Chapter 21 Under The Eyes of Giants
Chapter Twenty-One
Under The Eyes of Giants
The shower did nothing to clear his head.
Jack stood beneath the scalding spray until his skin flushed red, until steam filled his lungs and heat replaced the bone-deep chill that had settled during his sprint through the rain. But clarity refused to come.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her huddled in that corner, trembling like a wounded animal. And when the water struck his back, he remembered the hideous moments when he’d been that terrified.
Then his memory jumped to the way her breath had caught at the sight of his scars. The scars he’d shown her.
Not by accident.
Not through carelessness.
But also not for any reason he understood.
Nick had inevitably seen what he’d tried to hide as a boy.
Myrtle was the only reason his scars hadn’t healed worse than the mangled wreckage they were. She’d been the one to care for him when his flesh was still raw and ripped open, forcing him to accept that he couldn’t heal on his own.
A handful of doctors had seen his body over the years. But that was before he had the money to hire private practitioners who took orders from him rather than the other way around.
No one else saw him so exposed.
He avoided mirrors, changed in private, kept his back to the wall whenever possible. The scars mapped a history he refused to speak aloud, a story written in raised ridges and cigarette burns that he had spent two decades trying to bury.
And yet he had stood there, shirtless, meeting her haunting eyes in the mirror with his own haunted past—daring her to say something.
Why?
The question circled through his mind like a vulture, the longer he dwelled on it, the more his discipline withered away. Long after the chill had left his bones, he’d waited under the water for his hard-on to go away.
It wasn’t out of the ordinary for his body to need release, but the circumstances were far from ideal. She was only a few feet away—a fact that somehow made his condition worse.
The more he considered her proximity and the defiant way she held his stare as he bared his body, the harder his cock pulsed.
Silk. Grey and wet. That tight little nipple. Those delicate cheekbones. Her milky skin.
So still. So unthreatening.
He’d never wanted to touch something as much as he had in that moment.
And she caught him. The look in her eyes filled with stark accusation. He knew that look well.
So he touched himself—hidden only by a stone partition as she bathed naked in the tub just a short distance away. Where were her hands? What did the soap feel like as it glided over her porcelain skin. Was she thinking of him? Picturing him at that same time?
Was she disgusted?
He came with a swallowed grunt of pained pleasure, squeezing his cock with a punished grip meant to inflict pain. He deserved her disgust. What kind of revolting monster got aroused at the sight of another person’s pain?
Drying himself with rote efficiency, he avoided his reflection, planning to go straight to the dressing room. But his steps halted the moment he set eyes on her again.
Small and soaked to the bone, weeping as if in indescribable pain.
How had this happened? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He never should have gotten this close. But here they were.
When she looked up, startled by his thoughtless scrutiny, her cheeks flushed red and she tried in vain to wipe her tears away. He’d mumbled some lame excuse and ran out of there, like a frightened animal.
Shoving his garment bag aside, he rummaged through his clothes with more force than necessary, searching for answers that didn’t exist in the cedar-lined closet.
Black wool emerged without a wrinkle, three pieces tailored to his frame with the precision of a second skin. He laid each component across the velvet bench and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror.
His hands had steadied, moving with practiced ease, reaching for the crisp white shirt and slipping his arms through the sleeves. The cotton whispered against his scarred skin, cool and familiar, as he worked each button through its hole without fumbling. Without shaking.
The trousers came next, smoky charcoal that matched the waistcoat flawlessly.
The silk backing slid over his shirt like water.
Six buttons, each one secured with the mechanical precision of ritual.
This was armor. This was control. The costume of a man who commanded rooms and ruined empires, not the shivering wreck who had carried a half-naked woman through the rain.
He shrugged into the jacket and tugged the lapels straight, watching his reflection transform.
Broad shoulders squared beneath fine wool.
A tapered waist and lean muscle that spoke of discipline rather than vanity.
Every line clean, every seam sharp, every trace of vulnerability buried beneath layers of bespoke tailoring.
