Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Jackson
The weight of what just happened with my father is still clinging to us when we get to Rush House. Lucas and Roman arrived ahead of us and have already dragged Chase and Yates inside, restraining them in the basement. Yates looked dazed from his head injury, barely coherent.
Ember is in the kitchen when Ava and I walk in, Jameson perched on Ava’s hip, eyes wide and curious. Ember’s gaze snaps to me, widening at the blood smeared across my T-shirt.
I have to tell her about our father. There’s no way to sugarcoat it.
“I killed him,” I say simply.
For a moment, Ember just stares at me. Then, “What do you mean?”
“Our father. He threatened Ava. He’s dead.”
Her face goes through a rapid cycle—confusion, then understanding, then a cold stillness I know all too well. Years of abuse have carved something sharp and unforgiving inside her. Just like me.
“Oh,” she says quietly. Then, after a beat, “Good. Someone should have done it a long time ago.”
No tears. No questions. Just acceptance.
I turn to Ava and kiss her, our lips lingering. When I pull back, my forehead rests against hers, and I whisper, “Go upstairs with Jameson. I’ll be up in a minute.”
She nods, knowing what I have to do, and letting me go.
In the basement, Chase and Yates are already restrained, zip-tied to chairs. Yates is still out of it, head lolling slightly. Chase’s eyes are pure terror.
Sin is on his cot, watching me without surprise. The faintest smirk tugs one corner of his mouth, like this is his evening entertainment. Maybe we have more in common than I’ve appreciated.
“Please—” Chase rasps. But I don’t indulge him. I give him a look that says there will be no bargains, no last-minute salvation.
I don’t speak. I don’t need to. My knife will do the talking.
It’s cold in my hand, and I move with the kind of calm that comes from years of practice. Yates goes first. Quick, precise. I cut him in ways that ensure the pain is sharp and lingering, but the struggle ends cleanly.
Then, I circle Chase—slow and methodical—as if I’m measuring the space between life and whatever comes after.
When I cut him, it’s not neat. The blade finds the soft places under his ribs and severs vital organs.
Blood soaks through his shirt and spills onto the concrete below.
He pulls against the zipties, fingernails scraping the metal chair, face turning purple as the breath leaves him in ragged, desperate pulls.
His eyes see me until they don’t; the light goes out in them, and his body folds inward, limbs slackening.
The floor is slick with blood, the air metallic. Two bodies hang uselessly in the chairs. Two names erased.
Zero apologies.
By the next evening, the world feels lighter, almost unreal, as if the horror of yesterday belongs on another timeline. For the first time since Jameson was born, we’re together. The three of us—Jameson, Ava, and me. Our little family.
After spending the day at Rush Beach, Jameson is exhausted, covered in sand, and fussy. In my bathroom, I run a shallow, lukewarm bath while Ava gets our son ready, peeling off his damp clothes and brushing the sand off his chubby little legs.
We settle on opposite sides of the tub, our knees almost touching. Jameson splashes in the tub, thrilled with the makeshift toys I’ve sourced from my bathroom—a sponge, a shower puff, and an empty shampoo bottle.
I guess I need to stock up on toddler stuff.
The thought spreads warmth through my chest. I’m already mentally cataloging what a toddler might need: rubber ducks, those foam letters, maybe one of those toys that stick to the tile…
I cup water in my hand and let it trickle over Jameson's shoulders. He giggles, slapping the surface of the water, sending droplets flying. I shrug out of my shirt, not worried about the sun this time—I didn’t do it at the beach earlier, because I didn’t want to fry the tattoo on my shoulder.
Ava catches sight of my tattoo for the first time. “What’s that on your shoulder?” she asks, leaning in to get a closer look. “Are those…teeth marks?”
“You left your mark on me,” I say. “So I decided to make it permanent.”
“What?” She laughs. “Oh, my God, Jackson. You’re insane.”
I lift a brow. “You like it.”
She glances back down at Jameson, her fingers trailing in the water. “I want this all the time,” she whispers, something soft and unguarded in her expression. “Jameson, you, me. Together.”
“I already have my team scouting houses in the area,” I say. “I texted them this morning.”
She smiles at me, and for a second, it feels like the whole damn world slows down. “Jameson would love a backyard.”
A quiet settles between us, comfortable, warm. Then her voice drops, almost to herself. “Sometimes I look at Jameson,” she says, “and I wonder how my mom could ever leave me and my sister. How anyone could walk away from this.” Her eyes flick to Jameson, who’s busy trying to drown the sponge.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I used to think the same thing about mine. How the hell do you look at your own kid and still choose yourself?”
She glances up, eyes glassy. “Guess some people are just wired to be selfish.”
“We’ll break the cycle. For him.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “For him,” she echoes.
I lean in and kiss her, my tongue slipping into her mouth. She tastes like cherry lip balm, and pure fucking heaven. I grab her by the shirt and tug her close, deepening the kiss. “What did I do to deserve you?” I whisper against her lips.
