Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ava
The air is heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. Lucas stands in the living room, one hand covering his mouth, while Roman hovers in the doorway, his gaze darting to where Yates lies motionless on the kitchen tile.
Jackson hasn’t moved at all. He’s standing between me and the rest of the room protectively, nostrils flared, chest heaving, his father’s blood spattered across his neck and T-shirt.
I’m untied, but still in the chair, trembling, afraid to breathe and shatter the stillness.
“We need to move fast,” Lucas finally says. “Yates won’t stay out forever.”
Roman looks at Jackson. “We’ll call your uncle, then handle Yates, and…the body.”
Jackson’s jaw flexes, and he nods.
His eyes flick to Chase, still cowering half-hidden behind the counter. Jackson’s hand tightens into a fist. “Take Yates back to Rush House,” he says flatly. “And bring Chase with you. We’ll deal with them both there.”
Lucas hesitates but nods. Roman jerks his chin toward the front door. “Lucas and I will be out front, making some calls.”
Before they move, I hear the faint, paper-thin whine of Chase from the corner, small and useless. My stomach clenches.
“What are you going to do to him?” I ask, my voice coming out like a rasp.
Jackson looks at me, and something unhinged and cold slides into his eyes. “I’m going to make his death long and drawn out,” he says quietly, the words measured and terrible. “I’ll make sure he remembers every fucking second.”
A sick taste rises in my mouth. Part of me wants to recoil, disgusted by what he’s saying, by the cruelty in it—but the image of Chase handing me over to men who would’ve killed me leaves me hollow. No sympathy surfaces. Not for him. Not after that.
On his way out the door, Lucas slaps Jackson’s shoulder, “You good?”
A single, clipped nod.
“You did what you had to do, man.” Lucas’ gaze flicks to me. “Anyone of us would have done the same thing.”
Then, Roman and Lucas are gone. The door closes, and silence falls over the apartment. It only takes a few seconds, but Jackson finally turns to fully face me. The mask he’s been wearing cracks, and for the first time since all this started, I see real fear in his eyes. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head, even though every muscle in my body aches. “I’m fine.”
“Ava—”
“You killed him.” The words erupt as a sob. “You killed your own father.”
His eyes close, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I know.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He crosses the space between us slowly, cautiously, like he’s approaching a wounded doe.
His hands hover inches from my skin, trembling.
“Because I knew he’d never stop coming after you.
” His voice drops, a rasp of possession and exhaustion.
“And I couldn’t breathe knowing he was still out there.
You don’t understand, I’d burn down the world before I’d lose you again. ”
And suddenly, I see it. All of it. The obsession, the hunger in his eyes every time he looked at me. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. This whole time, he’s been trying to protect me from the kind of love that kills everything else in its path.
“For three years, you’ve been carrying the burden of what really happened all alone,” I whisper.
His gaze searches my face. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.” My fingers trace the line of his jaw. “You chose to protect me.”
“Every-fucking-time,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’ll choose you every time, Ava.”
His words sink into me, and yeah—this is not the fairy tale bullshit I used to dream about. This is real. Dangerous. The kind of love that doesn't just walk up and introduce itself, but crashes through walls and leaves everything changed.
And fuck me, I am so gone for him.
Completely, recklessly in love.
My heart hammers as I meet his eyes. “Jackson,” I say softly. “I need to show you something.”
We drive to my dad’s place in silence. The kind of silence that presses in from all sides, making every heartbeat, every breath, feel too loud.
My hands won’t stop trembling in my lap, so I ball them into fists until my knuckles go white.
The entire way, my stomach is twisting—because of what I just witnessed, the blood still fresh in my memory, and because of what I’m about to do.
Never in a million years did I think this was what it’d all come down to.
We park in front of Jackson’s mom’s house, the mansion looming ahead of us. We make our way around the sprawling estate to my dad’s little cottage.
Through the front door, I can hear Jameson's squeal of laughter—pure, joyful—and warmth spreads through my chest.
The door is unlocked, so I walk in without knocking, Jackson right behind me.
Jameson is playing on the living room floor, surrounded by blocks and toy cars, his dark curls catching the lamp light. When he sees me, his whole face lights up—that smile that makes everything worth it—and he scrambles to his feet, toddling over to me on unsteady legs.
