18. Jayson
JAYSON
T he moment Kanyan’s taillights vanish down the drive, I shove the door shut behind me and drag in a breath that feels like glass.
Then I roar.
It tears out of me—raw, animal, too big for the hallway’s narrow walls. The old windowpanes tremble; dust flutters from the chandelier like dead moths. I double over, palms on my knees, lungs burning.
Tap … tap … tap.
The cane’s rhythm slices through my pulse. I lift my head.
Nina stands on the wide landing above the staircase, shoulders straight, silver hair coiled like a crown.
Sunlight from the high window rims her black dress, turns the pearl buttons into small, cold stars.
For one dizzy second, I’m twelve again—mud on my shoes, fear in my throat, her steady hands hiding me from Father’s rage.
Then the memory cracks and I remember: I left her. Ten years of silence. Ten years of nothing she never asked for. Her only living blood, aside from my father, and I left her.
Something in her gaze softens—just a flicker, a muscle twitch by her mouth—but it’s gone before it settles. She starts down, cane tapping the tempo of judgment.
I push upright, spine locking. “How long?” My voice scrapes. “How long have you and Kanyan De Scarzi known each other?”
She reaches the bottom step, meets my eyes, defiant and unwavering. “Long enough to know he comes when I call.”
The admission punches the air from my chest. “You put me on his radar?—”
“I kept you on it,” she corrects, calm as winter. “A different thing entirely.”
“Why?” The word detonates from my throat. “So he could walk in here and order me to kill the girl?”
Nina’s chin lifts, proud, unyielding. “To make sure you’re strong enough to do what needs to be done when you take your place.”
“We’ve talked about this,” I growl.
“Ten years ago?” she fires back. “You’ve been gone ten long years, Jayson! It’s time!”
I flinch—because it lands. Every body, every cleanup, every quiet grave flashes behind my eyes.
She steps off the final stair and moves closer, cane whispering over the boards. “You’ve been gone a decade, Jayson. Did you truly believe I wasn’t watching? That I wouldn’t care what became of my only grandchild?”
“You’re not supposed to be part of this life.” My voice breaks around the edges. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this.”
“And yet you brought ‘this’ here,” she says, eyes shining. “Now here we are. I’m a businesswoman, Jayson. Before anything else. It made all the sense in the world to shake hands with Dante Accardi and somehow keep you tethered to this family. Even if you didn’t know.”
The hallway feels too small, walls crowding. I rake a hand through my hair, bite down on the tremor in my chest. “You should have stayed out of it.”
“Well, I didn’t. I won’t.”
“Kanyan wants the girl dead.”
“Kanyan wants certainty,” she answers. “Give it to him.”
“How?” It’s almost a plea. “I can’t kill her?—”
“You don’t have to,” she says, soft but immovable. “There’s another way.”
“From where I’m standing, there’s no other way,” I rasp. “I can’t turn her loose—and I can’t keep her buried in that basement forever.”
Nina lifts a hand to my cheek, fingertips delicate yet unyielding. Her touch lands like a benediction and a brand.
“There is another way,” she murmurs, voice softer than the storm in my chest. “Claim her. Make her your wife.”
My laugh is hollow. “That’s your solution? Strap her to my life so she can’t testify?”
“Spousal privilege will silence any courtroom,” Nina says. “It will also prove to the families that you value order over chaos. It keeps you breathing.”
“And her?” I whisper.
“That, child,” she says, laying a hand over my heart, “is where you finally choose what kind of man you are.”
Memories flood: Keira’s mud-streaked face, her reckless leap from the window, the spark in her eyes when she dared me to chase her. The sound of her laugh—rare, surprised—wrapping barbed wire around something soft inside me.
“You’re asking me to become Father,” I say, voice trembling.
“I’m asking you not to die his death,” she counters. “Use the power he worshiped, but bend it your way.”
Silence stretches between us—dense, electric. Dust motes spin in the slanting light like slow sparks .
Finally I nod once. Not agreement—recognition of the crossroads.
She cups my cheek—fingers frail, heart iron, before she turns, cane tapping back up the stairs. Each step sounds like a ticking clock.
I watch her go until she disappears into the shadows.
Control. Nina says I’ve always had it.
But the weight of it feels like a loaded gun in my own mouth.
I draw a breath that tastes of dust and regret—and head for the basement.
Whatever I decide, the next time I face Kanyan, I’ll have an answer.
One that’ll make the families sleep soundly.
Or make the whole damn house burn.
Keira’s sitting on the bench, one leg stretched out, foot propped on a pillow. Her hair’s a mess—wiry strands falling across her cheek, lips dry, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. But it’s not fear in them.