I’ve been blind and made so many mistakes. But somehow, it all led me here, to her. She sees me in a way no one else ever has, not the broken pieces I’ve tried to hide, not the man I pretend to be, but me. The real me, stripped bare of all the armor I’ve spent years building.
She pulls back, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw, and I lean into her touch like a man starving for it. Because I am. I’ve been starving for three years.
“You’re incredible,” she whispers, her voice tender.
No, I’m not. But when she looks at me like that, like I’m someone worth keeping, I almost believe her.
I kiss her again, slower this time, my lips conveying everything I can’t say in words—every apology, every promise, every desperate hope that she’ll never leave me again.
Her fingers thread through my hair, and I pull her closer, savoring the weight of her against me, the soft whimper she makes against my mouth.
This. This is what I’ve been searching for without knowing it. Not just love, but home, and I realize now that Ava has always been home for me.
Jameson squeals, breaking the spell.
Ava pulls back with a laugh, turning toward the tub. “Someone doesn’t like being ignored.”
I push out a breath, and rake a hand down my face, trying to reel myself back in. The steam, her mouth, that heat in her eyes, it all lingers like electricity under my skin.
She pulls Jameson out of the water, and wraps him in a towel as he kicks and squirms. I grab another towel and help dry him off, our hands touching, the electric charge between us still there, subdued now, but no less real.
Ava puts Jameson into his soft pajamas, feeds him, then settles him into the portable crib we brought from her dad’s house. I switch off the lights as Ava hums. Her voice is so soft and soothing, it makes my chest ache.
By the time Jameson's eyelids drift shut, the room has gone silent again, just the faint drip of water from the bath, and the unspoken pull between us waiting in the quiet.
We climb into bed, and I reach for the nightstand, sliding open the hidden compartment beneath the drawer. My fingers find the small velvet box I’ve kept tucked away there, hidden longer than I care to admit.
Ava’s brow furrows when I pull it out. “That wasn’t in there earlier,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “When did you get that?”
I swallow, my throat tight. “Three years ago.”
Her eyes widen, soft in the glow from the lamp. “That was before—”
“Before everything,” I finish for her. My voice comes out rough, almost breaking. “Before I knew what we’d survive. Before I even knew if I deserved you.” I take her hand, press it against my chest. “But, even back then, I knew you were it for me.”
Her breath catches, then she releases a shaky exhale.
“I kept it,” I whisper, thumbing open the box. The diamond catches the light. “Because even when I thought I’d lost everything, some part of me refused to let go of you, of us.”
Ava’s eyes shine. “Well, we’re already married,” she murmurs, laughing through the tears that spill down her cheeks.
“I know.” I take her hand, my pulse hammering as I slide the ring onto her finger. “But I want you wearing something everyone can see. A reminder that you’re mine.”
Her lips tremble, caught between a laugh and a sob, and when she looks up at me, I see it, the same fierce, unshakable love that’s kept us alive for so long.
She stares down at the ring for a long moment, her thumb brushing over it like she’s afraid it might disappear. Then her eyes lift back to mine, shining with that quiet kind of wonder that always undoes me.
“I’ve always been yours,” she whispers.
With a smile, I cup her face, my thumb tracing the damp trail on her cheek. “Say it again.”
Her breath trembles, but she doesn’t look away. “I’ve always been yours, Jackson.”
It hits low in my chest, a pressure I didn’t know I’d been carrying, finally breaking loose. I pull her in, my mouth finding hers, the kiss slow and deep, filled with everything I’ve ever tried and failed to say. The kiss isn’t desperate anymore; it’s grounding. It’s coming home.
When we break apart, she’s smiling through the tears, her fingers curling in my shirt. Jameson shifts in his crib, a small sound, reminding us we’re not just who we used to be. We’re more now.
I rest my forehead against hers. “Guess that makes us official,” I whisper.
She laughs softly. “Guess so.”
I wrap my arms around her, feeling her heart steady against mine. Outside, the world is quiet, the kind that only comes after the storm. And for the first time in years, I let myself settle into the calm.
Then my phone vibrates on the nightstand, the buzz louder than usual in the quiet room. With a groan, I reach over, grab it, and unlock the screen. It’s a text from my uncle.
“What is it?” Ava asks, her voice quiet so she doesn’t wake Jameson.
I glance at the screen, then back at her. “It’s my uncle John. The senior council ruled in our favor.” I exhale, the tension that’s lived in my body for months finally easing. “It’s over.”
Thank-fucking-God.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. But there’s a shift in the air. Subtle, but poignant. The stillness between us isn’t heavy anymore; it feels like release.
My father once told me power meant making impossible choices and living with the fallout.
I made my choice a long time ago.
I chose Ava. I chose our son. And now, I choose a life built on something real. Something that isn’t ruled by fear or legacy.
Maybe this is what power really is: choosing love, and never looking back.