#i guess because most of what i write doesn't really have like a snappy summary??

[gingerbreadmonsters]

wip title game <3

rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP list, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it. and then tag as many people as you have WIPs!

thank you to the wonderful @pinksparkl for the tag!! 💕💕 look i'll say it - you've probably seen a fair number of these before, because if i am terrible at one thing it is sticking to a plan lmao 🫠🫠 i did add the byline, though, so you can maybe make an educated guess...?? i am a chronic oversharer, so do feel free to ask about any of them - i put everything in a randomiser, so the order doesn't mean anything hehe

edit: i'm adding links to ones i've already answered, so you can see what's going on <3

too close to hide or: I'M ON THE HUNT, I'M AFTER YOU. hometown hero or: it's even better than the thing you're not. i know you or: that gleam in your eyes... HEART EYES CRY BLOOD!! or: ...we came in?

fun laughs good time or: now, let me get right to the point. happy birthday mister president or: take a deep breath and blow... the candles out. slip of the tongue or: he's been there all afternoon, malapropping up the bar.... thicker than water or: some apples fall a little further from the tree. sunkissed or: keep your friends close, and your anemones closer! SOCKPUPPET or: there are no strings on me! kiss the ring or: your wish is my command. better look out or: don't tease me, just squeeze me! solution euphoria or: reanimating the dead, maybe. something strange or: who you gonna call?

no-pressure tags: @zozo-01 @autisticempathydaemon @ejunkiet @lovelylonerliterature @starlitangels @romirola @frenchiefitzhere @dominimoonbeam @bicyclepainting @calicostorms 💕💕💕💕💕

[seidenbros]

Our Scars Remind Us that the Past Is Real

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier | Geraskier

Summary: Geralt is plagued by nightmares, hasn't been able to sleep properly for weeks, but he doesn't talk about it, but Jaskier makes it his mission to get him to open up about it.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, a bit of fluff at the end, mentions of death (Let me know if I have to add anything)

Word count: 2043

A/N: I'll write something short, 1k words max... and what do I end up with? Double the amount of words, which was definitely not planned, but well, it is what it is.

____________________________

For the past couple of days, Geralt had been on edge. Jaskier had realized that the Witcher hadn't gotten much sleep, and once he'd fallen asleep, he'd woken up in the middle of the night covered in sweat, even waking the bard once or twice, but when he'd asked about it, Geralt had waved him off. Of course, Jaskier had tried again, wanting him to trust him, to confide in him, but Geralt's “I'm fine”, which had come out rather snappy had stopped him from asking further questions. That didn't mean, though, that he hadn't been thinking about it all the time. During the day, Geralt seemed to be lost in thought most of the time, and at night, he wasn't able to sleep properly, but there was not much Jaskier could do, when he didn't know what was going on.

Tonight, when Jaskier was about to head out to play at one of the taverns, Geralt stayed behind, because he wanted to get some rest, try to get some sleep. He needed it, Jaskier agreed, but it was still strange to be on stage without Geralt lurking somewhere in the back, because even if he sometimes said that Jaskier's singing was annoying and he needed to shut up now and then, Jaskier could always see the smile on the Witcher's face across the room, when he didn't think Jasker would see him. And he cherished that. Cherished these moments, because he caught Geralt off guard, when he didn't think that he had to keep all his defences up, which was his usual way to go about things. Not let people see what was going on inside him, and he'd done that with Jaskier as well more often than he would have liked. He got it, of course, but he still wished, that Geralt would let his guard down around him more, to let Jaskier take care of him for a change.

Followed by applaud the bard left the stage later on, and while he'd actually wanted to enjoy another drink, his feet led him outside and back to the inn. Why? Because he was worried about Geralt and wanted to make sure that he really got some sleep. He would be there to watch over the Witcher's sleep if he had to, but with that in mind, he wouldn't even have been able to enjoy his drink.

As quietly as possible, Jaskier opened the door to their room and slipped inside, cloding the door as quietly behind him as he'd opened it before. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he could make out Geralt on his bed, not moving. Maybe he'd really managed to fall asleep? Jaskier was hopeful, but something seemed off. There was no steady breathing, that he usually heard when Geralt was awake, which he'd really gotten used to. His eyes were so fixed on Geralt, that he dropped his lute when he stubbed his toe, trying not to cry out.

