Page 42 of Jax
And then, I was airborne again.
He threw me onto the bed with finality, jarring my entire body and knocking the air from my lungs. The mattress smelled like him—clean sweat, cedar, with something darker underneath. Something inside me was wound tight and waiting. I pushed upright fast, hair in my face, spine straight, hands braced on the bedding. I shoved the strands back and glared.
He stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching me not like a woman, but like a calculation. His jaw was locked, shoulders squared, and his eyes were fixed on me in a way that made it clear he wasn’t measuring posture, so much as will. And for the first time all night, I wasn’t the threat. I was staring at one.
The silence stretched like a breath held just long enough to hurt. Then he spoke, his voice calm, low, even. “You wantto act like a brat? Fine. I told you if you ran again, there’d be consequences.”
He stepped forward with a quiet authority that stole the air from the room. “So here they are.”
I sat up straighter, trying to mask the tremor building in my chest. My jaw ached from how long I’d been clenching it. He was too calm, too composed; the still eye of the storm while I held my ground in its center, every muscle braced for impact.
“You have two options,” he said, his gaze holding mine, sharp and unreadable. “One—you’re locked in your room for a week. You eat what’s brought to you, get escorted to the bathroom, no contact with the rest of the team. You prove you can follow rules before you earn anything else.”
The words landed with weight, but they weren’t cruel. There was no edge to them, no bitterness. Just cool, impenetrable finality.
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.
“Or, option two,” he continued, moving in until his thighs brushed the bed frame and I had to lift my chin to keep looking at him, “you don’t leave my side for twenty-four hours. Not even to piss.”
My breath caught, ribs locked around it. “What….”
“You want trust? Earn it. You eat when I eat. Walk when I walk. Sleep in my room. You don’t vanish when no one’s watching. You stay by my side. No slipping. No secrets. You become my shadow.”
I stared at him, throat too dry to swallow, trying to find the shape of defiance, but nothing came. “You’re kidding.”
He didn’t blink. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Everything in me wanted to snap—wanted to scream, or throw something, or spit fire straight into that stone-cut restraint of his—but I didn’t. Because this wasn’t bait, and he wasn’t goading me. He wasn’t playing games or trying to breakme for the thrill of it. He was offering something, something I couldn’t yet define, something that felt like punishment and mercy tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart.
I pulled in a breath and held it, trying to force myself into some kind of control. It didn’t help. I still felt the phantom press of his thigh between mine, the heat of my own body betraying me, and the shame of how easily I’d responded. My skin still buzzed. My throat still burned. And beneath it all, buried but impossible to ignore, was a thought I didn’t know how to chase away. What if I didn’t run? What if I stayed? What if I stopped hiding, and let myself be seen, and didn’t flinch?
The ache it stirred in my gut felt like fear, but I couldn’t un-think it. I wasn’t ready to trust this man with the truth about my sister, not by a long shot. Not with the threats that faceless voice had made as I sat there in the interrogation room. But maybe I had more time. The voice had said that they understood it would take a while. And if they harmed Violet, they wouldn’t have a bargaining chip anymore. So maybe… maybe I could wait a while longer. Maybe.
He didn’t move or push or speak again. Just stood there like gravity, like the room wouldn’t hold without him. His breath came slow and steady, matching mine like he was willing me to align with it.
And that was the worst part.
He already knew what I’d choose before I did.
When I finally spoke, the words cracked as they left me. “Option two.”
His expression barely shifted. Just a flicker in his eyes, a subtle current change, rather than a genuine emotion. Then came the nod, slow and deliberate, every inch of it intentional. He grabbed the hem of his hoodie and peeled it off in one smooth motion, muscles flexing beneath a black T-shirt that clung to him like a second skin. His arms were lined with veins,sculpted like they were drawn on by design. His breathing stayed even and shallow, his control still intact even as his neck flushed.
He dropped the hoodie on the chair, the gesture efficient, and pointed to the floor beside the bed. “You sleep there,” he said, voice clean as an equation balanced on the line. “Unless you’d rather negotiate for a different outcome, and ask to join me.”
His eyes locked with mine, sharp and unmoving, and when I didn’t answer fast enough to satisfy him, his mouth curled into a slow, maddening smirk. “Didn’t think so,” he said, like the outcome had never been in question. Then he climbed into bed, rolled to his side, and shut off the light. Darkness followed, swift and solid.
I stayed frozen for a moment, pulse hammering against my ribs, the rope at my waist snug and unrelenting. Eventually, I curled up on the floor with the blanket he’d kicked my way. The mattress above stayed too quiet, and every breath I took was too loud in my chest. My thoughts spun without anchor. I didn’t know whether I wanted to escape anymore, or just get caught again.
The blanket scratched at my skin, but I didn’t move. I lay curled in on myself, knees tight, one arm under my head, the other gripping the edge of the fabric like it could hold me together. The hardwood gave no comfort, only cold resistance and the slow ache of everything I was trying not to feel.
Above me, Jax shifted, then settled. He hadn’t spoken since the lights went out, hadn’t moved much at all, but he filled the room all the same. I could feel him in my chest, in the lingering shape of his body against mine, in the burn beneath my skin where his thigh had pressed between mine, and in the breath still echoing in my ear.
He hadn’t gloated or even spoken when I stayed. He just let the silence stretch between us like a challenge, the kind that dared me to name things I’d spent years refusing to acknowledge. The rope still circled my waist, digging into my side, warm now from more than heat, heavy with memory and guilt and something rawer, something I didn’t yet have the courage to define. The same rope I’d stolen. The one he hadn’t taken back. The one he hadn’t so much as mentioned.
And he knew. He let it stay between us, daring me to understand what that silence meant.
The quiet didn’t hurt because it was cruel. It hurt because it wasn’t. Because it left space for the thoughts I’d spent so long outrunning. And somehow, the worst part wasn’t the shame or the exposure. It was that I wasn’t angry anymore. I wasn’t even embarrassed. I was wrecked. Hollowed out in a way that had nothing to do with defeat, and everything to do with being seen.
