44. Jayson
JAYSON
K eira’s body is warm against mine, her back pressed to my chest. My arm is hooked loosely around her waist, fingers splayed against the silk of her skin like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I let go.
I breathe her in—vanilla, skin, a soft lavender scent that clings to her like a fucking halo.
I should sleep. God knows I need it. But sleep feels like a privilege lately, and I’m not sure I can afford to close my eyes and miss a moment of her heartbeat.
Keira shifts in her sleep, ass brushing my thigh, and I swear under my breath. Not from arousal—though God knows that’s a given—but from the way my chest aches. This is intimacy, and it terrifies me more than a bullet ever could.
Her body is so soft. Not just the skin, not just the curves that fold perfectly into mine, but the way she lets me hold her. Like I’m not a fucking monster. Like I’m someone she trusts to keep her safe.
I don’t trust myself that much.
My thumb strokes idly along her stomach, just beneath the hem of her top.
She makes a small, broken sigh in her sleep, the kind that carves me in half.
Her pain seeps in through the cracks in the walls I built around her.
A whimper. A twitch. The way she sometimes curls in on herself when she thinks I’m not looking.
I want to fight her demons for her. Slaughter every last one. But some of them wear my face. Some of them were born the day I dragged her from the world she knew and chained her to mine.
She stirs again, murmurs something I can’t catch. I nuzzle the back of her neck, whispering, ‘I’ve got you’, and she settles.
And just when I think I can finally let the weight behind my eyes pull me under—the world breaks apart in an instant.
One second, I’m lying beside her—her warmth a balm I don’t deserve—and the next, the alert flares red across the security panel by the bed. Multiple breaches at the perimeter. Not one or two. Multiple.
Fuck.
I don’t think. I move.
Sheets fly. My feet hit the floor soundless and sharp. I’m already reaching beneath the dresser for the Glock and my hunting knife. My thumb flicks the safety of the gun before I tuck the knife into the hem of my pants.
Behind me, Keira stirs, her breath catching in that half-sleep panic that knows something is wrong.
“Jayson?” Her voice is hoarse, terrified.
“Shh.” I glance back, only for a second. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown. She looks so small in my bed, in my world. So damn breakable. “You need to listen to me, baby. Don’t be scared, but you have to follow my instructions. Right now.”
She’s already sitting up, wrapping the sheet around her like armor. “What’s happening?”
“The ground’s have been breached.” I say it too fast, too calm. My voice has gone cold. Detached. The killer part of me is taking over .
Keira’s already shaking her head, panic rising. “Then I’m not leaving you?—”
“You are,” I growl, crossing the room in three strides and grabbing her by the waist. She tries to fight, shoving at my chest, but she’s shaking. “Keira. I am not fucking asking. You want to help me? You want to survive this? Then do as I say.”
She stills at the edge in my voice. The lethal urgency.
“Where am I going?” she whispers.
“The basement.” I throw on a black thermal, no time for gear. My blood’s running faster than my breath. “There’s a trapdoor behind the breaker panel. No one knows it’s there but me. Even if they come for you, they won’t find you.”
“Who, Jayson? If who comes for me?”
“You stay in there. You don’t come out until I get you. Not if you hear gunfire. Not if you hear screaming. You don’t come out for anything.”
She hesitates. And that hesitation? It could get her killed. So I scoop her into my arms—light as breath, fragile as hope—and carry her.
She clutches my shoulders, nails biting into my skin. “Jayson?—”
“I’ve got you,” I hiss, already descending the stairs. Every shadow outside the windows moves like a threat. Every camera’s gone dark and I may as well be flying blind.
She buries her face in my neck as I take the service passag that leads to the basement. My bare feet are silent on the old wood. My heart is a war drum in my throat.
She feels like silk in my arms. Warm. Real. A reminder of what I stand to lose. I could count the times I’ve held someone like this on one bloodstained hand, and I don’t intend to lose her.
We reach the basement. The hum of the backup generator in the corner buzzes against my eardrums like static as I set her down.
I kick the breaker box. It swings open.
“Holy shit,” Keira breathes as I twist the latch and lift the false floor panel. It’s small, padded, lightproof. A coffin for the living.
“Get in,” I say.
“Jayson—”
“Keira.” Her name breaks out of me like a gunshot. “There are men out there who won’t hesitate. Who don’t care about hurting women. Men who will not so much as blink if you scream.
Her lip trembles. But she nods.
She crawls inside. Pulls the blanket around herself. I hand her the emergency comm—a one-way link to my earpiece.
“You don’t talk unless I talk first. You don’t come out unless I come for you. You hear gunfire? You pray it’s me winning.”
Tears brim in her eyes, but she whispers, “Okay.”
I kiss her once. Hard. Fast. As if it’s the last.
“Lock it,” I say.
Then I slam the panel shut, and a moment later—the floor convulses beneath me, like the earth itself is gagging on violence.
A dull BOOM punches through the house—followed by the deep-bellied groan of wood and steel under stress. Dust rains from the ceiling like ash, lightbulbs flickering like they’re blinking out their final prayers.
I’ve known war. I've danced with death. But this? This is my home. And they just made it personal.
I spin on instinct, bare feet thudding up the stairs. The house moans around me like a wounded beast—windows cracking, alarms dead, power pulsing erratic. Another blast hits—closer this time. Designed to disorient .
I hear footsteps, followed by low voices. Foreign accents sweeping room to room, methodical.
