CHAPTER THIRTEEN JAX
The control center hums with its usual machine-breath rhythm, but tonight every sound feels amplified.
It’s been two days since the kiss. Forty-eight hours of maintaining professional distance while my hands remember the exact texture of her skin, the way she fit against me, the small sound she made when we both pulled back at the same time.
I'm watching her apartment feed on monitor six. Have been for the past twenty minutes, which is fifteen minutes longer than operational protocol requires. She's home—came back from the foundation office at six-thirty, picked up takeout from the Thai place three blocks away, hasn't left since.
I'm not avoiding her. Can't avoid her when my entire job has become making sure Ezra's investigators don't escalate from documentation to something worse.
But I'm also not texting her every hour like some part of me wants to, because that crosses from protective into possessive, and I've been walking that line for more than three weeks now.
My phone sits on the console beside my coffee. Our last exchange was two hours ago:
Lana: Solange made me eat actual food. Revolutionary concept.
Me: Did you?
Lana: Most of it. Thai green curry counts as vegetables, right?
Me: If you need it to.
Lana: How's work?
Me: Quiet. Thursday regulars. Nothing interesting.
Lana: Liar. You find everything interesting. That's the problem.
She's right. I do find everything interesting when it comes to her. The way she orders food, the route she takes home, the fact that she's been sleeping with her bedroom light on. Small details that build into patterns that build into a person I'm watching too carefully.
The stairwell door opens. Lucien descends with his characteristic precision, each step deliberate, expensive shoes clicking against steel. He's wearing charcoal tonight—an expensive suit that matches the shoes.
"Jax." He says my name like he's calling attendance. "Status report."
I minimize the feed showing Lana's building, bring up The Dominion's main floor.
"Two flagged interactions in the private rooms. Both resolved.
Senator Michaels left through the back entrance at nine—his usual pattern when his wife thinks he's at the office.
Camera malfunction in the east corridor has been logged for maintenance. "
"And our widow?" Lucien moves to stand beside my chair, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive with cedar and bergamot. "Any movement from Ezra Pope's camp?"
"Ezra's private investigator made contact with Lana's foundation office yesterday morning.
Owen Trask—former cop turned PI, the kind who takes jobs that require flexible ethics.
" I pull up the relevant file, show Lucien the surveillance photos I've been collecting.
"Solange had him removed by security. No physical confrontation, just intimidation photography.
He's been following Lana for at least two weeks now, documenting her movements, building whatever narrative Ezra's paying him to construct.
I've been monitoring his patterns. He's getting more aggressive now that the legal route is failing. "
"Failing?" Lucien's eyebrow rises fractionally. "I wasn't aware the will contest had been withdrawn."
"Not officially yet. But Mira Keaton sent Malcolm Fielding a letter already. I outlined everything your investigators found—Ezra's state assembly campaign. Called his bluff, because we know he also risks exposure"
"And Malcolm's response?"
"Radio silence so far. But that's strategic—he's advising Ezra, running calculations on whether a public legal battle is worth the political suicide.
" I switch feeds, and show Lucien the building where Malcolm's firm operates.
"My guess is they'll withdraw within the week.
Ezra can't afford the scrutiny right before announcing his campaign. "
Lucien studies the screen for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice carries that particular tone that means he's shifted from employer to something more invasive. "You've become very invested in Ms. Pope's legal situation."
"You asked me to watch her."
"I asked you to observe. There's a difference between observation and investment." He turns to face me directly. "You're sleeping with her."
It's not a question, but I answer it anyway. "No."
"But you want to."
The truth sits between us like something physical. I could lie—should lie, probably, maintain the professional distance that's been eroding since the night Lana looked directly at my camera and saw me watching. But Lucien already knows. He's been reading the same patterns I've been trying to hide.
"Yes," I say.
"That's unfortunate." Lucien straightens his cufflinks, the gesture he uses when delivering verdicts.
