Page 62 of Tricked By Jack
“These weren’t about wanting to die,” she says, tracing one with her fingertip. “Or even about the pain. I wanted to feel something real.” Her eyes meet mine, unflinching.
The sight stirs something in me—not pity, something darker and more possessive. For the first time, I don’t want to fight it. Fuck it. Let her be the thing that drags me under, because when she looks at me like this, scars bared and defiance steady, I don’t feel like the Knight who lost his sister. I feel alive.
I move to the cage door, keys suddenly in my hand though I don’t remember reaching for them. The lock clicks open with finality.
Chapter 21
The Trickster
“What are you doing?” she asks, body tensing as I step inside.
My shirt is gone, and her eyes catch on the scar carved across my torso—the raised, ugly seam the bullet left behind when it killed me. For a moment, she just stares, breath caught like she’s seeing the wound rather than the man.
Instead of answering, I lower myself to the floor between her spread knees, positioning my body at her feet while she leans back against the bars. The reversal isn’t lost on me—the captor entering the captive’s space, yet placing himself exactly where he can consume her.
“Jack?” Uncertainty creeps into her voice as I take her ankle in my hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers.
I press my lips to the first scar—a thin white imprint almost invisible against her pale skin. The taste of her skin is salt and smoke and heat, alive against the dead tissue of her scars.
“Mhmm.” I groan low in my throat, unable to stop myself, the sound vibrating against her flesh.
She inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away. My mouth moves higher, to the more deliberate marks on her inner thigh. These aren’t random; they’re a language written in flesh, a cry no one bothered to hear.
“What are you doing?” she whispers again, but the question has changed shape, become something else entirely.
“Tasting your pain,” I murmur against her skin.
I move methodically, kissing each scar like I’m mapping territory—nuzzling, licking, sometimes biting just hard enough to make her gasp. Her body trembles beneath my attention, caught between retreat and surrender.
When I reach a particularly big mark near the crease of her thigh, I bite down, harder than before. Eve’s back arches, a moan escaping her lips as her fingers find my hair. Rather than pushing me away, she threads her fingers through the strands, holding me against her damaged skin like she’s afraid I’ll stop.
My breath roughens against her inner thigh, confession spilling from me between kisses. Words I never meant to give her emerge between marks I leave on her skin, as if her scars are drawing out my own.
“I used to drink until I couldn’t feel my face,” I murmur against a particularly deep line near her hip. “After Ruby. Cocaine too. Anything to blur the edges.” My tongue traces the silvered tissue, feeling her pulse jump beneath it. “Nothing worked until you.”
Eve’s fingers tighten in my hair, not pulling away but holding me in place. The contradiction mirrors everything between us—resistance and surrender wrapped into one gesture.
“What changed?” she asks, voice strained with the effort to sound clinical despite the way her body responds to my mouth.
I bite down gently on the crest of her hip, feeling her shudder. “You see too much. Makes it hard to hide.” My hands slide under her thighs, palms pressing against the backs of her knees to open her wider. “Now it’s your turn to tell me something. Why do you prefer the mask?”
“I… I don’t know,” she lies.
Lifting my head, I meet her gaze over the landscape of her body. Something raw passes between us—recognition that cuts deeper than I intended. “Don’t lie to me,” I growl.
“I’m not,” she bites back, so I sink my teeth into her flesh, not letting go until she gasps. “Fine. Fine. Okay, I do know.”
“You want the monster,” I reply for her, thumb tracing circles on her inner thigh. “Not the man. The mask lets you pretendyou’re not giving in to me. Just to something faceless.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “Does that bother you?”
“No.” I lower my head again, nuzzling the soft skin where thigh meets hip. “It fascinates me. The doctor who diagnoses everyone else but can’t admit what she craves.”
“And what do you crave, Jack?” Her voice is steadier now, challenging despite her vulnerable position.
I pause, mouth hovering over the lace edge of her underwear. The truth rises unbidden, dangerous in its honesty. “This. You. Falling apart under my hands. Fighting even when you want to surrender.” I exhale hot against the fabric, watching her stomach muscles tense.
My fingers hook into the sides of her underwear, dragging the material down her legs. She shifts to help, a small cooperation that feels like victory. When the fabric clears her ankles, I toss it aside and settle back between her thighs.
