Page 53 of Jax
“Would you say no?” I asked softly. “If I asked wrong?”
“Yes.” One word. Hard. Certain. And, holy hell, it did something to me. I exhaled slowly.
“Okay.”
He stood up, not making a sound, and gave me one last look. Just heat and steel and endless patience in the shape of a man. “When you’re ready,” he said, “you’ll ask.”
Then he left me alone. Rope in hand. Heart in my throat. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel restrained. I felt free.
13
Stella
The next coupleof days passed by in a blur of routine, punctuated by little spikes of adrenaline every time Jax found his way close to me. He was busy, as were the rest of the men in the house, but he found opportunities to be near me when he could. And if I was being honest, I looked for those opportunities as well. I wasn’t sure exactly what had passed between us that afternoon in his cabin, but it was something.
The moment I got bored, I knew I was in trouble. Not the kind of trouble that kicks in doors or rattles chains, but the quieter kind, subtle and slow, like your nervous system easing off the gas without telling you why. I wasn’t safe, not really, but my body had started pretending otherwise, and that was almost worse. That’s when the couch stopped feeling like a war zone and started just feeling like a couch. That’s when my shoulders stopped trying to fuse with my ears.
That’s when she appeared.
“You like fantasy?” Maddy asked, throwing herself onto the far end of the sectional like the furniture owed her rent. “I’ve got one with a demon prince who keeps getting tied up. Emotionally and physically. Very relatable.”
I glanced up from the book I hadn’t read in fifteen minutes and studied her, barefoot, braid slipping over one shoulder, wearing a cracked glitter T-shirt that said GET OFF MY DICK, and pastel sleep shorts that looked like they belonged in a candy store. She was part Lisa Frank, part serotonin gremlin, and all chaos.
“No, thanks,” I said, clipped but polite. “I’m good.”
She didn’t flinch. “Your loss. The demon’s got brat energy for days. Big ‘tie me up and make me behave’ vibes. Honestly, I think he’d get along great with your vibe.”
I raised an eyebrow, letting the deadpan settle between us. “My vibe?”
“You know,” she said, waving a hand at me like she was tracing the outline of my aura, “sharp cheekbones, artistic but in a super badass way, probably knows exactly how much electricity it takes to kill someone without leaving a mark. Very hot.”
My lips twitched, though I fought it. “Glad I meet your literary criteria.”
“You exceed them,” she said, grinning like she’d just discovered her favorite plot twist. She looked at me the way writers look at an unsolvable character, fascinated and entirely too determined.
Then, with zero warning, she threw herself backward onto the couch in the most dramatic collapse I’d ever seen, legs flung over one armrest, braid sliding across the cushion like she was starring in her own coming-of-age movie. “But seriously,” she said to the ceiling, her voice dipping just slightly into something softer, “if you ever want to talk…or spiral, or drink wine while watching reruns of Buffy, or scream into a pillow about men who say things like ‘I own you’ and somehow make it hot? I’m here.”
The offer hit harder than I expected. It didn’t feel performative. It didn’t feel fake. Just there. Open. Waiting. I blinked, unsure what to do with it. “You always like this?”
She rolled her head sideways, still upside down, and gave me a grin that somehow managed to be both ridiculous and sincere. “Definethis.”
“This,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the mess of limbs and charm sprawled across my couch. “The human equivalent of a motivational sticker with boobs.”
She gasped, an actual hand-to-heart gasp, like I’d wounded her and made her proud in the same breath. “I’m writing that down. That’s going on my gravestone.”
“Only if you die from glitter inhalation.”
She shot upright with alarming speed, eyes gleaming as she leaned forward until we were nearly knee to knee. “Spoiler alert - That’s the dream!”
A sound slipped out of me. Not quite a laugh, but close enough to count. Sharp, involuntary, more breath than voice. But it was something. The first in days.
Her face lit up like I’d handed her a gold medal. “There it is,” she said, triumph blooming in her voice. “A crack in the armor. One laugh away from hair-braiding and cookie-fueled trauma bonding.”
“I don’t braid,” I muttered, but the edge in my voice was already gone.
“I do,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll bring snacks.”
“You’re insane.”
