Chapter 3 #2
I push the jeans down, wincing as the movement pulls at my stitched wound. The denim pools around my ankles, leaving me in nothing but black boxer briefs. The bathroom air chills my skin, raising goose bumps.
Aaiden focuses somewhere over my left shoulder. “Tell me where you’re hurt.”
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear. “Everywhere.”
Before he can respond, I strip away the final barrier, kicking aside my shoes and wet clothes. I stand before him naked, my body a weapon now, a challenge.
Look at me. See me.
The Heat-adjacent pulse thrums beneath my skin, amplifying the cool air, the lingering sting of antiseptic, and the burn of Aaiden’s eyes as they finally, finally drop to take me in.
His pupils dilate as my scent hits him full force. Unconstrained now, sweet and inviting, an Omega in pre-Heat calling to a strong Alpha.
As his.
Aaiden’s knuckles whiten as his fingers dig into his thighs. His pheromones change, growing heavier, muskier. The unmistakable scent of an Alpha responding to a compatible Omega.
It fills the small bathroom, mixing with my own scent to create something new and intoxicating, and for one breathless moment, I think I’ve won. That he’ll finally break.
Then, like a curtain falling, the mask slides back into place. His breathing evens out, and control reasserts itself through sheer force of will.
“No other significant injuries,” he says as he gathers the dirty wipes and walks over to the trash can, putting distance between us. “The cut on your thigh is superficial. It doesn’t need stitches.”
The cut he mentions is a shallow scratch on my outer thigh, already sealed. I dismiss it and step closer, pushing into his space again.
“Why do you pretend?” I demand. “I can smell what you’re feeling. Your control isn’t as perfect as you think.”
The muscle in Aaiden’s jaw works, the only sign of my words hitting their mark. “Your body is reacting to the trauma. My body is reacting to the same thing. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Bullshit.” I step closer until we stand almost chest to chest, forcing him to acknowledge me. “This started long before I was taken. You know it. I know it. Everyone in Rockford Manor knows it.”
His eyes meet mine, the green almost swallowed by black. “You’re injured. You’ve lost blood. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’ve never been clearer.” I reach out, not quite touching him, my hand hovering inches from his chest. “Admit it, just once, that you want this, too.”
The air between us thickens, charged with possibility. His pheromones spike, a heady rush that sends my head spinning, and my body responds in kind. My wound throbs in time with my pulse, but it’s distant now, secondary to the need building inside me.
Aaiden takes a deliberate step back. “Turn around. I need to check the rest of you for injuries.”
I laugh, the sound harsh in the tiled room. “Still playing doctor?”
“Still ensuring you don’t bleed out while under my care.”
I turn slowly, presenting my back to him in an act of trust I wouldn’t grant anyone else.
The mirror gives me a perfect view as his eyes travel down my spine, and his lips part on a slight pant.
He swallows hard when he reaches the curve of my ass, his hands lifting as if he might touch, but then they return to his side, fingers curling into a fist.
“You’re clean,” he says, rougher than before. “No additional wounds.”
I turn back to him, making no move to cover myself. “And your diagnosis, Doctor Rockford?”
Frustration, desire, and regret, all there and gone, locked away behind that impenetrable wall. “My diagnosis is that you need rest and fluids. And clothes.”
I stand my ground, naked and defiant. “And if I prefer to stay like this?”
“Your choice.” He steps around me, heading back to the sink. “But I’ve finished treating your wounds, and you need to eat something before you rest.”
The dismissal stings worse than the antiseptic. I should have learned my lesson from silly, childhood me.
As Aaiden washes his hands in the sink, his back to me, I catch his reflection in the mirror. His eyes close, his features twisting into a grimace of pain. His scent still fills the room, betraying what his words and actions deny.
It’s nowhere near what I want from him, but it’s at least proof that, beneath the control, the duty, and the distance, Aaiden Rockford is affected by me.
“Get dressed, Jade,” he says without turning. “There are clean clothes in the linen closet.”
I remain naked for another long moment, a final act of defiance, before grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
The sweats hang loose on my hips, the soft fabric a comfort for my hyper-sensitive skin.
I pull the T-shirt over my head, wincing as the movement pulls at my fresh stitches.