“I have to admit, you at least tried to be quiet,” Geralt's deep voice echoed through the room, making the bard jump again.

“Fucking hell, Geralt!” he blurted out, hobbling over to his bed to sit down and take the pressure of his toe. It wasn't broken, that much he could tell, but it still hurt. “I thought you were asleep!”

“Yeah, I guessed that much. Believe me, that was what I wanted to do, but...” Geralt shook his head, sitting up in his bed. He wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but right now, the nightmares were too much for him to take. He'd been able to push them away for a long time, but now, they were back in it even made him afraid of closing his eyes, because he knew what was expecting him there. He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the oncoming headache that stemmed from sleep deprivation.

“But...?” Jaskier looked at him across the room. It was the moment to ask, to try and understand what was going on with Geralt, what exactly he was dreaming about. There were so many things that could occupy his dreams, Jaskier understood that, because in the time they'd spent together, he'd seen a lot already, but he also knew that there were things before they'd crossed paths, but he didn't know what exactly made the Witcher wake up in the middle of the night, and talking wild guesses wouldn't work out, because there was just so much.

“It's nothing,” Geralt dismissed it with a wave of his hand, running his fingers through his hair afterwards.

“No, it's not nothing,” Jaskier sighed, getting up from his bed, ignoring the pain in his toe, to walk over to Geralt to sit down next to him. “You can't sleep, you wake up from nightmares, you're on edge all day because of that, so don't tell me it's nothing. I get that you don't trust me enough to tell me about it, but-”

“That's not true!” Geralt stopped him right there and then. “It's just... I don't want to worry you with all that.”

“Too late, because I'm already worried about you.” Jaskier reached for the Witcher's hand, and Geralt let it happen, ravelled in the warm feeling of his hand in Jaskier's, callused fingertips rubbing gently over the back of his hand. “I just want to know what's on you mind, I want to help.”

Yes,Geralt thought to himself, You always do. The hint of smile appeared on his lips, before he opened his lips: “I do trust you, Jask.” His eyes dropped to their joined hands, and here in the quiet, in the dark, he felt like it was finally okay to open up to the bard. He'd never wanted to talk to him about it, but in order to understand Geralt better, to know what was going on why he had trouble sleeping, he had to let him know.

“I'm usually really good at pushing things away from me,” Geralt started, staring straight ahead, because he didn't want to look at Jaskier, who gave the Witcher's hand a gentle squeeze before he returned to rubbing circles on the back of his hand, turning it around to do the same to Geralt's palm.

“You don't say...” Geralt picked up on the smile in Jaskier's voice, which made the corners of his own lips twitch up for a moment, but he chose to ignore that comment.

“It's been okay for years, but now...” He trailed off, lost in thought for a moment before he was able to speak up again. “As soon as I close my eyes, I dream about the Trials, about everything that happened back then.” Geralt was still not able to look at Jaskier, so he kept staring holes into the wall on the other side of the room.

Jaskier knew about the Trials, but he didn't know a lot. Only what Geralt had told him in passing, but they'd never really discussed it, because Jaskier knew what a delicate topic it was. Maybe he should have guessed that this was what kept Geralt awake or woke him from sleep. But he listened now to as much or as little as Geralt wanted to tell him.

“It was... painful, something I never could have imagined at that age.” Of course he knew pain now, and he knew what was out there, but back then? “I was just a kid, knew nothing about the world and then this...” Geralt wet his lips, shook his head for a moment, before he finally looked at Jaskier. Geralt was afraid to find pity in Jaskier's eyes, but he didn't. They were filled with sympathy, with the warmth he'd seen in them time and time again. Jaskier didn't judge, neither did he pity him, he was just there for him. “I watched my friends day. I think that's what haunts me the worst. Why they died and I made it...” His voice got quieter towards the end, filled with the realisation that it really was the loss of his friends that pained him the most, that made him wake up in the middle of the night, because he couldn't save them. With monsters involved, there was a possibility to save the people around him, even if it meant putting his own life at danger, but back then... there was nothing he could have done, he knew that, but that didn't make his guilt go away.

