Page 67 of Yours on the Canvas

Callan had thrown me into a car and took us straight to the airport. Mack was the same as me. He wanted to get back to Mason as fast as he could.

I didn’t know what was going on with Mason, but he rarely came into the office anymore. He preferred to work from home. Mack didn’t elaborate. He only said he needed to get back to him, so I didn’t ask questions.

I had boarded the plane, taken my seat, slammed back some painkillers, and slept the rest of the way home.

The medic also contacted PalMerc and filed a formal complaint with CJ, who had visited me and gave me the look. Then he yelled, “Seriously, Si, a gun? What the hell were you thinking?” He shook his head, smiled and called me a “fucking idiot,” and that was that.

He gets it.

Now that same medic has caused me to be forced to stay “under observation” for a few days in hospital.

So here we are.

Jack had been given the all clear, but as soon as he found out I was staying, he stayed too.

I bitched and moaned and told him and the doctor that I could rest at home, but Jack told me that if I did not stay and do as I was told, he would ring his uncle.

The little shit.

So I reluctantly stayed.

* * *

Jack’s quiet the entire drive home. Every time I glance over, his fingers are curled tight around the hem of his shirt, twisting, releasing, twisting again. The closer we get, the more his chest rises too fast, like he can’t get a full breath in.

His breathing is erratic, and it hits me hard in the gut because I know exactly what that means–he’s bracing for an impact, even if he doesn’t quite know what’s coming.

I reach over and take his hand. He startles, looking at me quick, eyes wide, then turns back to the window like he’s trying to hide the panic crawling up his throat.

“Hey,” I say softly, keeping my voice low, steady. “I’m right here.”

His fingers twitch under mine, but he doesn’t pull away. At least that’s something. I squeeze his hand gently and give him a quick smile.

By the time I pull into the driveway, his breathing is shallow, his shoulders tight. I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, watching him He’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force.

“Jack,” I say, turning toward him. “Look at me.”

It takes a few seconds, but he does. His eyes are glassy, overwhelmed, scared in a way I know he hates showing. I lift our joined hands, brushing my thumb over his knuckles.

“You’re safe, dove” I tell him quietly. “We’re home, and baby, I’ve got you.”

His throat works like he’s trying to swallow something big. His Adam’s apple jumps in his throat, and I see his pulse jumping under his skin. He nods once, small but shaky.

“Come on. I’ll help you out.” I murmur.

I hop out and circle around the car. When I open his door, he doesn’t look at me, but he steps out, his body leaning just slightly toward mine. It’s subtle, but I feel it.

I rest my hand on the back of his neck, and he shifts closer, the movement barely there, his breathing shaky and the sound hits me hard, breaking something inside me.

“Come on,” I say gently, threading my fingers through his and guiding him to the house.

We get inside, and Jack pauses just inside the doorway. His eyes sweep the room, landing on the spot by the kitchen island. I see the exact moment the memory hits him as a tremor runs through his body, sharp and involuntary. His breath stutters, then it spikes into something short and shallow.

I move without thinking.

I step up behind him, sliding my arm around his waist and pull him back against my chest. The second we touch, he lets out a sob, a raw broken sound that tears right through me.

Oh, my boy. My hurting, brave boy.