But this wasn’t an explosive.
Not in the form of a bomb at least.
It was a bomb in the form of a human.
In the form of Liam.
But I needed to stop looking at him like he was Liam. Because he was Jagger. With muscles and ink and scars and a motorcycle cut to remind me of that. I might’ve been able to convince myself of this fact had it not been for those eyes. Those green eyes shining like carved emeralds from his hard face. Every time I met those eyes, I could never think of this man as Jagger. He was Liam to me, still. Or maybe I was holding onto that shred of naiveté that other people called hope. Hope that I was not in a biker compound with strangers. That Liam was here. That Liam would protect me if things got bad. And things were going to get bad. There was something in the atmosphere, a thickness I’d felt countless times.
And the bad, it was here.
It was here in the form of Liam—of Jagger—breaking down a door with blood covering his hands and death in those emerald eyes.
I rushed forward even when my survival instincts told me to stay back.
“No,” he growled, voice guttural as I got close. It was strange, it was somehow, distant, almost removed from his body as he spoke. He glanced down to the hands he’d put up to bar me from coming closer. They were stained crimson.
A quick scan at his body told me it wasn’t his.
My body relaxed even though it told me things I shouldn’t want to know.
“I need to wash this off,” he said, looking down to his hands, speaking mostly to himself.
I nodded once. “Okay.”
His eyes moved from his hands to me, running them up my body. I was in leggings and an oversized tee. It was his tee. I hadn’t intended to torture myself by wearing it, but my hands had acted of their own accord, reaching into his drawers after my shower, lifting the fabric to my nose.
As soon as I inhaled the scent of Liam, of Jagger, mixed together like some kind of painfully beautiful aftershave, I knew I needed it on my body.
I regretted that now with that look. With what it told Liam.
But he didn’t say anything, he only looked for a beat longer then disappeared inside the bathroom.
The sound of running of water trickled out.
I stared at the ruined door, now providing no privacy between my bed—Liam’s bed—and the very highly trafficked hallway.
Claw walked past, he stopped when he spotted the damage to the door, and likely me standing in the middle of the room like some kind of tragic statue.
“Jagger’s decided to come for a visit,” he deduced, looking at the ruined hinges, with seemingly little interest or shock.
I nodded once, looking at the blood covering his white tee.
He grinned. “Have fun.” He winked and walked away.
I didn’t reply. Didn’t move. I should’ve done that. Taken off Liam’s tee. Run my fingers through my wet hair, to detangle it, since I likely looked like a total mess right now. But then again, I wasn’t the one covered in blood. Maybe I should’ve run for my life.
But I didn’t.
The door to the bathroom opened.
Liam stepped out.
I held my breath as he made his way over to me.
His hands were clean now. In a manner of speaking.
He stopped inches from me, though he didn’t touch me. I was thankful for that. Because his sheer presence was overwhelming. My chest constricted with his nearness, with the truth, staring me in the face with emerald eyes.
“Did someone get hurt?” I whispered.
“A lot of people got hurt,” he replied.
I clenched my jaw. “Anyone in the club?” Despite the fact I was still their prisoner, I didn’t bear ill will to anyone wearing a cut. In fact, the thought of more harm coming to the club filled me with unease.
The thought of something happening to Liam had me poised for a mental breakdown. I was failing to distance myself the way the story required.
But this was more than a story.
“No one in the club,” he replied.
I exhaled.
“Fernandez’s men?”
I didn’t expect him to answer, I was a civilian and a rat to boot.
But he nodded. “No one that can give us shit, but we still got to dig graves.”
My hands shook at the casual way he was speaking about death, about murder. That shouldn’t have affected me. I knew better than anyone how cheap life was in war. No, even in times of peace, life was cheap. In times of war life was worth nothing, death was worth only a little more, as markers in a scorebook that no one would be considered a victor in.
“Killing isn’t easy,” he said, as though he were reading my mind. Or at least my face. I feared my empty façade was no longer present.