“There is nothing you could have done, Geralt. You were still a kid yourself.” Jaskier finally breaks the silence, choosing his words wisely. There was not a lot he could say right now, but he still wanted Geralt to understand that it hadn't been his fault. “It's a miracle you're still alive, that you made it through that, and I'm glad you did. We would never have met otherwise.” A soft smile on his lips, he put his hand on Geralt's cheek, urging him to look his way, and Geralt complied. Not only that, but he even leaned into the touch.

“I know... But it still haunts me,” Geralt eventually said. “I had no way to protect them, but I wish I could have.”

“You have your own scars from that time.” He did, he'd told Jaskier once about some of his scars, how he'd gotten them, and that was when he'd mentioned the trials for the first time. “And these scars are not only on your body, but also on your soul. They remind you that the past is real, and sometimes that happens in your dreams, but they do not dictate your life.” Gently Jaskier stroked Geralt's cheek with his thumb, not pulling his hand away.

“But how can I sleep, when these pictures turn up in my head again and again?” It was a genuine question, a desperate one, because Geralt didn't know what else he could do to get some goddamn sleep without having nightmares.

“Tell you what...” Jaskier started, letting go of Geralt's hand, pulling the other away from his cheek only to get up and settle down completely in Geralt's bed, resting his back against the headboard. His movements were followed by a puzzled Witcher, which only made Jaskier smile. “I'll watch over your sleep. Lie down, put your head in my lap and close your eyes.”

“Jask... you really don't need to do that.” Geralt didn't want to deprive him of sleep, though what he suggested sounded heavenly to him.

“But I want to. I've gotten enough sleep in the last weeks, but you haven't so... lie down and try to sleep.” The demanding tone in the bard's voice made Geralt chuckle to himself, and he already felt a bit more at ease. No, he wouldn't argue with Jaskier, not tonight, not about this, so he lay down and made himself comfortable, using Jaskier's lap as a pillow. A little smile appeared on his lips, when he felt Jaskier's hands brushing though his hair again.

“Thank you,” he whispered, feeling himself relax, beneath Jaskier's touch. Stifling a yawn, Geralt closed his eyes, feeling sleep already pulling him in. Normally, he would fight it, afraid of the nightmares. But Jaskier had said that he would watch over his sleep – and he did, stroking through Geralt's hair again and again, watching the Witcher sleep. For the first time in weeks, Geralt slept through the night without nightmares, without jolting awake, knowing that Jaskier would care for him. Right before Geralt had woken up in the morning, Jaskier had lost his fight against his sleepiness and had closed his eyes. When Geralt looked up and found the bard asleep, he couldn't help but smile. So he closed his eyes again to enjoy this moment a little longer, and to give Jaskier some rest as well. After all, he'd done a great job at keeping Geralt's nightmares away, and he'd have to thank him for that properly later. Now, it was time for some more rest until the bard woke up as well, and Geralt wouldn't budge, he'd stay right where he was.

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter One - Disclosure

A/N: This was supposed to be a Jax x Fem!OC fanfic, but it took a little turn as I started to write more of it. So, it’ll be Tig x Fem!OC, but Jax does play a very important role in this.

SUMMARY: A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of murder, the guy that got his ass shit is in this one. Jax and Tig get their own warnings, too, for obvious reasons.

The older I get, the more I realize that age doesn't bring wisdom. It only brings weary.

John Teller was always so astute.

His judicious character befell his son, too. Jax had that same perceptive nature as his old man--everyone would comment on that.

To Isla, it was admirable. For Jackson Teller to be a man of such stature--to hold such a reputation--and to remain somewhat level-headed through it all, was only something she could commend.

She'd seen many of her father's friends crumble under the pressure of Samcro, unable to balance the weight of living with the responsibility and commitment to the club, and meet their unfortunate demise--in some not-so extreme cases.

But Jax was different. He'd always been different.

Maybe that wasn't so great, however.

"You're fucking insane, Isla."

"Not insane." She mumbled, sifting through the box of shitty medical supplies that Gemma had left atop the pool table last night.

"Just trying to patch this shit up so Hayes doesn't kick the fucking bucket before Jax gets back here."

Tig snarled. "But it might be infected, and the bullet is still in this dude's ass--"

Isla whipped her head to glare at the man, her eyes wide, forehead slick with sweat--and a little blood, too.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Isla--"

"Tig, with all due respect, unless you're gonna help, please get the fuck outta here."