It’s too big, meant for an Alpha’s height and bulk, and the collar slips off one shoulder to expose my collarbone before I tug it back up.
When I turn around, all signs of Aaiden’s small lapse of desire have vanished, tucked away behind his wall of self-control. “Join me in the kitchen.”
Without waiting for my agreement, he strides out of the bathroom, expecting me to follow. And damn fool that I am, I do.
After the stink he made about me eating, I expect him to move straight to the fridge to check what the safe house has in stock. Instead, he goes to his jacket, which hangs on the back of a barstool next to an open toolbox, and he withdraws a crisp manila envelope.
He extends the folder without stepping closer. “Your schedule for tomorrow.”
I don’t take it. “My what?”
“Schedule.” He sets the folder on the counter between us when I make no move to accept it. “Training with Caleb at nine. Surveillance route at noon. New target briefing at three.”
I flip open the folder. Inside is a printed sheet with the Rockford Holdings letterhead at the top, listing each activity in fifteen-minute increments.
It’s formatted like an employee agenda, complete with locations and equipment requirements.
But what gives me pause is the last page.
It’s a revised list of targets, prioritized and annotated in Aaiden’s elegant handwriting.
My targets. My revenge list. Reorganized. Some names pushed to the bottom, others highlighted as priority. Two are crossed out with a note for insufficient evidence.
The rage builds slow and hot in my veins. “What the fuck is this?”
Aaiden remains impassive. “A more strategic approach. The crossed-out names are minor players with minimal involvement. Not worth the risk.”
“Not worth it to you.” My voice comes out dangerous. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do when it’s my resources being utilized,” he says with maddening reason. “My weapons. My security team running interference. My medical supplies patching you up afterward.”
I slam the folder shut. “No.”
A simple word. Flat. Final. Not open to negotiation.
Aaiden studies me. Then, without a word, he turns to the island where my weapons had been gathered from the entryway table and laid out.
My knife, still smeared with Mercer’s blood.
The backup blade from my ankle holster. My gun.
The garrote wire I keep braided into a bracelet.
Small, deadly tools that have become extensions of myself.
He gathers them one by one.
“What are you doing?” I demand, though I already know.
Aaiden doesn’t respond. He opens a metal case sitting on the island, lined with custom-cut foam. Each weapon has its place. He had this all prepared, expecting this confrontation.
My things settle into their designated slots, and he closes the lid. The click of the lock engaging echoes in the kitchen.
As final and irrevocable as my refusal from a moment ago.
The key disappears into the pocket of his expensive slacks.
Message received, loud and clear. No compliance, no weapons. No weapons, no revenge. “This isn’t a negotiation, Jade. You work with the family, you follow family protocol. That means vetted targets, approved methods, and proper backup.”
“Or what?” I challenge, staring at where the key rests in his pocket. “You’ll lock me in my room? Take away my toys?”
“Or you can leave.” He delivers the alternative without emotion, as if it’s a genuine option, and it stings. “The Rockford resources are available to you under specific conditions. You’re free to accept or decline those conditions. Tonight proved you’re too reckless to run missions on your own.”
My fingers twitch at my sides with the urge to reach for that key, to challenge him, to force this simmering tension to its breaking point. The Heat-adjacent pulse still thrums under my skin, making every nerve ending hypersensitive, every emotion bigger.
Aaiden catches the movement. Of course he does. And he stares at me in a silent dare. Try it.
There’s no question how it would end. Not with me getting the key, but with his hands on me, restraining me. With the barrier between us broken through conflict.
Maybe that’s what I want. To force his hand.
As if reading my thoughts, his fingers flex at his sides. “Make your choice, Jade.”
But it’s not a choice. It never has been. Not since my first Heat at fifteen when I realized whose scent called to me most, and he refused me.
I remain frozen, caught between defiance and the desire to stay close to Aaiden. My wound throbs with a reminder of what happens when I go my own way. Blood and pain and Aaiden’s hands putting me back together, but never touching.
Is that what I want? Freedom to bleed?
Or his approval, his resources, his protection, offered at the price of my autonomy?
The key sits in his pocket, there but unreachable.
Just like everything else I want from him.