Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jackson
As I stare down at Ava, I wonder what the actual fuck is happening to me.
For years, I convinced myself I was over this girl.
But looking at her now, I know that was all bullshit.
Ava is my drug, and like every damn addict out there, one hit from that magic pussy, and I can’t even fucking think straight.
All I want is the familiar comfort of her.
The warmth of her fingertips trailing across my chest after fucking her senseless.
That intoxicating scent that clings to her skin.
The way she smiles to herself when she thinks I’m not looking. ..
She’s lying on the bed, rigid, muscles straining as she leverages herself up on trembling arms.
“Are you going to take that shirt off, or will I be doing it for you?” I ask, my voice calm, despite the surge of raw need sparking in my veins.
Normally, this wouldn’t even be a conversation.
I’d have the shirt off so quickly, she wouldn’t even have time to argue.
But, despite my threat, I need her to remove the shirt herself, so there’s no question who’s in control.
She’s trying to hide it, but I can see the panic in her eyes as that beautiful mind works to find a loophole. But there’s no fucking loophole when it comes to me. She will submit. Sooner or later.
It’s clear she realizes this, too, because after a few seconds, her shoulders lower, and her gaze shifts to the window. “Can we at least pull the curtain?”
“No.”
Refusing to look at me, she sits up, then slowly drags the shirt over her head, like she’s about to be flogged. And you know what, maybe she will. That could be fun.
With a sharp jerk, I rip the shirt from her hand and fling it across the room, out of reach. Her cheeks are flushed, her mouth twisted into a frown as she looks away, legs hugged to her chest.
Goddamn, I want to rip this girl apart, devour every inch of her, then put her back together, piece by trembling piece, until she remembers I’m the only one who can break her, and the only one who can make her whole again.
I move closer, slow, deliberate, letting the heat between us thicken.
My fingers brush a stray lock of hair from her face, and I let my lips ghost over her jaw, tasting, teasing.
Her breath hitches; her hands twitch, wanting me, resisting me.
I press closer, feeling the curve of her ribs under my palm, the quickening pulse of blood I can feel even through her skin.
“God,” I murmur, voice low. “I want you. Every-fucking-inch.”
Her hands find my shoulders, and she drags me down toward her, but just as I’m about to close the distance, to claim what’s already mine, a sudden crash from below jolts me, glass shattering, followed by raised voices that cut through my Ava-fueled haze.
I freeze, heart kicking against my ribs as I strain to hear more.
What the fuck?
Voices drift up from the backyard, muffled but urgent, shouts layered over each other.
I peel myself off Ava and rush to the window.
I can make out a rush of movement on the back lawn.
Several figures crowd around Lowe at the back door, while Andre and Yates rush to help him.
The distinct crack of a bullet rips through the morning air.
Fuck.
Another fucking ambush. Shadow and Ash, no doubt mounting a rescue operation for their worthless leader, who’s currently rotting in our basement. They’re getting bolder, now going head-to-head with our armed security team.
“What was that?” Ava asks.
“Probably just a few of the guys fucking around,” I say. There’s no sense in worrying her, because whatever it is will be dealt with. Andre and his team are former military. Nothing short of an army is getting through them.
“That sounded like a firecracker,” she says.
“Could be,” I mutter. “But I’m checking it out. Stay away from the window.” I give her a look sharp enough to make my point. “And don’t leave this room.”
“Fine.”
Ava
When Jackson leaves, I yank myself out of bed and force myself into the bathroom to take a shower.
I need something to wake me up from this daze I’m in.
For days now, I’ve been slipping, getting dangerously close to letting him back in.
And it’s not just the sex—though that’s always been raw, almost feral.
It’s the chaos of it all—wild, toxic, intoxicating.
Jackson McKnight doesn’t just touch me. He consumes me.
Don’t let him get into your head, I tell myself as I turn the water on and test the temperature with my hand. It was just sex. That’s it. Any two people can fuck.
I’m waiting for the water to get up to temperature when suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck starts to prickle. I can’t hear anything because of the water spray, but I sense movement behind me.
For a split second, I assume it's Jackson. But Jackson would announce himself by doing something devious, like grabbing my ass or saying something sexually suggestive. Lurking isn’t his vibe.
My muscles lock up, and I swallow, my mind trying to work out what I should do—Run? Scream? Throw something? But I hesitate a second too long, and I’m yanked off my feet from behind, my back colliding with a man’s chest.
I try to scream, but he slaps a hand over my mouth and cuts off the sound. The pressure causes my teeth to grind into my lips, and fuck, it stings.
But the pain wakes me up from the shock, and instinct kicks in. With every ounce of energy I have, I claw, kick, and twist as he hauls me backward into the bedroom.
Whoever this is, I sense an edge of cruelty in him, which is made even more frightening by his clipped, business-like efficiency.
Fear licks down my spine when I realize this isn’t just some drunk guy who stumbled upstairs and found me. This guy is a professional. Which means, I’m the intended target. But why? What the fuck have I ever done to anyone?
“What do you want?” I scream, but the sound is muffled against his hand. My own saliva coats my face, making it slippery, and he struggles to keep his hand in place.
“Hurry up, man,” the guy hisses.
My heart stops. Is there a second person here? I can’t see anyone, but my range of movement is nonexistent, and most of the bedroom is behind me.
A heavy blanket is tossed over my head, and the guy holding me uses that brief distraction to reposition his hold, so his hands are no longer making direct contact with my skin (thank God).
The blanket’s heat is suffocating. I can’t breathe. Panic claws up my throat as my heart slams against my ribs, too fast, too hard. The edges of my vision start to blur.
I jerk against the guy restraining me, but the blanket is heavy, airless, and fucking disorienting. My body starts to falter, my survival instincts kicking in to conserve oxygen, dragging me toward unconsciousness.
One thought keeps looping in my mind—If I don’t break free now, I’m dead...