Chapter Twenty-Five - Jessa
The twins are finally asleep, curled together in their new beds, the faint glow of a nightlight softening the edges of their faces. I stand in the doorway for a long time, watching the rise and fall of their chests, letting my heart slow, letting my anger simmer and settle.
Only when I’m sure they’re deep in dreams do I turn away, pulling the door nearly shut behind me. The rest of the house is too quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with the threat of something waiting just out of sight.
I pad down the hall, arms wrapped tight across my chest. My socks slide over polished wood as I keep to the edge of the carpet, trying to move silently, hoping to make it to the kitchen for a glass of water and a moment to breathe.
He’s there, waiting.
Markian stands at the far end of the hall, arms crossed, a shadow against the pale wall. He doesn’t move when he sees me; his eyes just track my every step.
I freeze. All that tension from before—the old terror, the newer fury—crashes over me again, an icy wave that leaves me breathless. I try to turn, to slip away, but his voice stops me cold.
“Why’d you run?” he asks, stepping closer. The question is quiet, more controlled than his usual thunder, but no less demanding. There’s a heaviness to it, a weight that makes it hard to swallow.
I press my lips together, refusing to answer. Not yet. Not like this. The old urge to hide, to shrink, claws at me, but I force myself to stay still, to meet his eyes. I can’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.
He closes the distance, slow and certain. His presence fills the hallway, the power of him almost physical.
“I brought you back because they need you,” he says, every syllable carved from ice. “I’ll take them, with or without your consent if I have to.”
My fury lights up—sudden, bright, uncontrollable. I snap before I can stop myself, voice sharp as broken glass.
“You said you were going to kill me, Markian. What choice did I have?” The words burn in my throat, years of fear and hurt suddenly laid bare. “Do you remember? Or do you forget things when it’s convenient for you?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, jaw clenched, gaze fixed on my face. The silence is worse than shouting. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t try to rewrite what he said, what he threatened. That silence is the part that hurts the most.
Tears sting my eyes, hot and unwanted. I clench my fists, trying to hold myself together, but my voice still shakes.
“Do you think I wanted this?” I whisper. “Do you think I wanted to raise them alone? With no help? With no idea if you’d show up one night and kill me in my sleep?”
My voice cracks, but I don’t look away. I refuse to look away. “I was terrified, Markian, and I still am. Every day.”
He studies me, eyes narrowed, searching for weakness or maybe just the truth. My fists tremble at my sides. The hallway feels too narrow, the air thick with the weight of everything we’ve never said.
Finally, something shifts in his gaze. The hardness drops away, just a little, and there’s a flicker of something else—regret, maybe. Or guilt. He takes a breath, his arms lowering, and when he speaks, his voice is rougher, lower. “I never meant for you to be alone.”
I let out a bitter laugh, tears slipping free. “You did. You left me with nothing but fear. You left me to wonder if the man I loved was still in there, or if he’d become something I had to hide from forever.”
He steps closer, his eyes searching mine, but I hold my ground. I wipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand, angry that I’m crying, angrier still that he’s seeing it.
“I was fighting for us,” he says, quieter. “For them. For a future.”
I shake my head. “You were fighting for control. When you couldn’t have it, you tried to destroy everything instead.” I swallow hard, voice breaking again. “You made me choose between their safety and your love. I chose them.”
His shoulders sag, his face raw with something I don’t recognize. Something soft, pained. “I never wanted to lose you.”
“You did,” I say, fierce and quiet. “And now we’re here.”
For a long moment, we just stand there, two people trapped by love and fear and a history that cuts us both to the bone. I see the regret in his eyes, the war inside him. He wants to reach for me. He wants forgiveness, maybe even a way back.
I can’t give him that, not when I still don’t know if I can trust the man I used to love.
His eyes don’t leave mine, and for a long, breathless moment we just stand in that narrow hallway, the old house creaking around us, the only sound the distant hush of wind against the glass. I want to look away, to break the connection, but I can’t. I’m tired of being the one who turns first.
