Page 29 of Tiny's Testament
Syvannah stirs, a faint sound slipping past her lips. “Tiny…”
I move closer, heartbeat jumping. “Right here, baby girl.”
Her eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused. She blinks, confusion flickering across her face. “What happened?”
“You had a bad night.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
She frowns, trying to sit up, and I press a hand gently to her shoulder. “Easy. You’re safe.”
Her gaze drifts to my hand covering hers. The rough skin, the grease stains that never really wash out. Her lips tremble. “You stayed.”
“Wasn’t going anywhere.”
Something softens in her eyes then, something that shouldn’t. “Thank you.”
I shake my head. “Don’t thank me. Just… stay here this time.”
She nods weakly, eyes closing again. “You smell like motor oil.”
I huff a small laugh. “Better than death.”
A ghost of a smile touches her mouth before sleep pulls her under again.
I sit here until her breathing steadies, until Peanut hops up on the bed and curls beside her, purring against her ribs.
Around us, everyone’s waking up, starting a new day. But I don’t move because for the first time in a long time, I’m more afraid of leaving than I am of what’s waiting out there.
And maybe Capone’s right. Maybe I have lost my edge. But looking at Syvanna alive and breathing, I can’t bring myself to give a damn.
8
SYVANNAH
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the light. Warm, gold, soft enough to make me believe for a moment that everything was just a nightmare. Then I move, and the ache in my muscles proves it wasn’t.
My throat is dry, my skin clammy, my head pounding behind my eyes. But I’m still breathing and that’s something.
I shift slightly, wincing at the pull in my ribs. The blanket slides down, and I see Peanut curled up at the end of the bed, tiny paws twitching in a dream. A low rumble of a purr fills the quiet.
There’s a mug of coffee on the nightstand. Steam still curls from it. I blink at it, then glance at the figure sitting on the edge of the chair beside the bed.
Tiny.
His elbows rest on his knees, his head tilted toward the floor, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, and his hands still stained with grease and blood. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
When he senses me move, he looks up. The relief in his eyes is so intense it hurts to see.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey,” I whisper back. My voice sounds rough but alive. “How long have you been sitting there?”
He shrugs. “Long enough to make bad coffee.”
I glance at the mug and smile weakly. “You made that for me?”