"That's not gonna suffice," he pointed out, referring to the medical tape, ignoring her scolding.

She wanted to throttle him. Truly, Isla was willing to wrap her crimson-coated fingertips around Tig's neck and squeeze the absolute life out of that man.

"I know." Her lips kneaded together in frustration, watching her father dab an alcohol-infused pad on the wound. "But unless you've got any better ideas, then we're just gonna have to keep reapplying this shit."

"But the infection, Isla."

"But the lack of medical equipment, Tig."

He slapped his palm against the table and glared at her, pointedly. "Why've you gotta be such a bitch all the time, huh?"

"Watch it, Trager." Piqued, Chibs growled.

"I'm not a bitch all the time," she dismissed her father, wiping at her palm with a wet rag. "I'm actually able to control the way I act around other people."

"Oh, fuck you--"

"Christ!"

The Scot's yell was muffled by the cap of his whiskey bottle, his hand pressing against Cameron's skin as the man screamed into the cloth Isla had placed underneath his head.

"God, for fucks sake, both of you just pack it in."

"Chibs--"

"Shut the fuck up. You're a fucking geriatric and you're spending your morning bickering with an almost thirty-year-old. Grow up, Tig."

Despite laughing at his comment, and enjoying the irritation wash over the other man's face, she felt bad.

For riling her father up--who was simply trying to help the innocent Irishman caught in the literal crossfire--she felt fucking awful. Especially because he never seemed to get mad at her all too often.

Tig, though...That was a different story entirely.

"I'm gonna go see if Clay has any more shit lying 'round here." She declared, throwing a damp towel onto the table, backing out of the room.

Her heart was in her throat, stomach in damn knots. Isla wasn't confident that Cameron was going to make it--not with such a deep wound.

And in his ass, too? Jesus. She wasn't confident at all.

Of course, she'd seen men get shot. Her own father, for one. But she hadn't seen somebody have to go so long without actual medical attention.

Chibs was ex-army med, but there was only so much a man could've done with a bottle of liquor, gauze, and a towel.

She was relieved that the bullet hit Cameron and not Clay, though. As sick as it sounded, she was so fucking glad that he'd managed to dodge the line of fire--initially intended for his own skull--and come out completely unscathed.

But for every ounce of relief she'd felt, an even more fervid sense of anger prevailed at the thought of Jax taking so damn long with those medical supplies he'd sought to get last night.

Gemma mentioned something about heading to the hospital--or a friend's house, or something--but Isla wasn't paying any mind to the woman as she, and Chibs, were trying all ways to stop the bleeding coming from Cameron's ass cheek.

It was the most bizarre turn of events she'd ever experienced.

One minute, Isla was sipping on a glass of wine while she eagerly awaited the spirited ping of her tiny microwave oven, ready to spend a rare--though well fucking deserved--night alone.

However, things took a drastic turn when she received a call from Tig--on behalf of a very busy Chibs--casually requesting her assistance because the Mayans had tried to assassinate Clay.

But Tig failed to mention that the man was completely fine.

She'd spent fifteen minutes on the way over mentally preparing herself, wondering what hell she'd walk into when she set foot into the clubhouse. But it was normal--strangely so.

Isla wasn't a professional, she didn't exactly know how to handle such a trauma, but she trusted her father and she just wanted to make sure he had a helping hand.

God knows that Tig wouldn't have been very much use, and Juice was a little nervous--though, he was doing incredibly well throughout the ordeal regardless of his internal apprehension.

"How's it looking?" Gemma threw at Isla, getting to her feet.

"Bloody."

She quickly scanned the room, taking in the uncomfortably sparse bar. It wasn't usually so empty, so quiet.

Clay, Gemma, and Juice. That was it. Not even Piney--not even Epps.

"Is he doing okay?"

It was still early in the day, though. She guessed that they'd pop in once they properly came around.

"He's better than he was last night." The brunette nodded. "Dad is certain the laceration is gonna get infected if we leave it any longer without trying to get the bullet out--"

"You've gotta wait 'til Jax gets back here, Isla, we can't risk Hayes dying on us."

