Page 117 of Relapse

He’s gripping the steering wheel hard enough his knuckles have gone pale beneath his tattoos while city lights flicker across the sharp lines of his face. There’s blood dried beneath his jaw that definitely isn’t his.

“You look like shit,” I mumble.

One corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

“Helpful.”

“I’m serious.” My voice sounds floaty even to me. “You look like you murdered somebody.”

Silence.

Then Mina snorts softly into the passenger seat.

“Babe.”

“What?”

“Judging by the fact you’re still holding a blood-covered platform like a murder accessory, I’m gonna go ahead and guess you definitely murdered somebody too.”

Fair.

I sink lower into the backseat afterward, forehead resting briefly against the cold window while downtown Severance Point slides past outside in black glass and neon reflections.

My body still hasn’t caught up to reality yet.

Everything feels too sharp and too distant at the same time.

Like I’m still standing in the rave bathroom staring at Miss Georgia peach’s body folded beside that disgusting fucking toilet.

The thought makes nausea twist suddenly through my stomach.

Noir notices immediately from beside me, his hand tightening around my knee while his eyes flick briefly from the road to my face.

“You gonna puke?”

“Maybe.”

His jaw flexes, attention cutting back to the street while his thumb presses firmer into my skin.

“Breathe through it.”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re holding your breath.”

Oh.

Rude of him to be right.

I drag in a shaky inhale, but it scrapes weirdly through my chest, too thin to be useful.

Noir’s hand slides a little higher on my thigh, not sexual, just grounding. Possessive in the way he always is, like if he keeps his palm there, the whole world has to think twice before touching me again.

“Stay with me,” he says quietly.

My throat tightens.

“I’m trying.”