Jax's P.O.V.
I shouldn’t have said it like that.
The look on Sam’s face when I told her she’d “done enough” hasn’t left my mind, and it’s only been a few minutes since I walked out of that room. Her eyes, wide with hurt, her lips parting like she was about to say something before shutting down entirely—it’s replaying in my head, over and over. But I can’t go back. Not now.
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor buzz faintly as I make my way to the coffee stand. The smell of burnt coffee and antiseptic fills the air, but I barely notice. My mind is a storm, and at the center of it is my dad lying in that hospital bed.
For a second, when I saw him hooked up to those machines, pale and frail, I thought about my mom. About the day she died.
I was nine, and the memory still burns,