They’re here to create maximum damage. Or worse—take her.
Not fucking happening.
I flatten to the wall at the landing, gun cocked. Breath steady. I wait. Count. Three... two... The first one rounds the corner. He’s a tall Russian in a tactical vest. He has a silencer-equipped Glock raised in my direction.
I fire once. One shot straight to his temple. His head jerks to the side, body crumpling like a dropped marionette. I don’t have time to think. I move, snatching his weapon as I go.
A second man storms into view, gun half-raised. He’s too slow; my trained eyes zoom in and I rush him before he has a chance to exhale.
We collide in a tangle of limbs. He’s strong, but I’m faster—my knife finds his ribs, plunges in with a wet crack.
Once. Twice. His scream gurgles into silence.
I twist the blade for good measure before slamming his head into the marble post at the stairwell.
Once. Twice. A third time. Bone cracks like thunder, and blood fans out across the bannister in chaotic, brutal strokes—violence painted in red.
I shove the body aside. My chest heaves. Blood runs slick down my arm—his, not mine.
Keira. Basement. Hidden. Safe.
I whisper it like a goddamn mantra, because if I lose focus for even a second, they’ll find her. And if they touch her?—
No. They won’t.
I stalk through the hallway, every step calculated. I’m hunting now. A wolf in his own den. Then—there’s more gunfire. Automatic. From the far end of the corridor.
The third wave hits hard. Two men this time.
M4s. Suppressed, but still loud enough to know they’re not here to fuck around.
They fire in bursts—walls splintering, glass shattering.
One bullet clips my shoulder, grazing flesh.
Pain flares hot, but I shove it down. Pain’s a distraction. Rage is a weapon.
I duck behind the column just as a fresh burst of gunfire tears through the hallway. Bullets rip through drywall, pulverizing it into a white storm. Plaster rains down on me like ash from a burning cathedral. The sharp sting of grit scrapes across my cheek, blinding my left eye.
My breath saws in and out—tight, measured. Every inhale tastes like dust and gunpowder. I roll my shoulder, testing the slice from earlier—burning, but manageable. Pain’s not the threat. Hesitation is.
I shift, slow and silent, pressing my back to the cold marble. Boots thud against the hardwood floors, drawing closer. Controlled. Coordinated.
They're not panicking yet. Good. That means they’re still underestimating me.
My good eye narrows. I track the rhythm of their shots—the way the muzzle flashes strobe across the opposite wall. Short bursts. Controlled sprays. Professional. But even trained killers have to reload.
I count the seconds. Listen for the telltale click. That half-second pause in the orchestra of chaos.
There it is. Magazine change.
I pivot out from behind the column, rifle raised. My stance is solid, breath locked. Pop. Pop. Pop. Three controlled shots. No wasted movement. No time to think.
The first round hits the lead man dead-center in the forehead. His head snaps back like it’s been yanked by a string, helmet flying off. Blood fountains upward in a crimson arc before he crashes backward—dead before he hits the floor.
The second man stumbles, eyes wide, arms flailing for cover. Too late. The third bullet buries itself in his throat. He makes a strangled noise—half scream, half gurgle—and falls against the wall, dragging bloody smears down the wallpaper as he slides to the floor.
I don’t stop moving. No time to admire the carnage. No time to feel.
I charge forward—gun up, jaw clenched, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch its way through my ribs.
I barely have time to register the silence before it fractures. A whisper of movement. So soft I almost miss it. A breeze where there should be stillness. A breath not mine. My instincts scream. I spin—and he’s just there.
Not one of the four I killed. This one’s different. Bigger. Older. Dressed in matte-black tactical gear with no insignia, no comms. His face is painted, half-shadowed. No emotion. No hesitation.
His presence slices through the carnage like a scalpel. A ghost. A cleaner. The kind of man you send when you want no bodies found.
I raise my gun, but I’m too late.
He knocks it aside with brutal precision, slams a gloved fist into my ribs. I grunt—feel something crack—but I stay on my feet. He moves fast for his size. Trained. Unshakable.
But I’ve danced with death longer than he’s been paid to pretend to be it.
I throw a hook. He deflects. Grabs my arm and twists—nearly dislocates it—but I drive my elbow into his throat with my free hand. He staggers back, and I launch at him, shoulder first, slamming him through the side table in the foyer. Glass and wood splinters explode outward.
We grapple. Close. Ugly.
He headbutts me—stars explode behind my eyes—but I don’t let go.
This isn’t sparring. This is a death match .
He lands a knife-hand blow to my neck and almost drops me. I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist until he howls. He tries to draw a blade from his belt, but I kick it away, then punch—once, twice, three times—until his jaw dislocates and teeth fly loose like dice on a casino floor.
Blood pours down his chin. Still, he comes at me. Relentless.
I slam him against the wall. The drywall cracks. His head hits the frame of the door hard enough to leave a dent.
“Who the fuck sent you?” I growl.
He doesn’t answer. He tries to bite. I slam his head again. And again. And again. Until his body finally slumps. Until the only thing left in his eyes is nothing.
I let go. Let him drop. His body folds into itself like trash. Heavy. Lifeless.
My hands are shaking now—not from fear. From fury. From restraint. Because if this one slipped through undetected… what else has?
Keira. Fuck. Keira.
I stumble back, chest heaving, blood in my eyes, in my mouth, in my fucking soul.
Five men. Five bodies. And I don’t know how many more there are.