They’re weak, desperate noises—the kind of keening, feral sounds an animal makes when it’s stuck in a trap. I have no sympathy for Jonah as Pax destroys his face, but with each strike, my wild Riot House boy becomes more and more lost. There’ll be no stopping him soon. He’ll keep on hitting Jonah, raining devastating blows down one after the other, until there’s nothing left of my half-brother but a bloody smear of bone and pulp on the concrete.
“Pax!” I move in front of him, crouching down to sit on my heels, covering my mouth with both hands.
See me.
See me.
Come on.
Look at me.
But he’s too far gone to answer my silent pleas.
“Pax! STOP!”
Finally, my cry reaches him. He stops his frenzied attack, sniffing as he rocks back. He falls heavily onto his ass as he looks up, eyes unfocused, to find me. I watch as he comes back into himself, the violence that claimed him slowly slipping away. “You should have told me,” he whispers. “I would never have let him near you again. Never.”
I can’t see through my tears.
Pax’s face is a mess; his bottom lip is split open, blood running down his chin, and his right eye is already swelling shut. A large gash runs from his temple down to the top of his right ear, but the cut looks shallow. His knuckles are split open on both hands. He’s covered in so much blood that he looks like an extra in a horror movie.
I want to go to him, to make sure he’s all right, but suddenly the truth hits me. Pax knows what happened. Pax knows. He forced Jonah to come here. He was going to make him explain what took place the night I nearly died. He stopped him from hurting me. He hurt him.
I look to Jonah—a crumpled, bleeding ruin on the floor, barely breathing, his fingers twitching—and I let out a strangled choking sound. Is this it? Is this the end? Pax heard what Jonah said. He heard him confess. It won’t be my word against his anymore.
I moan, and the sound is a mournful, pitiable sound, reverberating around the parking garage. It’s a release, in a way. I’ve been holding onto this pain, this fear, for so long now that I don’t even know how to process the fact that I might be free of it.
Pax takes me in his arms, picking me up from the ground. “Shhh. Don’t worry. You’re safe, Firebrand. Don’t worry. I promise. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I wouldn’t have been able to believe him a week ago. If he’d scooped me up and held me to him then, I wouldn’t have been able to trust it. But I’ve seen the lengths that he’ll go to in order to protect me, now. I know that he’ll happily kill to keep his word.
As he carries me up the stairs and out of an emergency exit, into the humid, sticky night, I bury my face into his blood-splattered t-shirt, and I sob tears of relief.
45
PAX
* * *
She’s brave as fuck when she gives her report to the cops at the hospital. I sit beside her, twitching in my seat, ready to ruin someone’s day the second they suggest that she might be making any of this up. But no one does. The female officer who takes her statement is kind. Gives her sweet, hot tea to help with the remnants of her shock. For the first time in my entire life, I wind up half-liking a police officer. She’s even friendly with me when she takes my statement. There’s something in her eyes—some kind of gratitude? I think she’s glad I kicked the shit out of that fucker. I reckon she would have done it herself if she could have.
The doctors give Chase the all-clear. They dose her up with a mild sedative, which helps with the desolate look in her eyes, and then the cops take us down to the station to wait for Chase’s dad. They tell us that Jonah Witton is in the ICU. His injuries warrant it. Fucker would be in the morgue if I’d had my way, but I suppose a part of me is glad that he isn’t. I wouldn’t be able to look after Chase if I’d killed the bastard. I’d definitely have been arrested for manslaughter. As it is, Rufus, Meredith’s business partner at her law firm arrives and gets me out on bail. He promises he’ll take care of the assault charge in less than twenty-four hours, and I believe him. Rufus isn’t a fucking amateur; there’s a reason why his retainer is two hundred thousand and he bills three thousand dollars an hour.
I sit with Chase and wait for her father with her. She falls asleep on a hard plastic chair, which I can’t stomach to see. I gingerly lift her into my lap and hold her as she sleeps, and my heart strains to keep beating around the pain in my chest.
Her own brother.
Her blood.
He raped her. More than once. He cut her wrists, and then he fucked with her head so badly that she was too scared to tell anyone the truth.
I should have fucking stopped him in his car, the night he dumped Chase in front of the hospital. I should have known something was seriously, seriously wrong. I should have fucking killed him there and then. I should have known how I was going to feel about her and done something.