Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Beaumont
Becky
The voices are louder by the time I slip out of the office and onto the landing, carrying up through the open space below in quick bursts. Not conversation, an argument?
I move silently, keeping to the shadows, my fingers tightening around the wooden railing as I lean out enough to see.
The living room is full. At least ten. Maybe more. Crowding in close, their bodies forming a loose circle around something at the center.
Not something. Someone.
A boy.
He’s younger than the others. Softer. Rounded cheeks, a scattering of acne across his face. He’s hunched in on himself, shoulders pulled in, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
Leaning over him is a much bigger man.
Handsome, but in a deliberately polished way instead of easy.
Dark blond hair cut close, spiked into a perfect crew cut.
A black T-shirt, neatly pressed. Not a wrinkle in sight.
Dark jeans and belt. He holds himself rigid.
Almost militant. I recognize him from my newspaper articles, all my research.
Jackson Beaumont.
His father is a Senator, his family nearly as influential as the Ashfords used to be.
His lip curls into a sneer. “You fucked with my stuff.”
The boy flinches like he’s been hit, his feet slipping against the floor as he tries to pull back, but there’s nowhere for him to go. Bodies box him in on all sides.
“I didn’t!” the boy insists, voice cracking. “I promise, I didn’t touch anything—”
The bigger man stands close enough that the boy has to tilt his head back.
“You shouldn’t have touched it,” he says.
“Yeah, don’t mess with Jackson’s shit,” echoes one of the watching men.
“No,” the boy says, weaker now. “I don’t even—”
Jackson’s hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of the boy’s shirt and yanking him to his feet. A few of the guys shift as the circle draws tighter around them.
No one steps in.
My fingers clench on the railing.
Jackson leans in, close enough that whatever he says next doesn’t carry up to me, but I don’t need to hear the words to know it’s bad. It’s written all over the younger boy’s face. The way his color drains. The way his mouth opens, then closes again.
Jackson hits him.
A short, clean punch to the face. The boy cries out, folding at the waist, hands flying to his nose, but they don’t stop the blood spilling through his fingers onto the rug below.
The same maroon pattern as the one under my feet.
“Please,” he mumbles.
Another punch thuds into his side, the dull oof of it forcing the air from his lungs. He lists sideways, barely catching himself before he goes down.
I turn to the others, expecting someone to step forward and stop it.
This isn’t a fight. There’s no back and forth. No fairness.
But no one moves. They watch with hunger in their eyes, like they wish it were their fists throwing the punches. I don’t understand how they can just stand there and watch.
Then I see it. This isn’t anger or curiosity. It’s conformity. They crave the violence because it’s expected, because participating, even as a spectator, keeps them part of the pack. Keeps them safe. Step out of line, and you risk being the next body slammed to the ground.
“You think I wouldn’t notice?” Jackson says.
The boy shakes his head quickly, panic breaking through. “I didn’t take anything. I didn’t—”
“I didn’t say you took it.”
The words are a trap snapping shut.
The boy freezes.
Even from up here, I feel the sudden stillness, the way the room seems to inhale, every movement paused. The other men stay motionless, all eyes glued to the spectacle.
Jackson leans in, eyes narrowed, inspecting him like a specimen. “Do you even know what you’re lying about?”
The boy’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
My grip on the railing slips, my palm damp against the wood.
The boy is holding his breath, and I am too. His eyes shine, wet, blinking hard against tears. I see it. How close he is to breaking.
Jackson grabs the boy by the front of his shirt, dragging him closer as his other arm draws back, his fist balled, ready to strike.
The boy cowers before him, already flinching, and there’s an emotion on his face, resigned, already giving in, that hits harder than the violence.
Because I recognize it. I’ve felt it too, that same helpless, choking certainty that pain is coming, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it. I’ve never been hit, but the feeling is the same. The sense that what happens next has been decided, and all that’s left is to endure.
“Stop!”
The word tears out of me before I can catch it. I slap my hands over my mouth, but it’s too late. The room below goes silent. Then, slowly, one by one, they all look up.
At me.
Jackson’s hand freezes midair, caught halfway to his target. For one stupid second, I think maybe I got away with it. Then his attention snaps up, straight to me. He releases the boy without a second glance, like nothing else matters now.
“Well,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the silence, calm in a way that makes my pulse spike harder. “That’s new.” He cocks his head at me. “Come down here.”
I take a step back, every nerve alight, adrenaline rushing through me.
“No,” I tell him. “I don’t think I will.”
I edge backward, judging the distance between me and Carrson’s bedroom. Between me and Jackson. Which is shorter? Who can run faster?
I can already see it, slamming Carrson’s door shut, locking it, putting solid wood between me and—
“That’s fine,” Jackson says calmly, almost amused. “I’ll come to you.”
He starts up the stairs, moving fast but not running. I turn and sprint down the hall, but I have to pass the head of the stairs and somehow, impossibly, he’s already there.
He steps onto the landing, cutting me off.
I stop short, less than a foot between us, my lungs working hard from the sprint and the spike of fear.
Now that we’re face to face, Jackson takes his time looking me over, like he’s taking inventory. “Who do you belong to?”
I bristle immediately. “No one.”
He takes a step closer, and I match it with a step backward. “But how are you here? Women aren’t allowed.”
“I—uh—I’m Carrson’s…friend,” I stutter out.
Jackson throws his head back and barks out a laugh, but the sound cuts off as quickly as it came. “Now I know you’re lying. Carrson doesn’t have women over. Ever.”
We’ve been moving this whole time, me backing up, him advancing, but now there’s nowhere left to go. My back hits the wall between the doors.
Jackson cages me in, his eyes alight, gleeful.
“Well now,” he murmurs. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing?”
He reaches out, lifting a strand of my hair between his fingers. He brings it to his nose and inhales. My skin crawls. I twist my head to the side, searching for space, for an opening. Anything.
“And this shirt…” His gaze drifts downward. “Showing off those legs.”
His hand drops to my hips before sliding lower.
A shudder runs through me at the contact. I press my hands against his chest, pushing back.
“Get off me,” I grit. “Go away.”
He shifts just enough for me to see the other men still below us, watching without intervening.
The only person missing is the boy. At least he got away safely.
“You don’t belong here.” Jackson lowers his head, his lips grazing my ear. “But I’m glad you are.”
His hand drifts over the bare skin of my thigh, and fear spikes through me. I shove harder at his chest, trying to force space between us, but it’s no use.
His hand slips under the hem of the shirt.
Then stops.
“Wait.” His voice drops even lower. “Are you not wearing anything under this?” He leans in until his face fills my vision, blue eyes flat and cold, blotting out everything else. I brace against the wall, trying to push him off, but it’s like shoving at a block of granite.
“Careful,” he clucks his tongue at me. “Don't move.”
His hand bites into my hip, possessive, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He moves fast, going for my mouth.
I jerk my head to the side, and his lips scrape across my cheek.
“No!” I gasp, the word tearing loose as I shove at him again, harder now, my terror spiking.
He grins. Then lunges in for another try.
Right before his mouth reaches mine, he’s yanked away from me.
A voice slices through the air behind Jackson, low and full of fury.
“Don’t fucking touch her.”