"Not because I object to your personal entanglements—your private life is your concern as long as it doesn't compromise your work.
But because she's a woman with significant legal and financial complications, and you're the person assigned to watch and protect her.
That power imbalance doesn't disappear just because you've developed feelings. "
"I'm aware of the power imbalance."
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you look like a man who's convinced himself that honesty absolves methodology.
" His voice isn't unkind, just clinical.
"You told her about the cameras. You gave her access codes.
You've established what you believe are ethical boundaries.
But she's still a woman being watched by a man who's attracted to her, and that dynamic has its own gravity regardless of how transparent you try to make it. "
The assessment lands with uncomfortable accuracy. I've been running the same analysis for weeks—trying to determine if surveillance with transparency is genuinely different from surveillance as control, or if I'm just Gabriel with better justification.
"So what are you suggesting?" I ask.
"Nothing. I'm observing." Lucien moves toward the stairs, then pauses.
"But if you're going to pursue this, Jax, make sure you're doing it for the right reasons.
Attraction built on protection and vulnerability has a tendency to collapse once the threats resolve.
Make sure what you're feeling is about her, not about your need to be the one keeping her safe. "
After he leaves, I sit with his words for longer than I should. I pull up Lana's apartment feed. She's pacing between the couch and the window, that restless back-and-forth movement she does when she's thinking too much. Three passes in two minutes. Whatever she's processing, it's not settling.
My phone sits on the console, and I'm reaching for it before I've consciously decided to text her.
Me: You're pacing. What's wrong?
She stops mid-stride, looks at her phone, and starts to type. Three dots appear on my screen, disappear, appear again.
Lana: How long have you been watching?
Me: Twenty minutes. You came home, ordered Thai, and have been pacing for the last ten.
Lana: That's not creepy at all.
Me: You want me to stop watching?
The dots appear and disappear twice before her response comes through: No. But I want you to stop pretending you're doing it purely for professional reasons.
Fair. I type back: I'm watching because someone needs to make sure Ezra and his people don't escalate. But I'm also watching because I can't seem to stop thinking about you, and this is the closest I can get without violating the waiting agreement we made.
Lana: That's either very honest or very concerning.
Me: Probably both.
Lana: I've been thinking about the kiss. About what we said after. About waiting until the legal situation resolves.
My pulse kicks up. Me: And?
Lana: And I think we were right. About the timing being wrong. About not complicating things while Ezra is still threatening. But I also think waiting is going to kill me.
I stare at her message, trying to decode tone through text. The dots appear again.
Lana: I'm not saying we should ignore what we agreed. I'm just saying that every hour we wait feels like its own kind of torture. Like I'm back in that place where I'm not allowed to want things because wanting is dangerous.
Me: Wanting isn't dangerous. Acting without thinking about consequences is dangerous.
Lana: Says the man watching me through cameras.
Me: I never claimed to be good at taking my own advice.
Lana: Can you come over? Not for... I just want to see you. In person. Without screens between us.
Every operational instinct says this is a bad idea.
That seeing her when we're both running on two days of frustrated attraction and unresolved tension is exactly how boundaries get violated.
That Lucien's assessment about power imbalances and gravitational pull is correct, and I should maintain distance until the Ezra situation fully resolves.
But I'm already standing up from my chair, checking the time. Eleven-forty-seven. My shift ends at two, but the overnight monitor arrives at midnight for the handoff.
Me: I can be there by 12:30. Just to talk.
Lana: Just to talk.
Me: I mean it, Lana. We agreed to wait, and I'm not going to be the one who pushes past that boundary just because waiting is uncomfortable.
Lana: I know. That's why I trust you.
The words sit on my screen like an accusation.
Trust. The thing I've been trying to earn by confession and transparency and giving her control over surveillance she never asked for.
But trust built on protection and vulnerability is exactly what Lucien warned about—the kind that collapses once external threats resolve and people have space to think clearly.