Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jackson
“What the fuck is my sister doing in the basement?” I bark at Ash, throwing the controller down. Ash steps aside as I make my way down the hall to the kitchen, hell bent on finding my little sister so I can beat some sense into her.
“No idea,” Ash says, two steps behind me. “She bailed before I could ask her what the fuck she was doing. But someone said they saw her head down to the party.”
“Why wasn’t the door to the basement locked?” I bite out, my long, angry strides eating up the polished hardwood.
“It was,” Ash answers. “She got in somehow.”
Unfortunately, that tracks. When we were kids, my sister taught herself how to pick locks, a hobby entirely motivated by her need to fuck with me.
She’d break into my room, steal my shit, then snicker as I searched the house frantically, only giving it back after I’d threatened to snap her fingers off, one by one.
Outside, I pass three private security guards and a handful of Burning Crown members as I make my way down to the beach.
The party is already in full swing—tables dragged out onto the sand, covered in piles of seafood.
The air reeks of brine, smoke, and beer.
Live music blasts from hidden speakers while girls in bikinis dance around the fire pit.
My eyes skim over the faces and red solo cups, looking for a flash of Ember’s brown hair. She’s not by the firepit. Not hanging out by the water. Not taking part in the various drinking games.
My jaw tightens, and I pull out my phone. I try calling her first, but it goes straight to voicemail, so I fire off a text, asking her where the fuck she is. No immediate answer, of course.
I scan the party, and I’m this close to shutting the whole thing down, when something—or someone—catches my eye. A flash of creamy thigh, a shock of mahogany hair. I don’t even know what draws my gaze to her, except that, like a heat-seeking missile, my gaze is always drawn to her.
Ava.
She’s slouched in a lounge chair that’s been dragged down from the hot tub area, one leg casually crossed over the other. And what’s worse, she’s not alone.
I start toward her when a heavy hand claps down on my shoulder, stopping me. I turn, ready to swing, only to find Roman standing next to me.
“Hey, I heard congrats are in order,” Roman says cheerfully. Now that he and Lux have a cozy little apartment together, he’s all smiles and rainbows lately. It’s disgusting. “You beat us all to the altar. Not gonna lie, I wouldn’t have put my money on it being you.”
Roman left the Burning Crown a few months ago, but the society isn’t really something we Sacred Sons can quit. It’s in our blood. It’s in the marrow of our bones. And I know Roman still feels the pull.
“Yeah,” I say, never taking my eyes off Ava. Chase is sitting at the foot of her lounge chair, but there’s distance between them. It’s the only thing saving him right now. “Thanks.”
Roman follows my gaze. “Is that the bride? Wow. Nice. But who’s the guy?”
“Her boyfriend,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Oooh, shit.” He takes a pull from his blunt. “You’re just going to let him sit alone with your wife like that? That’s not like you.”
He’s not wrong. Just seeing Chase near Ava makes me want to tear his throat out with my bare hands. I take a deep breath, forcing the rage down. Roman passes me the blunt. I draw a long pull, wincing as the smoke sears its way into my lungs.
“I’m feeling generous,” I say, watching them. “I’ll give him one last conversation with Ava for the road.”
“What do you think they’re talking about?” he asks.
“Doesn’t matter.”
He glances at me. “Why? What are you going to do?”
I blow out a billow of smoke. “I’ll do what I always do—arrange the pieces so they fall my way.”
Roman laughs. “Do I even want to know what you mean by that?”
“No.” I roll my shoulders, muscles knotting up as I watch Chase lean closer to Ava. Goddamn. This guy must have a fucking death wish. My hands curl into fists.
“So what’s the plan?” Roman asks.
“You mean, besides making this asshole wish he’d never been born?”
Roman flashes me some side-eye. “I mean, once you get everything sorted out, what’s the plan with Ava?
I’m growing impatient with this conversation. Just a few months ago, the other Sacred Sons and I were asking Roman about his plans with Lux, and did he answer? No. He was being evasive as fuck.
“You’re a nosey motherfucker, aren’t you?” I say.
“Just returning the favor,” he says with a grin and a shrug. “The other guys are worried. They’re convinced you’re hiding something.”
A muscle jumps in my jaw. “And what might that be?”
“No idea, man.”
When it comes to Ava, all I’ve told the guys is what they need to know, and right now, they don’t need to know shit.
“They’re just being paranoid,” I say. “No thanks to you.”
He pulls back. “Me? What the fuck? I haven’t done shit.”
“All that fuckery with Lux—the plotting, the lies—now they’re seeing conspiracies with Ava where there aren’t any.”
He snatches his blunt from my hand and takes a pull. “That was different, and it’s not like I do that shit all the time. It was that one specific situation. Any one of you would have done the same thing…”
Yeah, exactly.
I shrug. “Whatever, dude. I’m just saying, you’re the reason they’re all paranoid and shit.”
“Or maybe it’s just the weight of everything that’s been going on,” he points out. “That kind of heat makes people twitchy.”