I scoop him up before he can fall, crushing my lips to his plump cheek. He smells like baby shampoo and graham crackers, and I breathe him in like he’s oxygen. “Hey, monkey. Did you miss me?”
He babbles something incomprehensible and pats my face with damp hands, and I’ve never felt more relieved in my entire life.
I can feel Jackson’s heavy presence, hovering behind me. Watching. Waiting.
“Olivia, is that you?” My dad peeks around the corner from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel, never too far from Jameson. “Ava! You’re here early. You said you wouldn’t be stopping by until tomorrow.”
Then his eyes land on Jackson behind me, and his smile fades. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw tight. “What’s he doing here with you?” Dad asks, his voice guarded.
And who can blame him? I’ve spent years telling him how much I hate Jackson McKnight. How dangerous he is. How much I wish I’d never met him. And now here I am, walking in with the devil himself.
“Dad, he should know,” I say, my voice firm, my throat tight.
Before he can argue or stop me, I turn to face Jackson. Jameson squirms in my arms, and I adjust my hold on him, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure Jackson can hear it.
“This is Jameson, ” I start, but the words feel like a rock in my throat. “And he’s…” I swallow hard. “He’s your son.”
The silence that follows rings in my ears.
Jackson stares at Jameson—like, really looks at him—but his expression is unreadable. Frozen. I watch his eyes trace every feature: the dark hair, the shape of his face, the green eyes that are exactly like his. There’s no question that Jameson is a McKnight.
My breath snags in my lungs, burning.
Will he hate me for keeping this from him? For stealing the early years with Jameson, he can never get back? Now, knowing what I know about Jackson—knowing what he’s sacrificed, what he’s protected me from—I feel like the worst person alive. The guilt is suffocating.
But at the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought Jackson was dangerous. I thought I was protecting Jameson.
How could I be so certain, and yet so wrong at the same time?
Jameson squirms in my arms, fussing. His chubby little arms reach out—not for my dad, but for Jackson.
My heart jolts to a stop.
Jackson reaches out and takes Jameson from me with a practiced ease that makes no sense. Like he’s done this a thousand times before. Like he’s been a father forever.
He settles Jameson against his hip, and Jameson immediately calms, resting his head on Jackson’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Jackson presses a kiss to Jameson's dark curls, his eyes closing briefly, and bounces him gently.
“Hey, Little Man. Were you good for your grandpa?”
I take a stumbling step back, my mind reeling. “Why does it look like he knows you?”
Jackson’s gaze shifts to me, and there’s something achingly sad in his eyes. “I told you, there’s only one other person who knew the truth of what happened three years ago…” He glances over my shoulder.
At my dad.
Ice floods my veins. I spin around, and my dad looks ashen, guilt written across every line of his face. “Dad? What’s he saying?”
“I’ve been letting him see Jameson,” he says quietly. “A few times a week. While you’re at work.”
The floor shifts beneath my feet.
“Always supervised,” he rushes to add, like that makes it better. Like that justifies the lie. “I was always here. Always watching.”
“So you knew.” My voice comes out strained. “You knew the truth this whole time, that it was me who killed Senator Davis. And you didn’t say anything to me about it?”
“In self-defense,” he says. “You killed him in self-defense, Ava.”
The words should bring relief that it’s all out there now. But, honestly, all I feel is the sting of betrayal.
“Why would you keep something like that from me? Why didn’t you say anything?”
The two most important men in my life lied to me for three years about everything that mattered.
Dad’s gaze flicks to Jackson, then back to me.
When he speaks, his voice is gentle. “You’re such a good kid, Ava.
And we knew…” He swallows. “We knew the truth would eat you alive. You’d never forgive yourself, even though you did nothing wrong.
We thought it was better if you didn’t remember.
If you just... moved on with your life.”
I stand there, frozen, struggling to absorb it all.
Behind me, Jameson giggles at something Jackson whispers to him, the sound so pure and innocent it makes my chest ache.
My son knows his father—has known him. While I’ve been drowning in guilt and fear and lies, they’ve been building something I never knew existed.
Honestly, I have no idea if I should be furious, grateful, or heartbroken.
Maybe it’s okay to be all three.