"I know, Clay. He's just fucking tired--he's been up all night. We need a real medic on the scene before something bad happens. It's only a matter of time."

He mumbled something to himself that only Gemma seemed to catch, but Isla didn't particularly give a damn at that point. Like Chibs, she was exhausted.

The tattered and torn plaid shirt she had thrown over a random tank top--now smeared with another man's blood--was wrenched between her fingers as she pulled it off, folding it not-so-neatly.

She hadn't dealt with such a bloody wound in a while. Not since her mother's palm, decorated with shards of glass, was in dire need of stitches and her father was across the country, unable to offer his medical assistance.

"I'll grab one of Jax's shirts for you--"

"No, Gemma, it's okay," she smiled, taking a seat on one of the couches opposite her.

The older woman pinched her eyebrows together skeptically, watching Isla shift. "I insist."

"It's fine." Isla was adamant. "I'm gonna head home as soon as Jax gets back here--if he gets back here--so, really, it's fine."

A minimal amount of already dried blood was spread over her wrists and fingers, and the excess had been rubbed off on her crimson flannel, so she didn't particularly feel bad about making any mess.

Though, she shouldn't have felt bad. Not after she'd been coerced into helping and eventually receiving that shitty reception from Tig.

"Aren't you cold?" She questioned, waiting for Isla to capitulate, but she never did.

The thought of wearing one of Jax's shirts--after it being given to her by his fucking mother--didn't sit right with her for some reason. Plus, she didn't particularly feel like walking out of that building wearing the damn reaper on her back.

She didn't want to flaunt their patch. Not any more than she already had been for the last ten years.

"Where the fuck is he?"

Clay glared at the clock on the wall, realizing they'd been without the Vice President for hours. In an attempt to put him at ease, Gemma ran a hand along his shoulder.

Isla could only watch them--admire, perhaps.

"He told us he was gonna swing by Tara's place for the equipment. But that was last night, man." Juice shrugged, circling the lip of his beer bottle with his thumb.

She felt her throat thicken with a sick sense of trepidation. She hadn't heard that name in years.

"Tara?" She stuttered, feeling Gemma's piercing glare.

The woman hated Jax's first love, though she never said it aloud. Isla knew her perception of her, however, and she'd started to feel the exact same as the years went on.

Bitch.

"Yeah, y'know, Tara Knowles--"

Her heart sank--fuck that, it dove straight to the deep caverns of her chest, throbbing away into nothing. Until she felt completely void of all emotion. Completely fucking numb.

"I know her, Juice." Her response came hastily, snappy. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect you to say that."

He shrugged it off. "It's alright. I wasn't expecting her to be back in town, either. I thought you already knew."

Suddenly uncomfortable, Isla's head shook.

The crow situated at the bottom of her spine began to smolder, blistering away at her skin until she physically flinched.

It was a brilliant idea at the time, getting a matching tattoo with Jax's old lady--the one woman she truly adored and trusted, never once feeling an ounce of malice toward.

Because that was a rare thing for Isla, and she wanted their friendship--and relation to Samcro--to prevail for eternity, she supposed.

But as time went on and Tara decided to distance, and eventually alienate, herself from the club, an ample sense of regret persisted for fucking months.

Isla loathed her ink. She hated the negative connotation of the crow she once lauded, and the mere idea of that thing being slapped above her ass forever churned her stomach.

It wasn't one of her finest moments, she had to admit. But she was young and extremely fucking dumb. She'd bet top dollar that Tara felt the same--if she hadn't gotten the crow covered up already.

"Jesus, Jax, where were you?!"

Her eyes flicked upward, attention on the blonde as he sauntered across the wooden floor of the bar.

She hadn't even noticed his presence until Clay spoke, but she soon started to heed how Jax was trembling a bit with every step that he took.

It wasn't obvious. To most people, the slight shake of his wrist would've gone completely unnoticed. But to Isla--to the most observant woman in Charming--his discomfort was striking.

Jax ignored him, stomping his way toward the back room. His line of sight never satisfied Isla's. It didn't even come close to it, either.

Something had happened. It was obvious that, in the time he had been with Tara, he'd encountered something grizzly enough to chill him to the bone.

Which was saying something, what with the horrific shit that he'd already seen in his time.

