Chapter 22
ELENA
I vy's soft breathing filled the room, steady and deep.
We'd both showered and changed into some fresh clothes from the bag of clothes that had been brought to me at the hospital. Whoever had been told to get me a change of clothes had thrown armfuls into a duffel bag, enough for us both to have something fresh to wear.
I waited until I was sure Ivy was asleep before slipping off the bed, heart thudding like I was doing something wrong. Maybe I was. My hands trembled slightly as I stood. The anxiety of what I was about to do mixing with a need I couldn't suppress no matter how hard I tried.
The interior door creaked faintly as I opened it, and I held my breath, stepping into Jackson's room like I belonged there. Like I hadn't been lying to everyone since the day I arrived at Donati Enterprises. Like I wasn't torn between running away and running toward him.
He was by the window, half-shadowed, arms resting on his knees. The moonlight caught the edge of his jaw as his headed turned slightly toward me. He didn't look surprised to see me. My chest tightened at the sight of him. How could I still want him so badly when everything was falling apart?
"Do they know?" I asked, my voice low, anxiety crawling up my throat. "Grayson and Meredith. Do they know who I am?"
He didn't look at me. "Roman's told them about an hour ago. They're running a test. From the blood you donated."
My stomach twisted as I bit my lip. "Shouldn't I have consented to that?" The violation stung a little, another reminder of how powerless I was here, even as part of me desperately wanted to belong.
"In this world? Consent's a luxury." He cocked his head at me, watching me, waiting.
Like he knew I'd come to him for more than an answer.
Like he knew I was barely holding it together. Why he was the one who was giving me strength right now was beyond me. And yet, I found comfort with him. A sense of protection and safety despite all of this.
"It's fine. I just... I keep seeing his face. Alfeo." The memory flashed behind my eyes—the sound, the blood, the horrible finality of it. I wrapped my arms around myself, shuddering as I tried to quell the images.
Jackson stood slowly, moving toward me like a silent ghost despite the faint limp. "First time I killed someone," he said, "I thought it was routine. We were clearing a zone. Hostage rescue. I shot first."
He paused before me, his jaw tight. "When we went in, I saw him. The one I shot. Just a kid. Maybe eighteen. Maybe."
I didn't breathe. Couldn't. His voice was too steady, too practiced. Like he'd told himself this story a hundred times just to survive it. I wanted to reach for him, to ease whatever haunted him, even as my own ghosts circled.
"My teammate told me not to think about it. Said it would eat me alive. Said I saved lives. That's what mattered."
He looked at me then, really looked, his hand coming up to catch my elbow. "If you hadn't done what you did, we'd all be dead. I hate that it's on you. But you did the right thing."
I nodded, but it felt like lying. "I know. It just... doesn't feel like it." The guilt sat heavy in my chest, a weight I couldn't dislodge no matter how rational I tried to be. No matter how many times I told myself it was the right thing.
"That's because you're a good person," he said, guiding me to the bed and sitting down beside me on it. His hand found mine, warm and rough.
I leaned into him, needing the weight of him, the steadiness.
His lips brushed mine, and I let myself fall into it.
God, how I wanted to lose myself in him, to forget everything but this—the heat of his skin, the strength in his hands.
I knew I should pull away, that wanting him was dangerous, foolish even.
But I couldn't stop the current pulling me toward him.
"What is this?" I whispered against his mouth, fear and desire tangling in my chest. "What are we doing?"
He pulled back just enough to look at me. "I don't know."
His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer. "I should stay away from you," he said, voice rough. "But I've never been good at denying myself what I want."
I didn't stop him. I didn't want to. The ache in me needed him like oxygen. Despite everything—the lies, the danger, the uncertainty of who to trust—my body recognized something in his. Something essential.
We made love again, slower this time. His touch was gentle, fingertips mapping my skin as if committing every curve to memory. Where our first time had been frantic and raw, this was something else entirely, something pure and real. Something that eased me.
"Look at me," he whispered, and I did, finding myself reflected in his eyes. My heart hammered against my ribs, terrified by how much I felt, how much I wanted to trust him.
