Page 44 of Captured By Fate

I get out of the water abruptly, as if running from my own swirling emotions that are becoming impossible to ignore. Kelley watches me with those piercing hazel eyes that seem to see right through to my core.

"I should let you get some rest," I muttered lamely.

She simply nods, her expression unreadable. I walk away stiffly before I do something reckless, like spill my damn heart out to this captivating woman.

The revelation haunts me - I'm in much deeper than I ever planned to be. And I don't know if I can find my way out again.

27

KELLEY

Just when I think I understand the man, he dives back into his shell. While it's not the first time he’s left me hanging, I guess I can be grateful that at least this time, I get to keep my panties.

When I dripped my way back up to my room last night, I was left wondering how the rest of the weekend would go. Would Jackson continue to burn hot and cold like he has, or was there ever a real possibility that we could be together?

In truth, I know I’m no better than a plaything to him. And while I know I shouldn't want his attention, I’m still just a human. And more than that, I’m a woman who has seen something she wants. I have felt something good from him, call me spoiled, but I just want more.

Time in this mansion ticks slowly, and unless Jackson decides to open up and show me just a little more of himself, I may find out that it comes to a close with these questions unanswered. I just can't live with that. The reporter in me won't let me.

Which is why the early morning rap on my door feels wonderfully auspicious. Maybe he’s a little more ready than he was yesterday, to let me in, one sliver at a time.

“C’mon,” he says, reading me to a part of the house I'd never been before. “I want to show you something.”

Jackson and I find ourselves in the mansion's vast garage, surrounded by the exotic cars and motorcycles that are his pride and joy. He runs a hand along a sleek sports car as he tells me about its precision handling and throaty purr.

It's Sunday evening, and Jackson hasn't left the mansion all weekend. To my surprise, we've passed the time in pleasant conversation, without confrontation. I enjoy this temporary peace between us but don't know how to handle the conflicted feelings rising in my heart.

I'm scared to examine them too closely. Since I'll be leaving here soon, why not spend these final hours with Jackson, opening up in ways we never have? This will likely be the only time I'll ever be so close to him. I can't fall in love with my captor - that way lies only pain.

But when he looks at me with those intense eyes, full of banked heat, I waver.

I shy away from his outstretched hand, moving down the rows of vehicles. "You certainly like your toys," I remark lightly.

Jackson's answering smile stirs a now-familiar flutter in my chest. "Nothing wrong with rewarding yourself after years of hard work. Unless you'd call that indulgent?"

His teasing tone echoes our earlier debate on the merits of luxury. This weekend has revealed his thoughtful, playful side in unguarded moments. Is there hope for him, despite his criminal ways? Can there be a future for us beyond this captivity?

I shut down that treacherous line of thinking. "Maybe I'm starting to see the appeal of certain indulgences," I reply, my eyes lingering on his.

We share a charged moment of wordless connection. Then Jackson steps back, mask sliding over his features.

"Come on, dinner should be ready."

My bittersweet time with him is winding down, and I find myself already mourning its loss.

"She was a rusted-out wreck when I got her," Jackson says, patting the hood of a 1969 cherry red Ford Mustang. "Took me a year working nights and weekends to get her running right again."

I trail my hand along the gleaming pony car, glimpsing the defeated teen he once was. "She's beautiful," I say softly.

Jackson nods nostalgia in his eyes. "This car reminds me how far I've come."

In this memento of his past, I see the long road that brought him here. Our gazes meet, connecting through the unspoken language of scars and second chances. For a moment, we understand each other perfectly.

Over home-cooked meals, Jackson and I swap stories of enduring hardship, finding common ground in tales of grit. We share laughter over games of pool in the rec room, my competitive spirit rising to match his.

A warm camaraderie blossoms between us. When Jackson recounts a teenage misadventure hotwiring cars, I see past his wealth to the scarred soul underneath. And when I describe nights spent hungry and cold on the city streets, Jackson's eyes reflect only understanding, not judgment.

Bit by bit, our guards come down. For these stolen moments, we are simply two survivors appreciating having come through the fire together.

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