18. Jasmine
JASMINE
Landon is beyond furious at me.
I mean, sure, he’s been mad before—I’ve seen the clenched jaw, the pinched brow, the brooding silence that usually ends with a half-sarcastic comment and a beer. But nothing, nothing , is scarier than when the guy who usually flirts and teases you like it’s a sport suddenly goes radio silent .
No jokes. No nicknames. No cocky smirks.
Just…silence. The kind that creeps into a room before he even walks in.
And trust me—I’ve tried everything to break it.
I even caved and told him I missed him. Told him that eating Brooke’s pussy had me so worked up I nearly begged him to finish the job.
Thought that’d get a rise out of him—maybe a laugh, a smug smirk, something .
All I got was a growl. He looked me dead in the face and told me to go to bed and lock the door… “unless you want a punishment worse than you deserve.” His words. Not mine. And yeah— that didn’t help.
I was so keyed up after that I ended up fingering myself twice and rage-ordering a vibrator off Amazon at 2 a.m., because clearly my fingers aren’t cutting it—not when I know two dangerously hot people who could finish me off way better than I ever could alone, and especially when one of them is literally just one open floor away from me.
And yet here I am. Eating cereal. Miserable. And still ignored.
It’s barely 9 a.m., and I’ve already stress-eaten half the Lucky Charms as I keep refreshing to see if my vibrator will be here like six hours earlier than predicted.
All in all, I am fucking pissed! The marshmallows are gone in my Lucky Charms. I can’t work the coffee machine.
I need a big O worse than I have ever needed in my entire life.
Today has been the absolute worst. Like zero out of ten, and I am three minutes away from crawling to Landon’s room and begging for mercy, or finishing Professor Kilgore’s homework as I fantasize about all the things he’s doing with my panties.
I hear his bedroom door open before I see him. His bare feet the floor like war drums. And when he appears in the kitchen, every molecule in the room rearranges itself around his mood.
He doesn’t look at me. And fuck, I never thought I could mess up this bad with him.
He yanks open the fridge, grabs the orange juice, and drinks straight from the carton. Normally, I’d groan, toss a sarcastic jab, maybe even fake gag—but right now? I feel too guilty to be annoyed. Too twisted up inside to care about the hygiene violation.
Especially when he looks like that.
No shirt. Just low-rise grey sweats clinging to his hips like they were sewn there.
His abs are cut so deep they catch the light from the window, every muscle in his torso tight and flexed with irritation.
A trail of dark hair dips below the waistband, and I don’t mean to stare—but I do. I can’t not.
His shoulders roll once, tension rippling down his arms, and I finally get a good look at the ink stretched across his back.
It’s a masterpiece of brutality and beauty—two massive angel wings inked from shoulder blade to lower back, each feather shaded in charcoal blacks and smoky grays, the detail so sharp they almost look like they could lift him off the ground.
Barbed wire coils around the base of each wing, etched deep into the skin like it’s strangling the divinity right out of him.
And down the center, splitting the wings in half, is a single black blade—a combat knife inked from nape to spine, so precise it glints under the overhead light like it’s real.
Broad, lean, powerful. He looks like someone sculpted him out of yearning and sexual tension. Landon Heart is a bad idea wrapped up in a good guy package, and bad for me I want him.
I shift on the stool, mouth suddenly dry, heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with frustration—and need.
“Morning,” I say, voice way too casual. I toss a piece of dry cereal into my mouth like we’re in a normal roommate situation, and he’s not on the verge of punishing me for something bad.
He places the orange juice back into the fridge and rolls his shoulders back, and I get nothing. Not even a grunt as he turns to the coffee maker and starts it up.
“Are you gonna murder me or just ice me out until I offer to choke myself with a spoon?”
He growls, the sound low and lethal as he rolls his shoulders back again. “How about we start with an ‘I’m sorry’?”
I drop my spoon into the bowl with a clink and narrow my eyes. “Sorry, for what?”
He turns around then—arms folded, chest bare, abs flexing as he leans back against the counter like the weight of holding back is physically painful.
“For stealing my fucking car,” he snaps.
“For disappearing for two hours while the mob’s still gunning for you.
For waltzing back in with your new girlfriend’s pussy juice still on your lips.
