Page 127 of Final Drive

I turn around.

“Let me see,” she says.

I take the ice away, and she studies my cheekbone for a few seconds. “That’s going to be ugly.”

“Already was.”

“Shut up.”

I put the ice back against it. She stays beside me, and after a few seconds she looks up.

“You didn’t hit him.”

“No.”

“You wanted to.”

“I still want to.” I look toward the road beyond the trailers. “He’s in a car on the county road right now, and I know which road it is.”

“Jackson.”

“I’m not going.”

Her eyes stay on me, and I know that’s not enough.

“I’ve got about eleven separate plans for the next hour,” I tell her. “I’m not going to do any of them. I need you to know both of those things are true.”

She looks down at the gravel while I adjust the ice against my cheek.

“Three years ago somebody asked me to bite her,” I say. “I did what she asked, and it ended my life. Since then, I’ve understood exactly one thing about myself. When an Omega’s in trouble, I don’t get to trust my own hands.”

“You did what she asked, and she’s the one who lied about it afterward.” Reese doesn’t blink. “The part where that makes your hands dangerous is yours. You added it.”

“It’s what I’ve believed.”

“I know.”

I don’t expect that answer.

She reaches for my free hand and grips it hard enough that I feel her nails. “Look at me.”

I do.

“You had his wrist, and you let go. You had him. You could’ve hurt him, and you let go.”

“Reese.”

“No. Listen to me.” Her voice cracks a little, but she keeps going. “You knew he was here this morning and you came to breakfast. You had a wrench in your hand when he walked up to me, and you put it down before he ever touched me. I watched you do it.”

I look toward the trailer rail. The wrench is still there.

“You think your hands are the problem,” she says. “But they’ve been telling you the truth for two months and you haven’t been listening.”

I don’t know what to do with that, so for once I don’t try to do anything.

Reese steps closer and puts her forehead against my chest, and I get my arms around her before I can think about whether I should. We’re standing in the middle of a gravel lot in front of half the championship field. My face is swelling, her arm is going to bruise, Kowalski is somewhere behind us, and for all I know she still has the camera out.

I don’t care. Reese doesn’t seem to either.