Page 47 of Tricked By Jack
His eyes widen slightly as though he’s surprised I’ve noticed that much. Or maybe it’s because I’ve dared to voice it, to pull something private into the open where he can’t hide behind smoke and liquor.
The silence stretches between us, taut as piano wire, vibrating with all the things he’ll never admit out loud. I can almost hear them, those words rotting at the back of his throat, waiting for something sharp enough to cut them loose.
“Did you know there’s an urban myth that common shop-bought cigarettes have the same diameter as the average female nipple?” I ask, which gets his attention. “Some people speculate it’s a clever ruse by the cigarette companies. A way to make every drag a ghost of suckling. Triggering the same comfort response we learned at our mother’s breast.”
I let the words linger, watching his gaze drop to my breasts and catch there, like something in him has snagged on the image. His breathing shifts—not louder, but slower, heavier. As if he’s aware I’m watching the way he looks at me.
“Maybe it’s just a myth. But your vices all start with your mouth, Jack. You’ve trained yourself to crave things you can put to your lips. Nicotine, alcohol, maybe even people. It’s not just the hit you’re after. It’s the way it soothes something in you… even if it never lasts.”
His mouth curves, but it’s not a smile—it’s the kind of expression that warns you not to mistake amusement for softness. “Careful, Little Bride,” he says, voice low. “You keep talking like that, I might have to prove how many other ways this mouth can keep itself busy.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly, changing tactics. “I’m a good listener.”
He blinks, and for just a second, I glimpse the broken man beneath the monster—the grieving brother, the lost soul. Then the mask slips back into place, and he’s standing, moving away from the cage.
“Nice try,” he says, voice hardening again. “But I’m not going to sit here and pour my heart out to you like we’re at a fucking slumber party.”
But he already has, just a little. And now I know, Jack Knight is still in the clutches of grief. Deep, catastrophic grief. The kind that alcohol can’t touch, that revenge can’t fill. He didn’t marry me just to punish me. He did it because an enemy in a cage is better than solitude.
I watch him return to his chair, to his bottle and his cigarettes. To his slow self-destruction. The room watches us like a silent confessor while shadows crawl slowly along the walls. This house isn’t haunted by ghosts—it’s haunted by us.
Somewhere beneath my hunger and my fear, a cold certainty forms, and a plan takes shape. I will be the wife he never expected. I will be the one person who sees through his rage to the broken man beneath.
And when he finally trusts me—when he believes he’s broken me—I will destroy him with the same methodical precision my father taught me to use in dissecting the human mind.
Jack thinks he’s the captor and I’m the captive. But cages work both ways. And I’ve just begun my study of the creature on the other side of these bars.
I let ten minutes pass in silence, watching Jack return to his brooding. I’m so exhausted I almost fall asleep while I watch him lower his guard. He’s not the only one who has barely been sleeping.
At first, it was the fear of what he’d do to me that kept me awake. But after he fell asleep while smoking, I’ve been forcing myself to stay awake when he passes out. Just in case.
“So what now, Dr. Death?” he drawls. “No longer bored?”
I shrug. “I am, but you don’t seem like you want to talk.”
“You could tell me about your tattoo,” he says. He points at the ink wrapped around my upper right thigh, making me look down at the black garter I love so much.
It’s both feminine and gothic in its design. The lace is finely detailed, inked with the illusion of layered texture, scalloped edges, mesh threading, and shadowed depth.
At the front, centered over the strongest part of the muscle, is a large black satin bow with its tails curling down my skin to mid-thigh. Tiny inked beads and charms dangle beneath the lace, delicate but exact. The tattoo is both decorative and coverage.
Tilting my head to the side, I ask, “Will you tell me about yours?”
From what I’ve seen, Jack has only one tattoo. A pumpkin that lives on his left arm, specifically on his deltoid. It’s gothic, jagged, orange, and mean-looking. When I first noticed it, I almost scoffed out loud. But it’s kind of growing on me. Wait… no. I mean that it suits him. That’s what I mean.
“Not a fucking chance,” he scoffs.
I nod, expecting as much.
Silence stretches between us again, but there’s something calm about it. It’s not as heavy as before, and there’s no menace. It just is. That must mean his guard is lowering, the liquor’s doing its work. Time to push him some more.
Chapter 16
The Bride
Ishift on the blanket, leaning back against the bars in a seemingly casual movement that allows me to pull my knees up and let them fall open. The position exposes me completely. Vulnerable. Inviting. A trap baited with flesh and the illusion of surrender.
When his eyes drift toward me, I stretch, arching my back just enough to push my breasts forward. A performance beginning without fanfare, a weapon deploying without sound.
