Page 8 of Captured By Fate

From over his shoulder, I see two security guards stepping up to assess the situation. His hold on me tightens further.

“What’s going on here, Jackson?” One of the guards, a burly man with graying hair asks.

His voice is a gravelly rumble, resonating in the enclosed space, casting an air of palpable tension. The badge pinned to his uniform glimmers in the harsh lighting, an emblem of authority in this chaotic arena.

"Nothing that concerns you, Briggs," Jackson responds dismissively, his voice a dangerous purr that implies both familiarity and disdain.

He doesn't break eye contact from me as he addresses his subordinate, the corners of his lips twitching upward in an intriguing half-smile.

The second guard, younger and leaner but with eagle-like eyes that miss no details, tightens his grip on the baton hanging loosely at his side.

"She doesn't look too comfortable," he observes pointedly, iciness seeping into his words.

Jackson's smile widens further even as his hold on my wrists becomes borderline unbearable. "Oh, she's just playing hard to get," he retorts with a quiet chuckle.

His words are almost lost amidst the thunderous roar of engines and the audience's cheers ringing out, their energy vibrating through the floor beneath us.

“She’s mine…so don’t worry about her,” he adds.

There’s a note of warning in his voice, an air of possession that claims me untouchable by the security guards. By anyone, actually.

The security guards exchange a dubious glance, but they don’t press any further. To my utter disbelief, they turn to leave, casting one last wary look in our direction before disappearing into the thrumming crowd, swallowed by the sea of faces that lurch and churn in the light from the massive overhead screens.

All the while, Jackson holds my gaze. He says nothing more, but his eyes seem to speak volumes. There's an unmistakable glint there, one that manages to be both predatory and protective - a terrifying amalgamation of possessiveness and power.

His grip never loosens. Instead, he pulls me closer until our bodies are practically melded together. His hand roams up my arm now, tracing a path of fiery tingles all the way to my shoulder. His touch is surprisingly gentle, contrasting with his earlier display of brute strength.

He leans in closer, close enough for me to see the faint scar running down his cheekbone and the small mole adorning his lower eyelid. Close enough for me to feel his warm breath fanning over my face, carrying with it a heady blend of leather and bourbon that wraps around me like a second skin.

His eyes trail lower, freezing when they come to rest on the camera dangling from around my neck.

“You’re a reporter?” he snaps, accusingly. “Fuck!”

The look on his face assures me beyond a shadow of a doubt that my current predicament just went from bad to worse. It occurs to me that my best bet is to keep my mouth shut.

But my silence seems to utterly infuriate him.

“Talk, goddamnit!”

I clamp my mouth shut, crying out only when he grabs me and tosses me over his shoulder in a swift, practiced motion. My world spins unsteadily as I’m hauled into the air, my stomach lurching uncomfortably. My knees bang against his hard, muscular chest and the camera strap cuts into my neck.

Jackson begins to stride purposefully towards a nondescript door at the far side of the arena, his footfalls echoing ominously with each step he takes. The deafening roar of the audience becomes a muted hum, then dies away completely as we pass through the heavy metal door.

The hallway beyond is dimly lit and eerily silent; a stark contrast to the sensory overload of just moments before. His office - if that’s what it could be called - is equally stark. A broad desk made of polished mahogany dominates the room, its surface cleared save for a laptop and a few scattered papers.

Without ceremony, Jackson lowers me from his shoulder and drops me onto an uncomfortable-wooden chair where he precedes to undo his belt and tie me up with it.

He watches me silently for several seconds before moving around his desk to sit in his high-backed chair. From there, he stares at me intently - his expression unreadable.

“What’s your name?” he asks suddenly, breaking through the tense silence that has settled between us.

"None of your business," I manage to spit out, trying to sound more defiant than I feel.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face then, revealing a row of unnaturally white teeth that glint menacingly in the dim lighting.

"Feisty. I like that.” He says it as though it's an observation, a casual comment about the weather rather than a compliment. Then he leans back in his chair, crafting some sort of plan in his head.

He stands abruptly, stalking towards me until he looms over my chair. His hands are on me again, but this time, they're not harsh. Instead of the harsh grip that had been my introduction to him, he's gentle this time. A hand on my ankle, trailing up the side of my leg until it reaches the pocket of my jeans.

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