16. Jayson
JAYSON
I heard every word.
I didn’t mean to. But the second I realized Nina was talking about me, I stopped moving and started listening. And then Keira spoke.
Tell me about Jayson.
I should’ve respected the line between eavesdropping and unraveling and just left. But I didn’t. I stood there, tucked into the shadow of the hall just beyond the doorway, jaw clenched, heart racing in a way it hasn’t in years. And I listened while Nina laid me bare with a voice full of memory.
He wasn ’ t always like this.
The boy she described—too much heart, not enough armor—I used to know him.
Then I buried him. But Keira… she makes me remember he existed.
And now she’s sitting in my grandmother’s favorite room like she belongs there, wrapped in firelight and silence, and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
I step into the room without a word.
Keira looks up, startled—but not afraid. She holds my gaze.
Her black hair tumbles over one shoulder in soft, lazy waves, catching the light in strands that glint almost blue. Her skin— smooth, sun-kissed, the color of warm honey—glows in the light, and it makes the delicate curve of her cheekbones and the slope of her throat look almost unreal.
There’s something old-Hollywood about her. Like a 1950s bombshell. But she doesn’t wear it loud—it’s quieter. Innocent, almost. A kind of beauty that doesn’t have to try. It just exists, stubborn and soft and devastating.
Her eyes—almond-shaped, wide, dark brown and too damn knowing—haven’t smiled in my direction once.
And yet, I can’t move. Because there’s something about the way she holds herself in silence that keeps pulling me back.
And I don’t know if it’s fascination or guilt or something darker.
But whatever it is—it’s sharp. And it’s sunk deep into my soul.
Nina catches sight of me and offers a half-smile that carries far too much meaning. “I’ll leave you two,” she says, smoothing down the front of her cardigan.
And then she’s gone, shutting the door behind her like she just handed me a grenade with the pin pulled.
I don’t say anything at first. I just take her in. She’s curled into the armchair, looking warm from the fire, her damp hair swept over one shoulder, skin pink from her shower. Her dark eyes—sharp, searching, soft when she doesn’t mean them to be—follow me as I move across the room.
I sit down opposite her, my body sinking into the chair like I’ve been holding the weight of too much for too long.
She watches me without speaking. So I break the silence first.
“You’re still here,” I comment.
Her brow lifts. “Shouldn’t I be?”
I smirk, slow and wry. “You didn’t run. Again .”
She shrugs, eyes flicking toward the fire, lashes casting shadows across her cheekbones. “Maybe I’ll try again once the leg’s better. ”
There’s no apology in her voice. Just that same sharp edge beneath the softness, like silk pulled taut over a blade.
I watch her in the quiet. The way the firelight dances along her skin. The way her mouth curves—defiant, tired, beautiful. The way her presence warps the space around us, makes the silence feel thicker , like the room itself is holding its breath.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the fire between us—crackling, whispering. She watches me. Quiet. Waiting. And I feel it. Not just in my chest, but deeper—in my blood, my bones, the sharp pull low in my gut. It coils there, slow and steady, warning and desire all tangled up in one.
I’m closer than I meant to be. Leaning in without meaning to.
Drawn to her like something magnetic and dangerous—like gravity with a knife in its teeth.
She brings something alive in me. And maybe that’s the problem.
Because I’ve spent the last ten years burying anything that felt even remotely human.
And now here she is—burning at the edges, wrecking my rules without even trying. And I don’t want her to stop.
“And maybe I’ll catch you again,” I murmur.
She looks at me then—really looks. No fear, no coyness. Just that spark of something I can’t put a name to but already want too much of.
“I’m starting to think you want me to run,” she says, voice low.
Heat curls low in my gut. “Only so I have a reason to chase you.”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, but it cuts just the same. “And what would you do if you caught me this time?”
I lean in, slow. Controlled. Dangerous.
“That depends,” I say. “Would you fight me?”
She doesn’t answer.
And that silence? It’s the loudest yes I’ve ever heard.
I rise slowly, needing space—needing air—and take a few measured steps away from her. She doesn’t move. Just watches me, gaze sweeping over my face like she’s trying to read the cracks beneath the surface. Like if she stares long enough, she’ll figure out where my mind’s gone.
I lean my shoulder against the stone wall, arms crossed. “You always this mouthy with men who hold your freedom in one hand and your ankle in the other?"
She smirks, sharp as broken glass. “Only the ones who like to pretend they’re the warden and not the prisoner.”
That one lands right in the ribs, too close to home. I laugh—just once, low and dark.
“Careful,” I murmur, eyes narrowing. “Keep talking like that and I might start to think you enjoy being locked up.”
“Maybe I do.” She tilts her head. “Better the monster you know, right?”
God, she’s infuriating. Brilliant. Stubborn. And so fucking close to dangerous it makes my blood move differently in my veins.
I take a slow step forward. Not enough to touch her, but just enough for her to feel the tension shift.
“Sounds like you know a thing or two about monsters,” I say.
“I’ve known my share.”
She’s known her share of monsters.
The words land like a blast of cold, icy air. Not because I think she’s lying—but because I know she isn’t.
It’s in the way she ran—on a busted ankle, with no shoes, into a dark forest thick with everything that could kill her—and still thought it was better than being near me.
She’s seen monsters.
And still, she sits there, watching me like she hasn’t decided which kind I am yet.
And that—that’s the part that fucks with my head .
Because I know I’m so much worse. Killer. Cleaner. I could be her worst nightmare come to life.
