Page 25 of Ghosted

His breath punches against my cheek, sharp and wet with panic.

Beautiful.

He grabs my sleeve like I’m something merciful. Like holding on to me might make this less real.

Poor stupid bastard.

I’m not mercy. Oh, no, no. I’m the accident he should’ve avoided.

“Oops.” I pull the blade free and tuck it away before the blood gets theatrical. “Pity. Seems we’re both pretty fucking clumsy tonight.”

He folds inward, hands flying to his stomach, mouth opening around a sound the warehouse swallows whole.

I catch his shoulder before he can hit the floor and shove him toward the crates, casual as anything.

“There you go,” I murmur. “Walk it off.”

Then I go back to wiping beer off my sleeve, until movement near the back hall steals my attention.

Jagger steps out of the office with his cash in one hand and murder still sitting pretty in his posture. He tucks the money into his pocket without counting it, and that makes me grin because my brother always counts his winnings.

Every bill. Every time.

Methodical little freak.

Tonight, he doesn’t even glance down. His eyes go straight to the door Alice used.

Subtle, little brother. Very fucking subtle.

He catches me watching and scowls, so I lift two fingers in a lazy wave. He doesn’t wave back, which is rude, but expected. Instead, he cuts through the crowd, ignoring the hands that reach for him, the voices calling his fight name, the girls staring at him like blood makes him holy. He walks through all that worship like it’s static, shoulders tight and jaw locked, headed straight for the cold air outside.

I could follow him. I could push again, say her name just to watch him turn around, keep poking that bruise until he finally snaps and gives me something worth smiling about.

Because Jagger is oh so fucking fun when he’s trying not to hit me.

All clenched jaw and dead eyes, acting like his self-control is some holy little virtue instead of a rubber band stretched two bad comments away from popping.

Adorable, really.

But if I push too hard now, he’ll know exactly what I’m doing, and where’s the drama in that?

No, this deserves patience.

A little suspense.

A little rot.

So tonight, like the generous, emotionally stable older brother I am, I let him go.

The fight behind me ends in a wet, pathetic pile.

Very sad. Very anticlimactic. Honestly, I expected more from two grown men with that much chest-puffing and so little survival instinct.

The crowd agrees

They boo because neither idiot bleeds enough to make the bets feel worth it, then immediately starts turning on itself like a room full of drunk toddlers with criminal records.

Bets get argued. Rematches get demanded. Someone near the cage shoves someone else, a bottle breaks, and a girl screams.