Page 22 of Breeding Justice

I was going to get out of here, get Justice back, and I was going to kill every last one of them.

Chapter Nine: Zane

Igroaned, clutching my side, the sharp sting cutting through the fog of disorientation. The gunshot hadn’t killed me, but I wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t finish the job eventually. The hospital had patched me up, but I’d checked myself out too soon. The idea of being confined there while Justice, Skylar, and Bash were out there wasn’t an option.

The flight to New York with Hassan and SJ had only made things worse. Turbulence, tight spaces, and constant movement had jostled the stitches in my side. Every jolt had felt like a hammer against my ribs, each shift a reminder that I’d left recovery behind in the name of desperation. Now I was paying for it.

I sat up carefully, grimacing at the wet warmth seeping through the bandage. I flicked on the bedside lamp, squinting against the sudden brightness. The room was a sparse guest room in Dante Moretti’s penthouse, tidy but impersonal. I’d insisted Hassanand SJ take the living room, even though I knew SJ’s toddler kicks would keep Hassan awake all night. They hadn’t argued—Hassan seemed too exhausted, SJ too innocent to notice the tension in the air. Still, guilt gnawed at me. I was useless to them like this.

Carefully, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the motion pulled at the stitches. The room was dark, save for the soft glow of city lights filtering through the blinds. I glanced toward the door, listening for any sign of movement. Hassan and SJ were in the living room, and the last thing I wanted was to wake them. SJ needed rest, and Hassan…well, Hassan had his own wounds to nurse.

I’d meant to be stronger than this, to keep my pain silent and invisible. But the truth was, the physical pain didn’t bother me as much as the weight of what came next.

I stood slowly, pressing a hand to my side to steady the pain, and made my way to the guest bathroom down the hall. The apartment was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made every creak of the floorboards sound louder. I flicked on the bathroom light, squinting as the harsh brightness flooded the small space.

Pulling off my shirt, I surveyed the damage in the mirror. Blood seeped from the torn stitches, the wound angry and red.

Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic. I wanted to punch something, but that would only make it worse.

I sighed, reaching for the first aid kit Dante had left under the sink. Antiseptic, gauze, needle, thread—everything I needed was there. I couldn’t help but smirk bitterly. Only Dante Moretti would keep a first aid kit better stocked than a hospital crash cart. It was the kind of detail that said everything about the man—control, preparedness, the expectation of violence.

I opened the small first aid kit Dante Moretti had stocked—of course he’d have a good one, given the company he kept. Antiseptic, gauze, needle, thread—it was all there. The tools of my trade, though this wasn’t exactly an ideal operating theater.

I threaded the needle with practiced ease, dousing it in antiseptic. Suturing yourself wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t the first time I’d done it. You learned to adapt in this life, or you didn’t last long.

As I pierced the needle through my skin, the sharp pain made my breath hitch. I gritted my teeth, keeping my movements steady. Each stitch was precise, the kind of work I could do in my sleep—just not on myself.

“Need a hand?”

The voice startled me, and I turned sharply, hissing as the sudden movement tugged at the half-finished stitch. Jade stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim hallway light. One hand rested on her swollen belly, and her sharp gaze was fixed on the needle in my hand.

“I’ve got it,” I said, biting back the pain. “Go back to bed.”

She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re stitching yourself up. That’s not exactly a normal midnight activity.”

I turned back to the mirror, focusing on the next stitch. “It is for me.”

Jade didn’t move, her presence unnerving but not unwelcome. “You sure you don’t need help?”

“I’m sure.” I pulled the thread taut, wincing as the skin pulled together. “But if you’ve got a mirror that isn’t attached to a wall, that’d make this a lot easier.”

She hesitated, then disappeared down the hall. I let out a slow breath, pressing a piece of gauze to the fresh stitch. A moment later, she returned, holding a small handheld mirror.

“Here,” she said, placing it on the counter.

“Thanks,” I muttered, adjusting it to get a better angle. She stayed in the doorway, watching as I continued.

“You’ve done this before,” she said after a beat.

“More times than I’d like,” I replied, focusing on the next stitch. Her tone was probing but not judgmental, a combination that made it easier to keep talking. “You’re pretty calm for someone watching this.”

“I’m a geneticist,” she said simply. “Blood doesn’t bother me.”

I tied off the last stitch and sat back, exhaling slowly. “A geneticist, huh?”

“Not a doctor,” she clarified, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “But I know enough to tell you that you should’ve stayed in bed. You’re a doctor, though, right?”

“Am I that predictable? Yeah. I’m a surgeon.”

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