I’ve been a weapon for men more monstrous than me. I’ve made peace with blood and silence and doing the things no one else will. I know exactly what I am.
But when she says it— “I’ve known my share of monsters” —I hear the accusation hanging in the air like a loaded gun: Are you one of them, Jayson?
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure I want the answer to be yes.
Because when she looks at me—really sees me—it’s not fear I see in her eyes.
It’s not even hatred. It’s curiosity . Like she’s already decided I’m not the worst villain in her story…
yet. As though she’s still holding out hope there’s more under the surface.
And that scares me more than her running ever did.
Because the truth is…if she ever calls me a monster to my face, I think I’ll believe her. And far worse—I think I’ll want to prove her wrong.
I take another step closer. She doesn’t flinch. She’s not afraid of me; she just keeps watching me with those steady, flame-fed eyes like she knows exactly how this ends—and isn’t sure she minds.
“You keep testing my patience,” I say, voice low and hot, “and one day you’re going to push too far.”
“It would be interesting to see what ‘too far’ looks like on you.”
I stare at her. She stares back. And for a second—just one—we’re not captor and captive. Not enemies. Just two people wound too tightly, orbiting the same sharp gravity, waiting for one of us to snap first.
“Time to go to sleep, I think,” I say, voice hoarse.
She arches a brow. “A little early, don’t you think? ”
“No,” I say, reaching for the door. “You’ve overstayed your welcome in the main house.”
What I don’t say—what I can’t say—is that I’m not sure what I’ll do if we stay in this room much longer. Not with the way she’s looking at me. Not with the way I feel her, even when she’s not touching me.
She gets up slowly, favoring her bad leg, and starts toward the hallway. I follow. Close. Too close.
Halfway through the doorframe, she glances back over her shoulder, a spark flickering in her eyes—something amused, something dangerous. “I could always leave the house altogether,” she says, grinning.
I pause. “Somehow, I don’t think you’re in any rush to leave.”
She stops walking, leans in just enough that I feel her breath at my collar. “It’s that obvious?”
I tilt my head, barely suppressing the smirk tugging at my mouth. “Painfully.”
A beat of silence falls—but it’s not empty. It’s dense . Charged.
The kind that tightens the air, makes the space between us feel too small, too hot.
I glance at her lips. Quick. Unthinking. A mistake.
She notices.
Her lips part—just slightly. Just enough.
And I look away, jaw tight, pulse slamming against bone. If I touch her now, I won’t stop. And if she touches me, I’ll let her. And we’re not ready for that kind of ruin.
The house is silent as we move through it—each floorboard groaning beneath our steps like it’s ready to surrender its secrets to anyone who dares listen. The warmth of the upstairs fades with each step down, swallowed by the chill of stone and solitude.
When we reach the basement, I unlock the door and open it, motioning for her to go ahead. She pauses only once—right at the threshold—before slipping inside without a word.
I follow her in. The air down here is colder. Less forgiving. Like it remembers things I’d rather forget.
She moves to the bench without being told and perches on the edge. Her hair falls over her shoulder, hiding her face as she looks down at her hands folded in her lap.
I hate the way this room eats her up.
How the shadows seem to cling to her like they’ve claimed her. As though they’ve decided she belongs down here with the dust and the cold and the silence. And I hate it even more that she’s growing used to it.
She moves through this basement like it’s a familiar space now - folding herself into the cage I built for her.
There’s no resistance to be here, and that unsettles me more than anything. It makes something twist in my gut—dark, heavy, and sharp. Because if this is what she’s surrendering to… what the hell is out there that she’s so unwilling to return to?
What’s waiting for her beyond these walls that makes this—a basement, a cage, me —feel safer?
And if I’m being honest with myself, that question’s been clawing at the edges of my mind since the first night I pointed a gun at her and she didn’t so much as twitch.
What kind of girl meets death with steady hands and tired eyes? What kind of life teaches her that monsters can be predictable—and that cages can be comfort?
I glance at her now—her profile softened by the dim light, arms wrapped around her middle like she’s trying to hold herself together. She doesn’t look at me. But I know she feels me watching .
Without a word, I step back toward the door, hand brushing the frame. I should turn the key. I should lock her in and walk away.
But something snags in my throat—a sharp, invisible thing I don’t know how to name.
It could be guilt or grief. Perhaps it’s both, twisted together so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
All I know is there’s a shadow curled deep in my chest, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to scrape it out.
I can’t move. Then just as I’m about to force myself to, her voice cuts through the silence—quiet, but sharp enough to stop me cold.
“Jayson.”
I turn halfway. She’s standing now, her fingers wrapped around the bars of the door. Her knuckles white, her voice steady. She pauses, swallows hard. Her eyes meet mine. Wide. Dark. Haunted.
I stare at her, every muscle in my body locked tight.
She shrugs like she regrets saying anything, like she’s trying to roll it back already.
“Thank you,” she adds, softer. “For the shower.”
She’s thanking me for what is the most basic of human necessities. I am her captor - and she is thanking me for what should be her God given right.
I step closer—just enough that the space between us hums again.
She lets go of the bars, hand falling to her side.
I want to reach for her, but I don’t. Because if I touch her, I won’t be able to let go. Instead, I nod once.
“I’ll leave the lights on.”
It’s nothing. But she nods anyway. And as I close the door behind me, I don’t lock it right away.
I stand there, my hand hovering over the key. Listening. Breathing. Breaking, quietly. Then I turn the lock. Because I don’t trust myself if I don’t.