Page 36 of Jax
Stella, with her hair pulled back and her jaw set, lip caught between her teeth, working like the world outside didn’t exist. She didn’t perform for anyone. She justwas. Focused. Honest. She moved with gravity. It had weight. It had grit. And it wrecked me.
I didn’t know her. Knew almost nothing about her at all. No psych profile. No mission log. No reason for her to be lodged beneath my skin like shrapnel. But I knew the way she held a blowtorch like a prayer. The way silence seemed to settle around her like it belonged. She was pressure in containment. A storm in boots and soot. A locked cage with the door already open.
And I was the idiot still wondering what she’d do with her freedom.
I leaned back. Closed my eyes. This wasn’t lust. It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t safe. This was neurological patterning colliding with instinct. A burn signal misfiring through unexamined trauma responses. Connection without origin. Chemistry without permission. And that, scientifically speaking, is how disasters begin. A new variable introduced without warning into an otherwise controlled system. Unfortunately, this house had begun to specialize in introducing variables.
The rope was still coiled in my bag from the night before, but I didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. Because this wasn’t about restraint anymore. It was about clarity. About finding the one anomaly in a string of numb, data-stale days, and realizing I didn’t want to let it go.
I stood and switched off the lights one by one; the fluorescents dying slowly above me until only the desk lamp remained. The shadows it cast twisted long across the metal on her bench—unfinished, jagged, and alive. I stared at it for a second too long, then flipped the final switch.
“Perfect thermodynamic conditions,” I muttered. “Wrong goddamn chemicals.”
And then I shut the door behind me and walked into the dark, still hearing her laugh echo like static through the weld.
9
Stella
It started,as most bad decisions do, with eye contact and poor impulse control.
Carrick didn’t bat an eye. Just leaned in like a goddamn raccoon in tactical gear, and forked the final, golden bite of cobbler off Maddy’s plate—slow, deliberate, like he thought charm was a survival strategy.
He didn’t even get it halfway to his mouth before her spoon lashed out, a blur of stainless steel that pinged off his wineglass with the righteous fury of a woman who alphabetized her kitchen knives and knew which ones cut deepest.
“Unbelievable,” she huffed, eyes narrowed in mock betrayal. “You don’t evenlikepeach cobbler.”
Carrick took the bite anyway. Chewed with exaggerated slowness. Then, grinning like a man who’d just won a battle, said around a mouthful, “Didn’t say I didn’t likeyours.”
“Flattery,” she muttered, “will not save you.”
“Microwaving someone else’s hard work doesn’t make it yours, Madeline,” Bellamy added, her tone pure acid as she flicked a card at Carrick like it was a dagger.
“You were in the shower for half of dinner,” Maddy shot back. “I assumed you were otherwise occupied with your…what do you call it? Daily protein shake?”
“Say it slower,” Carrick murmured, clearly enjoying himself. “See if I blush.”
Sully snorted from across the kitchen, where he was elbow-deep in suds and soap. “Jesus. Someone hand me the holy water.”
“You’d just dump it in your blender and call it a detox,” Maddy said sweetly, the edge in her voice just sharp enough to draw blood. Deacon raised one brow and took a slow sip of beer, clearly enjoying the banter.
I watched with a sort of off-kilter awe, eyes darting between the combatants. These weren’t civilians. These were trained killers, ex-military operatives with files too redacted to read, and they were arguing over cobbler like siblings. It was absurd. It was strange. It was heartbreakingly human. They’d built something here that didn’t come from shared blood or even shared trauma, but from the decision to keep living. To stay. To laugh. To be more than the worst thing that had happened to them. I laughed along with them, wearing a grin like armor, and did what I always did: deflected. The performance was second nature now. Maybe that was the part that scared me.
Maddy took my mug without a word, and I handed it to her without thinking. She winked. “You’ll learn. Nothing’s sacred here. Except Sully’s protein powder and Deacon’s guitar.”
“Even I don’t touch the guitar,” Carrick muttered. “And I’ve broken into CIA lockups.”
“Didn’t you try to put stickers on it once?” Sully called over his shoulder.
“One sticker. Tasteful.”
“It said ‘Daddy Dom Energy’ in glitter font,” Maddy said, deadpan.
I choked. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Bellamy said, dealing cards without looking up. “He wore the black eye like a badge of honor.”
Deacon played a slow chord that vibrated like a warning. Sully laughed. “You can call Niko ‘boss,’ you can call Carrick a ‘bastard,’ but don’t touch Deacon’s strings.”
