Chapter 3 #2
“Y’all look awful and don’t smell much better, so it’s probably not the best time for this conversation. Let’s go sit for a moment. Calm down. Get you all clean, fed, and watered.”
Caitlin scoffed, and I turned to her where she stood off to one side.
Her body was ramrod straight, and she sneered, but I could see beneath the veneer.
Saw that she was still on high alert. “I don’t want to calm down.
We need to talk about what we’re going to do and make plans.
This obviously isn’t a solution,” Caitlin said, her nose crinkled as she looked around at my uncle’s living room.
Frowned at the dated furniture with plastic covers and crocheted dollies on the armrests.
The wall with pictures of Jesus, my high school graduation, and Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Levi’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
“No offense, Mr Griffin,” Caitlin said before she looked at me, “but wasn’t this farm in the middle of nowhere supposed to be safer than Atlanta?”
Now was not the fucking time, and I had negative patience for Caitlin’s bullshit, but before I could tear into her, Uncle Levi jumped in.
“Young lady, why don’t you make yourself useful and go around to the shed out back? Bring in a case of water. You think you can handle that?” he said.
Caitlin looked like she wanted to say something else, but she didn’t.
I wasn’t surprised.
Uncle Levi had a way about him, and it was a rare person who would defy him so openly.
Jack, I worried about. I was sure Caitlin was no issue at all.
She started to leave, and Elliot jumped up.
“I’ll come with you. We should probably stick together as much as we can,” he said.
“A man with some sense.” Uncle Levi nodded approvingly.
Once they were gone, Uncle Levi looked to Lourdes and Miles, who stood off in a corner looking like they expected to be kicked out at any second.
“Ain’t no reason to be scared, son and young lady,” Uncle Levi said.
Miles straightened his shoulders, glancing at Jack, and then looked Uncle Levi in the eye. “Thank you for having us, sir. We’ll help any way we can, and we won’t be a burden.”
Jack’s expression was still unreadable, but I suspected he gave Miles some idea of what to say to my uncle and was proud of the way he followed through.
Uncle Levi was many things, and though he hated to admit it, first among them was soft-hearted. A kid—especially a respectful one—would always get a fair hearing.
“We’ll see about that, young man. Give me a minute, okay?” Uncle Levi said. Then he fled to the kitchen, leaving the weight of uncertainty in his wake.
“Is everything okay?” Lourdes asked in a hushed tone once he was gone.
“It’s fine,” I said, sounding like I actually believed it. “He just needs to process.”
“Let’s take a walk, Asia,” Jack said.
I followed behind him, dread twisting my guts like a living thing. The afternoon sun was lower in the sky, signaling evening was on its way.
His hand was tight on my wrist as he led me down the porch and across the front yard. Tight enough that I stumbled trying to pull away.
I didn’t try again.
I should have.
But something in the set of his shoulders told me that wouldn’t end well.
His strides were purposeful, like he knew where he was going, even though this was my home. But he walked like it was his now.
Like I was his.
Like he was done asking for permission.
Not that he ever did.
I couldn’t help but think back to the courthouse. He touched me the same way then, scared me more than I’d ever been in my life. I was scared now, too, but for entirely different reasons.
His gaze swept the shed where Uncle Levi kept lawn equipment, but in an instant, was on me again.
“Jack, I…”
His jaw ticked as he stared at me. “I told you to get in the house.”
I lowered my gaze, but looked up and met his. “And I told you I wasn’t going to leave you.”
“You think I walked across two fucking states to get you here, only to have you,” he paused, “die in your uncle’s front fucking yard? You think I haven’t found my brother just for you to toss your fucking life away?”
His eyes flashed, and I saw it.
Possessiveness.
Fear.
He shifted, and in the blink of an eye, all I saw was his rage. “You’re mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. And when you throw yourself at a horde of fucking zombies, you’re stealing from me. You understand that?”
He wasn’t yelling.
It would have been better if he had.
Because he meant every word.
My mouth shaped to hurl words that I wasn’t his. I wasn’t anybody’s. But how could I tell such a blatant lie when proof of the truth thrummed low in my belly, making my pussy clench with need? He saw it, too. I knew he read every traitorous response my body gave him.
God, I hated that. So I ignored it.
Instead, I said, “Fuck you, Jack. I’m so fucking sorry for giving a shit. Should I have pushed you to the zombies to get a few extra steps?”
“It would have been smarter.” He stared, daring me to contradict him.
I clenched my fists at my side, fighting for control. “Jesus,” I muttered.
When I looked at him, he had something like a smile on his face. It wasn’t a happy smile. Or a kind one. It was knowing.
