Page 14 of Jayson
Her words turn over in my mind like heavy stones. “You came back for him?”
“No.” Her gaze hardens. “I came back for the family. And he left a few years later.”
I study her closer. She might be seventy, eighty—yet there’s a violent elegance in the way she speaks, like she once brokered peace treaties with a smile and started wars with a nod. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” she says, tapping the cane once—crack—against the cell floor, “if you truly don’t know him, you’d better learn quickly. Men like Jayson Caluna will bend you into the shape they need—or break you trying.”
My breath stumbles. “Is that supposed to be advice?”
“It’s a warning.” Her eyes flick across my muddy clothes, taking in the tremor in my hands. Something like pity ghosts across her features, then vanishes. “And a kindness.”
I almost laugh. “Kidnapping and kindness—never thought I’d hear them in the same sentence.”
She exhales through her nose, amused but not mocking. “Child, this family makes saints look wicked and devils look tame. Believe it or not, you’re safer under this roof than out there.” A tilt of her head toward the distant forest. “I don’t know why you’re here. But it looks like you’re in for a long stay. Best you make yourself comfortable, child.”
“How long will I be here?” My voice cracks.
“Well, that’s entirely up to my grandson. You arehisguest, after all.” She shrugs, graceful, lethal.
Ice licks down my spine. “Will he kill me?”
“If he does, I’ll bury you next to the others.” Delivered so softly, it feels like a lullaby. Like a mercy.
She turns to leave. Her cane taps once—twice—through the hall, steady as a clock counting down. The sound echoes against the stone like a slow heartbeat, fading into the dark as if the house itself is listening.
At the threshold, she pauses, half in shadow.
“Ask for painkillers if the foot worsens,” she says without turning. Her voice is clipped, almost dismissive—yet there’s something tucked inside it. A quiet softness; the ghost of a woman who still remembers how to care, even if it shames her to show it.
A beat passes.
“And don’t provoke him. Jayson may seem grounded,” she adds, quieter now, “but anger wears itself well on him. Too well.”
The words lodge deep—like she’s not warning me for mysake, but because she’s seen what happens when he loses control.
Then she’s gone.
Her footsteps dissolve into silence, swallowed by the long, hollow throat of the mansion. I don’t breathe for a moment.
And somewhere above me, the house exhales again. Not out of relief or comfort. But from recognition. Like it already knows what’s coming. And it’s hungry for it.
7
JAYSON
The thought circles like a vulture, sharp-beaked and tireless, feeding off every misstep. I didn’t eliminate the witness—Itookher. Dragged her through the mud and locked her in the cellar like some medieval lunatic.
And now, after a sleepless night spent pacing floors that creaked beneath my guilt, I’m heading to face the higher-ups. No excuses. No backup. Just me—and the mess I made.
I look in on my captive before I leave; one last look through the bars, where she’s curled on the bench, eyes closed but breathing shallow. She’s still in the mess of muddy clothes she was wearing when I brought her in, a blanket covering her.
Now I’m heading to the Round Table to confess my sins to the men I answer to. Mason Ironside will stare through me with that dead-wolf patience, measuring exactly how much leash I deserve. Kanyan De Scarzi? I guess he’ll just weigh the cost of cleaning up my mess against the cost of removing me entirely.
I tap the steering wheel, knuckles tight. I could always admit I panicked, couldn’t kill her, and now I’ll have to find a way to fix it.
I roll my eyes at the windshield. That’s the worst answer Icould give them - because it makes me sound weak. Like a coward. In this industry, you do what needs to be done.
The wrought-iron gates of the Moreno estate rise ahead, black against the bruised dawn. Guards wave me through. I park, check the mirror. Mud still crusts under my nails. Let them see it—proof I did the dirty work myself.
