Chapter 6 #3
"Yeah," he murmured, a satisfied sound. "That's going to turn purple by tomorrow."
He smiled. A genuine, terrifying smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I can't wait to see you try to hide that in class."
He put the truck in gear and pulled out of the lot, leaving the silent arena behind.
I sat back, my fingers tracing the throbbing mark on my neck. It hurt, a persistent ache. It was going to be impossible to explain, to conceal.
But as I looked at Jax, one hand resting casually on the wheel, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights, looking calm and utterly possessed... I didn't want to hide it.
I wanted everyone to see it. I wanted them to know.
I was collateral damage. And I was his.
???
We got back to the apartment twenty minutes later. The drive had been silent, charged with the same crackling electricity that always hummed between us now.
Jax parked the truck, killed the engine. We walked up the stairs, the sound of our footsteps heavy in the quiet building.
He unlocked the door, the click echoing in the small space.
The moment we were inside, the dynamic shifted again. The public risk was gone. We were back in the cage, the world outside receding.
Jax locked the door with a decisive turn of the deadbolt. He tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter with a clatter.
He turned to me, his gaze unwavering.
"Bedroom," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Now."
"Jax, I'm exhausted. My legs are shaking." My voice was a weak protest.
"Did I ask?"
"No."
"Then move."
I walked to the bedroom, my legs stiff and aching. I stripped off my clothes again, the familiar ritual. I was getting used to being naked in this room. It felt more natural than being clothed, a second skin shed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sighing under my weight.
Jax walked in. He had a first aid kit in his hand, a white plastic box.
I blinked, surprise flushing through me. "What's that for?"
"The bite," he said, his voice flat. "It's bleeding."
He sat next to me, the mattress dipping. He opened the kit, the plastic lid snapping open. He took out an alcohol wipe and a small, sterile bandage.
"Turn," he ordered.
I turned my back to him, my shoulder exposed.
I felt the cool sting of the alcohol wipe on my skin. He cleaned the wound carefully, meticulously. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence of the shower, the brutality of his teeth.
"It's deep," he murmured, his voice low. "I might have gone too hard."
"It's okay," I whispered, the words barely audible.
"No, it's not. I broke the skin. That's infection risk."
He applied a dab of antibiotic ointment, the cool cream a soothing balm. Then he placed a large, square bandage over the angry red mark.
He smoothed the adhesive down with his thumbs, his movements precise.
"There," he said. "Better."
He leaned forward, his lips brushing the bandage. Softly. A ghost of a kiss.
My breath hitched in my throat. "Jax?"
"Shut up," he said, pulling back abruptly. The softness vanished, replaced by the familiar mask of indifference. "Don't read into it. I just can't have my toy getting sepsis. It would be inconvenient."
He stood up.
"Get under the covers," he said. "You're shivering."
I crawled under the duvet, pulling the heavy fabric up to my chin. I was shivering, the adrenaline crash hitting me hard, leaving me cold and depleted.
Jax stripped down to his boxer briefs, his movements fluid and unhurried. He turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
He got into bed next to me.
Usually, he stayed on his side, maintaining a distinct line of separation between our bodies.
Tonight, he shifted. He moved closer, the mattress dipping with his weight.
I felt his arm drape over my waist. Heavy. Solid.
He pulled me backward until my back was pressed against his chest. He spooned me, his body a warm, firm presence.
"Jax?" I whispered into the dark, my voice a fragile thread.
"Cold," he grumbled, his breath warm on my neck, right over the bandage. "You're a space heater. Shut up and sleep."
I lay there, frozen, my body rigid with the unexpected intimacy. His breath was warm on my neck, a soft current against the bandage. His hand rested on my stomach, his thumb stroking back and forth in a slow, unconscious rhythm, a hypnotic caress.
I could feel his heart beating against my spine, a steady, powerful thrum.
It wasn't transactional. Not this part. This part felt.
.. real. The thought of severing this tie, of walking away, felt like tearing off my own limb.
The idea of his absence left a hollow ache in my chest, a craving more profound than any pain he inflicted, a gnawing hunger that had consumed everything else.
I closed my eyes. I felt the throb of the bite, the ache in my legs, and the warmth of the man who had inflicted both, holding me tight.
I realized then that the blackmail video didn't matter anymore. He could delete it tomorrow, erase all evidence of his hold, and I wouldn't leave.
I was addicted.
And lying there in the dark, held tight in his arms, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against my back, the firm grip of his arm, the slow, hypnotic stroke of his thumb on my stomach – these weren't gestures of a captor, but of a man clinging, his own desperate need mirroring mine in the suffocating dark.