For driving me mad— bloody mad —since the day I fucking met you. ”
I slide off the stool slowly, like I’m not already halfway to combusting. My feet hit the tile and I move toward him with the kind of calm that only exists to mask chaos. “Let me tell you what I am and am not sorry for.”
I count on my fingers as I close the distance between us, inch by inch. “I’m sorry I stole your car. I’m sorry I disappeared.”
I pause right in front of him, tilting my head.
“But I am not sorry for going down on the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
I will eat Brooke out like a last meal any chance I get—and you can either deal with it, or don’t.
That’s your choice. And as for driving you crazy?
” I press my palm against his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin. “That’s your problem. Not mine.”
His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist—not rough, but tight enough to make me stop breathing.
“How the fuck is that my problem?” he growls, stepping closer until my back brushes the edge of the counter.
I laugh, breathless. The scent of him is all salt and heat and mint. “Because you keep coming back. You hate it? Walk away. No one’s stopping you.”
“Walk away?” he repeats, chuckling darkly in my face, the kind of laugh that makes every hair on my body rise. “You think if I could leave—I wouldn’t have left already ?”
“Right,” I say quietly. “You can’t leave. You’re in too deep with the Raiders. Or maybe it’s the cartel. I don’t know which one owns you harder.”
“No, Peach.” His grip slides from my wrist to my waist, dragging me against him so suddenly my breath catches in my throat. “I can disappear whenever the fuck I want,” he says, voice like gravel and smoke. His forehead presses to mine. “It’s you .”
My heart stutters. “What?”
“It’s you,” he repeats, like the words hurt. “I want. I need. I breathe you.”
“Landon—”
“No.” He cuts me off with a low tsk , his hands bracing the counter on either side of me, caging me in. “You don’t get to brush past this. Not after last night. Not after what you pulled.”
His breath fans hot across my cheek. “You are my only captor. The person that controls every fucking thought I have. Every fear. Every flash of rage. You disappear for two goddamn hours and I go insane. I can’t think. I can’t breathe . I didn’t know if you were dead. Hurt. Taken.”
He leans in, nose grazing my temple. “And when you walked back into this apartment? Smiling. With her scent on your mouth…”
He exhales sharply, like just remembering it burns.
“I’ve killed for less,” he whispers. “Do you get that, Peach? I’ve done unforgivable things for people who never meant a quarter of what you mean to me.”
My heart hammers so hard I swear the sound fills the whole kitchen. My hands grip the edge of the counter behind me just to stay upright.
“And what do I mean to you?” I whisper, barely able to push the words out.
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.
“Everything,” he says. “You’re everything , Jasmine.”
“Landon, you and I… how can I be everything ?” I gasp, my palms pressing against the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. His body, his voice, his truth —it’s all too much. I can’t breathe.
“You are,” he murmurs. The words wrap around me, suffocates and saves me all at once.
My mind races. This man—this dark, volatile, broken man—he’s the person I trust most in the world. More than I trust myself. More than I trust the girl I used to be, or the girl I’m trying to become.
Landon’s been there in the shadows since day one, silently, fiercely watching over me.
The first man to touch me without making me flinch.
He stands with me during the nights when my nightmares have threatened to tear me apart and he promised that he would stitch me back together without asking for a thank you.
I can't imagine walking into a room without his presence trailing behind me like a second spine. I can’t imagine not hearing his footsteps, his voice, his breath in the dead of night.
And somehow, I’ve become his center of gravity.
His oxygen. His obsession. It terrifies me.
But it makes something ache inside me, too.
He leans closer, and the air shifts with him. I can feel the heat of his chest against mine, the barest brush of his lips as they move past my ear.
“I don’t know how it happened,” he whispers, voice hoarse and fraying at the edges.
“But you’ve consumed me, Jasmine. You don’t have to give me everything.
I know you need more than I can be. I know you are so close to being obsessed with her, and you are intrigued by Conner.
I know you're torn, and I would never make you choose.”
He presses a kiss to the curve of my shoulder—soft, reverent, devastating. “I don’t need all of you, Peach,” he murmurs. “I can live with a piece. Just give me a piece. Please. ”
My throat tightens. My body’s on fire. I should say something—anything. I should tell him no. Or yes. Or wait .
But instead?—