The air between us feels sharp, every inch electric with things unsaid. I can feel him fighting himself, see the way his jaw works, the way his fists clench and unclench at his sides.
I swallow. “You don’t get to control everything, Markian,” I say, voice quiet but steady. “You can’t just take and take—”
He cuts me off with a glare, his mouth twisted, eyes narrowed. “Were you with anyone?” he demands, the words sudden, knife-edged, bitter.
I meet his stare head-on. The accusation stings, but I don’t hesitate. I shake my head once. “No.” I put every ounce of truth I have into that single word. “There was never anyone but you.”
That answer—my honesty, my defiance—breaks something open between us. His gaze drops to my lips, lingering, hungry. He takes a step closer, his hand rising to my waist, slow, almost uncertain.
I don’t move away. I don’t flinch.
He touches me, fingers finding the curve of my hip, and I can feel the tremor in his grip—control, barely held. For a split second I’m breathless, the world shrinking down to the heat of his hand, the hard line of his body.
Then he’s kissing me. It’s rough, urgent, desperate.
His mouth claims mine, and I melt into it, the years of longing and fury and fear all shattering.
He tastes like punishment and apology at once, a demand and a surrender tangled together.
My back hits the wall, the cold shock of it lost under the flood of his heat, his hands everywhere—pulling me closer, pushing my shirt up, gripping my hips so tight it aches.
“God, Jessa,” he mutters against my throat, his voice ragged as he bites down gently, his teeth grazing my skin. “You drive me fucking insane.”
I gasp his name, nails clawing at his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted and feared. There’s nothing gentle about him now—no slow seduction, no coaxing tenderness. He’s all hunger and regret, all the things we lost and never got to finish.
His hand slides between my thighs, the rough calluses scraping along my skin, pushing my skirt up until I’m open for him, bare and aching. I arch against him, feeling the hard, urgent press of him through his slacks, the way he growls into my mouth when I roll my hips.
He fumbles with his belt, impatient, desperate, never breaking the kiss. His other hand tangles in my hair, tipping my head back so he can taste my throat, my collarbone, every inch he can reach. I feel wild—out of control, unmoored—like I might break apart if he lets go. I know he won’t.
When he finally pushes into me, it’s fast, rough, the kind of possession that leaves marks and bruises and memories you can’t ever shake.
My back scrapes the wall, my legs trembling as he fills me, as he claims me all over again, not as an apology but as a promise. Mine, always mine, never anyone else’s.
I moan into his mouth, the sound half sob, half plea, my body already climbing, already falling, lost in the sensation of him, the way he fits against me, inside me, like we were always meant for this.
He groans, a broken, helpless sound, his hands everywhere, his mouth devouring mine, as if he can’t get enough, as if he’s afraid I might disappear all over again.
“Jessa,” he whispers, my name a curse and a prayer, “don’t ever run from me again.”
I shudder, nails digging into his back, biting at his shoulder. “Don’t give me a reason to,” I whisper back, raw and desperate.
He slams into me harder, faster, the sound of our bodies colliding echoing down the empty hall. There’s nothing careful about him, nothing gentle, but I don’t want gentle. I want this. I want the fire and the ache, the madness of it, the way we destroy and remake each other with every breath.
I come apart in his arms, a shattering wave that leaves me sobbing into his shoulder, clinging to him as he thrusts through it, riding out his own release seconds later, his mouth hot on my neck, his breath wild and uneven.
For a long moment we just stand there, bodies pressed together, his head bowed over my shoulder, my hands trembling as they trace the back of his neck. The anger, the fear, the years of heartbreak, they all burn away, leaving only the raw, aching truth of us.
When he finally pulls back, he searches my face. His eyes are dark, vulnerable, stripped bare. I touch his cheek, thumb tracing a new scar above his lip, and for the first time in years, I see the man I once loved and lost.
We don’t say anything. There are no words for this kind of surrender.
As I rest my head against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart, I know we’ve burned down everything old and made something new from the ash.