Page 82 of Tricked By Jack
That’s when I see it—a flicker of motion just beyond the window, quick enough to make me doubt it, but strong enough to set my pulse racing. Someone’s out there. Watching. I tighten my grip on the glass, but before I can lean closer, a sound rips through the house.
A scream. Deep, guttural, ripped straight from a nightmare.
The glass slips from my hand and explodes on the tile, water splashing over my legs as shards scatter across the floor. I don’t care. I’m already running. My chest heaves as I stumble back into the bedroom, heart hammering harder with each second.
Jack thrashes in the sheets, sweat slick on his skin, his voice torn and broken. “Ruby! I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” His arms lash out like he’s fighting invisible chains, and the sight freezes me in place.
I’ve seen him calculated, cruel, and controlled. But I’ve never seen him like this—undone, begging, the sound so raw it doesn’t seem like it belongs to him. For a second I just watch, trapped in the storm of it. Then I climb onto the bed and grab his shoulders, shaking him hard.
“Jack! Wake up!” My voice cracks, panic rising with every second he doesn’t.
His chest heaves, his face twisting in agony.
“Jack!” I shout again, shoving harder this time. His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, and then lock onto mine. For a moment he doesn’t breathe. Neither do I.
His whole body jerks as if he’s surfacing from drowning. The sheets are damp with sweat, his breathing harsh, ragged. I keep my hands on his shoulders even when his eyes clear, afraid if I let go he’ll fall straight back into whatever nightmare dragged him under.
“Ruby,” he rasps, the name torn out of him. It makes my stomach knot.
“She’s not here,” I whisper quickly. “It’s me. Eve.”
His gaze sharpens, and something unreadable passes through it—grief, guilt, relief—before he looks away, dragging a shaking hand across his face. “Dr. Death,” he rasps. “The name has never seemed more fitting.”
I still feel the tremor in his chest beneath my palms. For once, Jack Knight looks human. Breakable.
“You were dreaming,” I say quietly.
“Having a nightmare,” he corrects bitterly, letting out a humorless laugh. His throat works as he swallows, eyes still unfocused. “Some ghosts don’t need sleep to haunt. They just wait until you’re too weak to fight back.”
I hesitate, then I ask the question I’ve been wondering about. “Is that why you drink so much?”
His jaw locks, and for a long moment I think he won’t answer. Then, almost too low to hear, he says, “I haven’t had a drop in days.”
“Tell me about her,” I say, adjusting myself so I’m sitting next to him on the bed.
“Ask me anything but that,” he rasps. He turns and pulls me down so I’m lying next to him, my head resting on his chest and his hand trailing up and down my back.
His heart beats so hard I practically feel the thump against my ear. It’s humbling to know he’s being so open about his vulnerability. It makes me want to soothe him. I turn my head and place a kiss on his naked chest, just above his scar.
“When did you start painting?” I ask softly.
His hand stills on my back. “How do you know I paint?”
I freeze, realizing my mistake. “Umm…” I hesitate, then decide on honesty. Tilting my head upward I meet his gaze. “I found your canvases in the attic.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. “You’ve been exploring.”
“You left me alone,” I remind him. “I was bored.”
I expect anger, but instead, he just looks tired. “You liked them?”
The question catches me off guard. “Yes,” I admit. “They’re… raw. Honest.”
His eyes search mine, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me—doesn’t trust that anyone could see his work without judgment. That hurts more than I expect. I slide my hand higher on his chest, over the steady pound of his heart.
“Paint me,” I whisper.
His brows lift, suspicion flickering there. “Paint you?”