Predatory.
“What’s so funny, Jackson?” I said, my voice dripping with disdain.
“You are.”
I couldn’t stop myself. I pushed him, my hands smacking against his chest. I smiled when he moved back half a step.
“Oh, you’re pissed, huh?” He laughed for real this time, and I was on him, breasts pressed against his chest, not even an inch of space between us.
“I swear to God, Jack, I will—”
“Why am I not surprised you still believe in God.”
I pushed him again.
His smile got bigger.
Then again.
He didn’t move an inch.
And again.
His hand shot out and caught my wrist midpush. He yanked me forward until I was pinned against his chest, my breath coming in harsh pants.
“You done?” he rasped,
I should have said yes.
Stepped back.
Kept some semblance of dignity.
Instead, I grabbed his shirt.
Pulled him down to me.
And then, I kissed him.
Hard.
Desperate.
Like I had something to prove.
To him.
To myself.
I fisted his shirt, the material warm from his skin, and pushed him against the shed.
The wood groaned with his weight, but I knew he’d only moved because he wanted to.
Knew that any control I had was control he gave me.
I hated that.
I loved it.
Pressed my body flush against his, hard against soft, perfect.
Fleeting.
I kissed him again, still desperate but in control.
He let me believe that, too—for exactly ten seconds. Then he gripped my hair roughly.
Held my head in place.
Took back the control I needed like breath and kissed me so deeply, so thoroughly, that all thought fled.
He pulled back just a centimeter, his breath mingling with mine as he whispered, “Asia.”
It was a confession.
A promise.
A warning.
I was in no mood to listen.
I bit his bottom lip hard enough to make him grunt.
Hand still fisted in my hair, he used his other to grip my wrist.
Squeezed until I let out a gasp of my own.
My heart raced. Fear, yes, but something else.
Something darker.
More dangerous.
Proof that even in this mad world where the dead walked, Jackson Thorne would be my undoing.
He pulled back a little farther to look at me.
His eyes were black.
Predatory.
He let out a low growl that sounded like gravel against his throat.
Then he crushed his lips to mine, his tongue invading my mouth.
It wasn’t a kiss.
It was a demand.
A claim of my surrender.
And I gave it.
Fucking hated myself for it, but did it anyway.
And he took it, his hand sliding up to settle against my neck.
My heart thudded.
And he felt it.
Knew what it meant.
He pulled back again and stared down at me, his face twisted into a menacing smile. “You’re learning who you belong to.”
“Jack, I—”
His grip tightened ever so slightly. “Keep your fucking mouth closed.”
My skin felt too tight, my pussy was too empty, and the only cure was him.
I dared meet his eyes.
Saw the amusement.
The knowing.
Fuck him.
I pulled him closer.
His eyes widened as he trailed his hand down my body, gripping my fleshy hip hard enough to bruise.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
“No.” I titled my head in defiance.
“No?” He repeated the word with danger in his voice.
“I want to see your face.”
His eyes widened, but he recovered quickly, and something hungry flashed in his eyes.
I should have done what he said.
It would have been easier, but I did want to see his face, and I wouldn’t allow myself to look away from the man who’d saved me—the man who’d broken me.
“Fine,” he whispered, his voice deceptively light as he pushed me flush against the wall of the shed, “watch.”
And so I did.
Watched as he popped the button on my jeans.
As he worked the zipper down.
Watched the concentration.
The barely leashed control.
The way his jaw clenched when his fingers brushed my soft stomach.
He rested there, his hand curved against my belly, holding like he was afraid I would disappear.
“That was so fucking stupid,” he said, his voice low, rough.
“Maybe.”
He met my eyes, his expression one of outrage.
“No maybe. It was stupid.” His fingers tightened and his chest heaved with his breaths, his eyes wide. “Don’t do that again.”
Before I could respond, he pushed my pants down my hips and slid his hand into my underwear.
Found me so fucking wet, I should have been embarrassed.
I was embarrassed but too prideful to look away, especially when he lifted one corner of his mouth. “Jesus, you’re soaked. My pussy missed me.”
I arched but managed to say, “You don’t have a pussy here, Jackson.”
He circled my clit once, twice. “Don’t I?”
He circled again and my hips moved in time to the rhythm he set. “Maybe.”
He huffed out a dark laugh. “Liar. This pussy knows exactly who it belongs to.” Then he pushed two fingers inside of me.
Deep.
I gripped his shoulders, and he huffed his satisfaction.
Then he moved his fingers. Slow. Deliberate.
Torturing me.
Bending my body to his will.
“Jack, please—”