He left cufflinks in their case and adjusted his ring against his knuckle. In the mirror, a familiar stranger stared back at him as his expression shifted into a practiced mask of illegibility. He took comfort in the cold, blank eyes of the unreadable face staring back.
Underestimated by design. Respected by default. Powerful beyond measure. Back to being a man who hosted feasts and hunted giants and never let anyone close enough to see the ruins beneath the suit.
So why had he let her see? The question circled again as he punched in the code he’d programmed into the safe bolted to the interior wall.
The lock releasing with a soft click. His gun waited where he left it inside.
The weight of cold steel filled his hand. Steadied him, as it always did. Protection in a language every man understood.
Every woman, too.
She had already seen him armed. Had watched him press the barrel to Hadrian’s skull with the casual ease of a man who had done it before.
What had she really seen in that moment out in the rain? A savior or another monster?
He thought of how she screamed when she woke in his bed and his eyes closed at the sharp sting of regret. Had he actually thought to touch her?
“Damn it.” He shut the safe, sliding the weapon into the holster at the small of his back, then stilled. If he walked back out there with a gun at his spine, she would never trust him.
Pushing his dark chestnut waves back from his forehead, he searched his mind for answers. There were still several hours left until dawn. Three hunters had already been pulled—Hadrian Welles being one of them. He couldn’t leave the room unarmed.
He checked the magazine, and hesitated.
When he emerged from the dressing room, the bathroom door remained open. He paused at the threshold, head tilted as he listened. Water lapped against copper. No sobs. No sounds of distress. Just the quiet rhythm of someone trying to find peace in a place that offered none.
He holstered the gun at his back and let her be.
Jack moved to the bed and straightened the tangled sheets, smoothing the dark silk where her body had lain.
The pillow still held the imprint of her head, a ghost of blonde hair and dried blood.
He lifted the pillow, bringing it slowly to his face and breathed in the unique scent.
Recognizing what should have been unfamiliar to him.
He flipped it over and arranged the remaining pillows against the carved headboard, restoring order to a space that devolved into chaos the moment he started breaking his own rules.
His phone waited on the nightstand where he had abandoned it earlier. The screen lit at his touch, displaying a cascade of missed calls. Hunter. Stone. Ash. All three Volkov brothers had tried to reach him, their concern escalating with each unanswered attempt.
Jack ignored the voicemails and crossed to the far wall, where a brass bear head protruded from the plaster.
Small enough to pass for decoration. Ripping off the black tape he’d sealed over its eyes, he stared at hidden lenses.
Every guest suite in the lodge contained similar fixtures, a security measure the Volkovs made no effort to conceal.
Their guests understood the terms of their hospitality.
Privacy was an illusion, and the bears saw everything.
Jack looked directly into the camera, pointed toward the bathroom, and withdrew his phone.
His thumb moved across the screen, composing a message to Stone.
She’s bathing. Everything is fine. Send food.
The response came within seconds, a wall of text that Jack didn’t bother reading. He caught fragments as he scrolled. Protocol. Liability. Medical attention. What the fuck are you thinking?
He pressed the tape back over the bear’s eyes and powered off his phone.
The fire burned low, so he added two logs, watching as the flames caught and climbed. His mind leapt back to the vision of her weeping in the tub.
None of this was supposed to happen.
The Feast of the Fallen had operated for ten years with little to no incident, but over the last few years, returning guests seemed to take his generosity for granted.
Egos inflated as fortunes grew, and their sense of privilege swelled with narcissistic entitlement that made them think the rules were merely suggestions.
In the first hour, he’d found several targets that needed to be taken down. By the second, he had already ordered two hunters removed from the game.
Rumors spread as men disappeared. Helicopters removed the tributes who forfeited, as swiftly as the Volkovs’ security detail extracted those who violated the rules. Those hunters currently waited in private cells, pacing anxiously, not yet understanding the consequences of their actions.
Those men were the exceptions. The rest, for the most part, understood the game and played by the rules. Respecting safewords and behaving accordingly.