Page 19 of Jax
The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely, as though that single word had settled something in him.
“Okay,” I repeated, firmer this time.
He gave a satisfied grunt and reached for the tray, as though our conversation was normal. Like my whole life hadn’t just shifted in the space of a few minutes.
I sat there stunned, pulse still racing as I tried to make sense of what had just happened.
I’d agreed. Just like that, when I should’ve laid down boundaries and reminded him that my life wasn’t his to decide. Or even mine. But the words had stuck in my throat, swallowed down as easily as the breakfast he’d brought me.
Because the truth was, I wanted to stay. Longed for the scent of his sheets wrapped around me, the quiet certainty of his presence filling the space, and the way he said safer like he meant more than just the protection he could provide.
Every instinct that had kept me alive the past two years should’ve been screaming at me to pull away. Instead, my body had gone still, and my mouth had said yes. It was like my heart had already made the decision long before my head could catch up.
I glanced at Jaxton out of the corner of my eye, watching the casual way he leaned back, unconcerned, as though moving me into his world had been as simple as flipping a switch.
And maybe it was.
I should’ve been scared of how easily I gave in. But I wasn’t. Not even a little.
8
JAX
The overlook wasn’t much, just a widened spot where the county had forgotten to finish the guardrail, and the asphalt bled tar, as if someone had patched it with a blindfold on. Pine needles gathered in the seams. Beer caps glinted in the dust when the sun hit them right. Teenagers came up here to pretend they were wild. I came because it was quiet, and the view stretched long and wide, out over the pine canopy toward Tallahassee. At dusk, when the sun slid down behind the trees, the whole world turned gold.
And because it sat close enough to the neighborhood where I grew up that the air still smelled like my old life if you breathed deep—warm resin from the pines and wet earth from the creek below.
It was a perfect place to meet up with my sister. And one we hadn’t used in a while, since we never saw each other in the same spot twice in a row.
I leaned against my bike, my arms folded and boots planted in dust and pine needles. The Harley ticked behind my hip, cooling while heat came off it in slow waves that made the air shimmer. The leather of my cut lay open over a T-shirt soft fromtoo many washes, humid air trapped under it, but I didn’t shrug out of it. I didn’t take off my cut in places like this. It felt wrong, like leaving the front door open.
My mind wandered to Lark, and for the hundredth time, I wondered if I should have brought her with me. But I knew she was safest with my brothers right now. Over the past few days, another itch had formed in my brain. The marshals had contacted Kane again, attempting to persuade him to help convince me to stay away from Lark. Predictably, he’d told them to fuck off.
I’d already patched all the holes in Lark’s ledger anyway. But that itch…it was persistent. Then this morning it hit me. What if the marshals hadn’t been the only ones tipped off by my intrusion into the database? If someone had been sitting at the gate, waiting for a chance to ride in on the coattails of another breach?—
The growl of Alanna’s little sedan reached me before I saw the headlights, interrupting my thoughts. It was a tired sound, the kind of engine that had lived past its good years and now limped along out of sheer stubbornness. She rounded the bend, tires crunching gravel, and pulled up beside the bike. The car gave one last rattle before shutting down, headlights dying slow.
Alanna’s ride had been on my list to fix for six months. She kept moving it to the bottom of hers.
I stayed where I was, arms crossed, watching her push open the door. She stepped out with her bag slung across her shoulder, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun that hadn’t been planned so much as surrendered to. Her sneakers scuffed the dirt. She’d dressed simple—jeans and a soft-looking gray T-shirt—but she had our mother’s posture, that stubborn straight spine, even when the world made her bend. She also had our father’s steady gaze, but everything else was all hers.
When she saw me, her eyes softened the way they always did, then narrowed in the same breath.
“Thought I told you to get new tires,” I muttered as she came closer, unfolding my arms just long enough to pull her in.
The hug was tight, harder than I meant it to be. Tension lived in my chest these days, and I hadn’t figured out how to unclench. My hands curled against her back, protective in a way I hadn’t grown out of, even when she did.
She pressed her face into my chest for a beat, then leaned back, rolling her eyes. “Nice to see you too.”
My mouth tipped up—couldn’t help it. “I’m full of charm.”
“Full of something,” she shot back, sliding free but not going far. She leaned against the car door, and the dying light painted her cheek with a gold stripe.
“Those tires hit a wet patch, and you’ll be kissing guardrails,” I pointed out.
“Bossy,” she retorted. “Still, after all these years.”
“Genetics.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “If our parents didn’t want me looking out for you, they should’ve raised less stubborn kids.”