"Jax!" Clay yelled, following closely behind him. "Hey, asshole, where the fuck did you put the bag--"

"I've got it."

If she had the option, Isla would've allowed the floor to swallow her fucking whole.

"Tara." Pissed, Gemma acknowledged. "You're here because?"

"I asked her to help, mom."

"But Chibs had it covered. He just needed some actual instruments--"

"Gemma, quit it."

She simply nodded at her son, not wanting to cause another problem that she'd have to fix later--which, honestly, Isla was shocked to see.

"He's in there--"

"I know." Jax cut her short, ushering Tara to the back of the clubhouse--striving to get her into the room before she heeded Isla.

But she did.

The first person she clocked--aside from Clay--was Isla Telford, the woman she had purposely alienated herself from ten fucking years ago.

It wasn't anything that she'd particularly done to Tara, more like the crowd she ran with--and the way her loyalties never seemed to lay very closely to her friends, or anything outside of the club.

Isla wasn't a part of Samcro--she didn't want to be a part of Samcro--but her coalition was strong enough to convince anybody that she was more than merely a daughter of a Sgt. at Arms.

She had been brought up around the Sons--her father's choice, of course--and when her mother passed, she had no choice but to dive a little bit deeper into that world. But, as expected, it was constantly under the watchful eye of her old man.

She was dedicated to them. They were, essentially, family, and she was an honorary member.

"Isla." Jax mumbled, nodding his head toward the entrance of the clubhouse as he closed the back-door. "Outside."

He pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his leather vest, shaking the box as he strived to seem a little less suspicious to Clay and his mother.

The blonde wobbled to her feet--knees weak after hours of standing--while simultaneously pulling her bloodied flannel back onto svelte, freckled arms, recognizing that the chill was to hit her the second she stepped onto the gravel.

Jax was casual while he strutted ahead, taking long strides that Isla found fucking impossible to keep up with.

He pushed the door to close behind her, offering a cigarette that she hastily declined.

"What's she doing here?" Was how she decided to break the silence, her eyes searching for a hint of something written on his face.

But there was nothing. Not an ounce of emotion--scarily so.

"She's fixing Cameron up--"

"Not at the clubhouse, Jax. I meant back in Charming."

He ran a thumb across his lower lip, trying to soften his gaze on Isla, but it was futile. He looked discomposed--unsettled.

"She's uh--she's workin' at the hospital now." She started to nod, waiting for his elaboration. It never came, however.

"Oh, that's nice. I wonder what happened in Chicago...Do you know why she's back here? Or how long she's gonna be staying in town--"

"You sound like my fucking mother--give it a break with the thirty-seven questions about Tara, damnit."

He snarled, heeding the distaste of his words the second she glowered at him.

"Excuse you?"

"I didn't call you out here for a sweet little conversation, Isla, I called you 'cause I need your help--"

"With what?"

Jax's hand hooked onto the back of his neck while he tilted his head to look upward, thinking of a way--any fucking way--to explain just what damn mess he'd found himself entwined with over the course of the last twenty-four hours.

He didn't know what to say or how to say it--if he should've fucking said it. He trusted Isla with his life--always had--but sometimes he appreciated that she mightn't have appreciated finding herself tangled within Jax's boisterous, at times frightening, life.

But it was too late for that. She'd been dragged through the deepest shit and wasn't crumbling that easily.

"Jax--"

"Kohn." He stated simply, waiting for the cogs of her brain to begin turning.

"What about him? You got in trouble with the ATF or something? Because we can handle that--"

"I already did." Jax laughed humorlessly, finally meeting Isla's line of sight.

The skin underneath his eyes was red raw, blotchy and irritated after he had used the sleeve of his hoodie to scrub away the tears he'd shed.

The tears he hadn't wanted to shed, but had fallen freely--uncontrollably--from those cerulean hues Isla never tired of looking at.

"What do you mean by that?" Nervously, she quizzed.

He didn't even have to say anything. She fucking knew. She knew exactly what he meant by that, but there was a tiny morsel of something within her that hoped and prayed that he'd declare that her gut feeling was wrong.

But he couldn't. Because it was right. Like always, Isla's intuition didn't fail her.

"Jax, honey, what did you do--"

"I killed Kohn."