For a few hours she seems okay, tired, quiet, pale, but okay.
She dozes against me while a cooking show plays low on the TV. My hand moves through her hair because she seems to like it, and because touching her calms something in me I didn’t know was restless.
I text Cobra updates because if I don't, the man will arrive with half the club and possibly a priest. I ignore Mayhem's three messages asking whether she needs anything, because the list includes one free murder of an ex-husband, no questions asked.
I show Zara that one when we’re standing in the kitchen, cracking fresh ice cubes. She laughs, then suddenly stops. Her hand flies to her mouth, and I move her before she can even say my name.
The first time she vomits, she tries to apologize.
I don’t let her finish. I hold her h