It’s fury.
I step inside. Let the door close behind me. No more barriers. No more pretending we haven’t reached the point of no return.
She watches me like I’m another bad decision in a long line of them.
“What now?” she spits, arms crossing. “Come to chain me to the floor this time?”
I don’t answer right away. I just look at her. Really look. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The shadows under her eyes. The bruised pride leaking out between every breath. Even in anger, she’s beautiful .
I don’t want to say the words. But I’ve never wanted her to die, either.
And right now, those are the only two options on the table.
I stand just inside the door, hands fisted at my sides, words curdling on my tongue.
There’s no gentle way to say this, no polite euphemism for the blade I’m about to press to her throat. So I rip the bandage off.
“The only way you’re getting out of this basement, Keira,” I tell her, slow and deliberate, “is either in a body bag… or as my bride.”
For a second, she blinks. Then laughs. Sharp. Short. Almost disbelieving.
“You’re joking.”
I don’t move. I don’t smile. And my silence is all the confirmation she could possibly need.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, her voice rising. “You’re actually fucking serious.”
She gets up too fast—wincing as her leg reminds her she’s still healing—but she pushes through it, fury turning her into something radiant and wild. Her hands go to her hips, her chest rising and falling fast. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes dark and vicious.
“I don’t even know which part is more fucked up,” she snaps. “That you said it. That you mean it. Or that you think that’s a choice.”
“You do have a choice.”
“No, Jayson,” she spits. “What you just gave me was not a choice. It was a threat, neat and tidy. Don’t try to dress it up as something it’s not.” She circles me, a wounded predator, voice trembling with adrenaline. “Marry my kidnapper or die? Is that the fairy-tale you’re peddling today?”
“No,” I say quietly. “It’s the only way I can protect you.”
She narrows her eyes at me, teeth bared.
“From who? From you?” Her voice cracks, but her rage doesn’t.
She moves toward me—limping, but refusing to look weak.
She shoves me, palms to my chest. “Maybe I don’t want your protection!
” She rakes a hand through her hair, breathing hard, then turns away before I can see the tears forming in her eyes.
“If they decide you’re a liability,” I say, quieter, “they’ll erase you. I can’t overrule them forever.”
She stops pacing, braces a hand on the wall like the room is tilting. “Then find another way, Jayson. Make me disappear somewhere. I’ll leave, never show my face here again…”
“There is no other way,” I grind out. “Spousal privilege makes you untouchable. They will always respect that.”
“Oh, the sacred code ,” she mocks, limping toward me. “Thou shalt not kill women—unless it’s inconvenient. Then hand them off for a forced marriage—nice loophole.”
I flinch because she isn’t wrong. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“No—you’re trying to keep yourself from pulling the trigger,” she fires back. “Big difference.”
It’s painful for me to suck in air as I try to digest her words. “You think I want this? Marriage isn’t my first choice, either!”
Her face softens for half a second—pity or disbelief, I don’t know—and then steels herself again. “You’re a professional, Jayson. Find another way.”
“I don’t want you to end up like your father,” I whisper.
Pain flashes behind her fire, and her posture falters. She hates me, but she hates what he was more. That paradox lives in her eyes every time she looks at me.
She limps forward, her hands are fists now, pounding at my chest like she wants to break through it. I let her hit me again. And again.
“I should’ve let you kill me,” she whispers.
She goes for another strike—but her leg gives out. She stumbles forward, and I catch her without thinking .
My arms wrap around her waist, her breath hitching as her body collides with mine. Her fists are trapped between us. Her cheek brushes my collarbone. And for one heart-hammering second, we’re not enemies. We’re something else entirely.
Something hotter. Heavier. Dangerous in a different way.
Her breathing slows, but her fingers don’t move. They’re still clutching my shirt.
“You fight like you’ve got nothing left,” I murmur into the space between us. “But you do. You still have this choice.”
She pulls back just far enough to glare up at me, eyes swimming with hate and something too raw to name.
“I’d rather die than be your wife.”
I lower my head, our mouths too close. “Somehow, I don’t think you’re ready to die, Keira.”
Silence hums between us. Her chest rises against mine. Her lips part—to scream, to speak—but nothing comes out.
I nod slowly. “That’s what I thought.”
I help her back to the bench. She doesn’t resist, but she won’t look at me either.
I walk to the door. Hand on the handle, I glance back.
“I’ll give you time to think,” I say. “But not forever. The world’s closing in, Keira. And if you think I’m not trying to save you—then you really haven’t been paying attention.”
She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t throw anything at me either.
And that—that feels dangerously like a maybe.