I grab the blunt and take another hit. “I have everything under control,” I say for the millionth time. It’s my fucking mantra lately.
“I heard the way your wedding went down last night, and I hope you’re not expecting a rainbow at the end of all this. Ava doesn’t strike me as the forgiving type.”
“I don’t need her forgiveness,” I answer bluntly.
“If you want my advice—”
“I don’t,” I bite out, cutting him off.
I mean, shit. The guy has been in love for less than six months, and now he’s ready to hang up his shingle as a relationship guru?
“—Just be honest with her, man,” he continues, like I haven’t even spoken. “Trust me. The secrets, the lies, they just make everything worse. I learned that the hard way.”
Yeah, well, he and Lux weren’t dealing with the same shit. If Roman were in my shoes, he’d do the same exact thing. Guaranteed.
“Thanks, Dr. Rush,” I say, my tone snarky as fuck. “I appreciate the lecture.”
Roman rolls his eyes, mutters some half-ass excuse, and slips off to find Lux. I grab a beer from the ice bucket, pop the tab, and take a step back from the crowd. Across the beach, Chase stands up and walks away, leaving Ava alone on the lounge chair.
I watch her for a minute, trying to read her expression, but the light from the bonfire only catches fragments—the curve of her cheek, a flash of her lips—leaving the rest in shadow.
Ava McKnight.
My wife.
I can still feel her, like her body is imprinted on mine—every breath, every moan, every claw mark she left behind. The taste of her lingers on my tongue, sweet and fucking dangerous, like a poison I should’ve spit out, but instead, I swallowed it down and demanded more.
As I watch her, I can’t help but wonder if she realizes the full implications of what happened during that ceremony. As smart as she is, she was also drugged, so she probably missed the finer details of what happened.
For a few minutes, she watches a group of drunk idiots stumble through a game of cricket before she gets up and heads toward the water. I drain my beer with one long pull, crush the empty can, and follow her.
By the time I reach her, she’s shin-deep in the water, staring out at the dark, endless horizon.
The water is ice-cold when I wade in and pause next to her.
She doesn’t immediately acknowledge me, just continues to stand there as small waves slap against her bare shins.
Sharp laughter from the party drifts on the breeze, emphasizing the silence between us.
“I’m not sure if I ever told you this,” she begins, her voice almost drowned out by the ocean, “But…when we were dating, I actually believed we were meant to be together. Yin and yang. Light and dark.” She kicks at the water, sending droplets scattering across the glassy surface.
“But then what happened happened, and I suddenly realized…that happy, carefree version of us was just an illusion.”
“What we had was real,” I say cautiously.
She glances at me, and in the darkness, away from the light of the bonfire, I can’t read her expression. And I fucking hate that. My chest tightens, and I feel the itch of curiosity, wanting to know what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling, even if it stings.
She shakes her head. “I saw a different side of you…”
“That morning…” I clear my throat. “Were you afraid of me?”
That one question has tormented me for three fucking years. She’s seen the darkness inside me, watched it consume everything decent I once pretended to be. And yet…some small, twisted part of me wants her to stare into that darkness without flinching.
“During the ceremony, why did you call me your wife?” she asks, completely sidestepping my question. “What does that mean?”
I can’t help but smirk. “It means exactly what you think it means, Doe-Eyes.”
She pulls in a sharp breath. “It can’t be legal…”
“It is,” I say. “You are legally Mrs. Jackson Alexander McKnight. Your name is being added to all my bank accounts as we speak.”
“How? It’s practically the middle of the night.”
“Not in Switzerland.”
“My God.” She turns abruptly and walks back to the beach. I’m right behind her. “You are seriously psychotic,” she says.
When we reach the sand, she spins on me. “Tell me, was all this—” She motions to everything around us. “—just some elaborate scheme to trap me into marrying you?”
I step in closer, grip the back of her neck, and pull her into my space. “I don’t need a scheme to take what’s already mine.”
“I’m not yours,” she says, wincing. “Not anymore.”
“You can try to deny it,” I whisper against her cold lips, taunting her. “But you’re mine in every sense of the word—emotionally, physically. And now, legally.”
She shoves at my chest with both hands, and I release her, watching as she stumbles backward, taken off balance by the uneven sand. When she speaks, her voice quivers a little. “I was drugged. The ceremony can’t be legal.”
“Anything can be legal if you have enough money.” And it’s the fucking truth. “You’ll see.”
Now that she has the benefit of both my money and my name, she’ll be fucking untouchable.
“God. You just do whatever you want, don’t you?” she whispers, backing up. “You just take whatever you want, and you don’t give fuck about the lives you destroy in the process…”
I’d argue with her on that, but we both know she’s right. I am a selfish cunt. I’ve always had to be.
“But I want you to know this—” she says, her words full of hate. “You may have bullied me into marrying you, but you’ll never own me, Jackson. Never.”
She doesn’t know it, but she’s hit her mark. Those words, spoken with such raw conviction, cut me deeper than a knife ever could.