I'd come to him before seeking oblivion, wanting to lose myself in something harsh enough to match the storm inside me.
But this tenderness—the way he cradled my face, the gentle press of his lips against my temple, my throat, the hollow between my collarbones—it reached places inside me I'd thought unreachable.
"I can't get enough of you," he murmured against my skin. "God knows I've tried to fight it."
His hands interlaced with mine, pressing them into the mattress as he moved above me.
The sweetness of it made my chest ache, this careful claiming soothing something ragged within me.
I hadn't known I needed this gentleness until he gave it to me.
It terrified me how right it felt to be with him, how my body sang beneath his touch despite all the warnings screaming in my head.
"I feel the same," I whispered, surprising myself with the truth of it. "I shouldn't, but I do."
"Who knows what it means or if it's right," he said, pressing his lips to my neck. "We should just accept it. Whether it makes sense or not."
I gasped as he buried himself deeper inside me, his teeth grazing my neck before he kissed my shoulder.
"What about your leg?" I said breathlessly.
"Painkillers are working great, princess."
I couldn't help the quiver the nickname sent through me, as he eased out slowly before driving back in fully. He claimed my lips, swallowing my soft gasps and making sweet, steady love to me until I came undone.
My body trembled with the sweet release clouding my mind as I clung to him like he was my only lifeline.
This time, he didn't pull out. He sunk in as deep as he could, groaning, his body going rigid with his climax.
He collapsed beside me, pulling me close and nuzzling my neck.
I traced the edges of the burn scars visible on his shoulder with my fingertip. How could I feel so safe with someone who worked for such deadly people? How could I want someone who might know more than he was telling me?
"Do you know what happened to my father?" I asked in the stillness, my heart pounding with dread and desperate hope.
He didn't answer right away as he pulled back to gaze at me. And that silence told me more than words ever could.
The weight of his hesitation pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I watched his face in the dim light from the moon outside, the way his eyes darkened, how his jaw tightened.
He knew something. My stomach knotted with fear, but I couldn't stop myself from asking—even as part of me wanted to just curl against him and pretend I didn't need to know.
"Jackson," I whispered, my finger stilling on his scar. "Please."
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me.
The sheet slipped to his waist, revealing the scar that looked suspiciously like a bullet wound on his torso—evidence of a life I could barely comprehend.
Even now, with doubt creeping in, I wanted to press my lips to each mark, to somehow ease the pain they represented.
"What exactly are you asking me, Elena?" His voice was careful, measured.
I swallowed hard. "Did they kill him? Grayson and Meredith? Did they kill Anthony Cassaro? I need the truth. I know you know something."
The question hung between us, dangerous and fragile. Part of me wanted him to lie, to tell me I was wrong, that my half-siblings weren't murderers. That I hadn't been sleeping with a man who protected killers. That I could keep wanting him without betraying my moral code.
As if I could talk now. I'd joined that bandwagon too.
He exhaled slowly, the sound more resignation than breath. "I'm not supposed to talk about it," he said, glancing away to avoid my gaze.
The mattress seemed to grow colder beneath me despite our shared warmth. I reached for his hand, my fingers curling around his. The calluses on his palm were rough against my skin, reminding me of the violence those hands were capable of.
"Please," I whispered. "I need to know."
His jaw flexed, muscles tightening beneath stubbled skin.
For a moment, I thought he'd shut down completely, retreat behind that impenetrable wall he wore so well.
But then he looked at me, and something in him softened.
The moonlight filtering through the blinds caught the edges of his face, highlighting the conflict in his eyes.
"From what I understand..." he began, each word measured carefully, "your father wasn't a good man."
The words landed hard. I blinked, trying to process them, my mind suddenly blank. The Anthony Cassaro I'd constructed in my imagination—the businessman too busy for his secret family but who cared enough to send money—wavered like a mirage.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.
Jackson's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. "He hurt Meredith. Badly." His voice dropped even lower. "Grayson and Leo... they stopped him."
My breath caught. Hurt her? My mind reeled, trying to reconcile the man who sent checks and birthday cards with the monster Jackson was describing. The father who'd promised to come back for us someday. The man whose absence had shaped my entire childhood.