19. Jax
nineteen
Jax
" M orning, sunshine. You look like death warmed over."
Cole sits on one of the six bar stools, making notes on the encrypted tablet docked at the island's communication station.
Remy's claimed another stool with his third cup of coffee from the industrial-grade machine, while Asher has his laptop open at the far end of the granite surface, satellite imagery of the Grand Prix circuit filling his screen.
"Couldn't sleep," I lie, not looking up from the surveillance photos scattered between us.
My hands are steadier than I expected, but everything else feels off-balance in the morning light streaming through those massive windows.
The scratch marks she left down my back burn every time my shirt shifts.
"Stress about today's operation?" Cole asks, stylus pausing over the tablet screen. Always precise, always professional. His voice stays calm, but his eye notice everything.
"Something like that."
Asher glances up from his screen, morning sun catching the angles of his face. "Overwatch positions optimal. Convention center rooftop provides clean sight lines."
"Weather's cooperating too," Remy adds, gesturing with his mug toward the ocean view. But his eyes track the fresh bruise on my collarbone visible above my shirt. "Should give you perfect visibility up there."
That's when she walks in.
"Morning. I do hope you've left some coffee."
Her voice cuts through my thoughts, perfectly modulated and refined.
But I catch it immediately when I look up.
Each step is measured, not her as her usual grace, but the careful placement of someone whose thighs are screaming.
The high collar of her tactical shirt can't quite hide the purple bruise blooming at the base of her throat.
Fuck. Everyone's going to see that.
"Always a full pot ready," Remy's tone shifts smoothly, matching her formality while his medic eye clearly notes her condition. "Fresh Colombian, as you prefer."
She positions herself on the opposite side of the granite island from me, using the six feet of stone surface as a barrier. The morning light through the windows catches the slight stiffness in her shoulders.
She moves toward the coffee station near the double ovens, and when she reaches for a mug from the upper cabinet, the movement pulls her shirt. She freezes for a fraction of a second. Another bruise peeks out at her collarbone—dark purple fingerprints I left when I gripped her too hard.
Remy clears his throat before asking smoothly. "Rough night? You seem a little... tense."
"Just restless," she says carefully. "Had some energy to expend."
"Energy to expend." I finally look up, meeting her eyes directly across the granite surface scattered with intelligence reports. "That what we're calling it now?"
The kitchen goes dead quiet. Cole's stylus stops moving against the tablet screen. Remy's coffee mug freezes halfway to his mouth. Asher's fingers pause over his keyboard, though his expression doesn't change.
"I beg your pardon?" Mira's voice stays perfectly level, but I catch the slight flutter at her throat where her pulse jumps.
"Last night. Just expending energy?"
Academy Award performance, beautiful. Too bad I know exactly what you sound like when you drop the act.
Cole clears his throat once, cutting through the silence. "Perhaps we should review perimeter configurations. Outside."
"Excellent strategy," Remy agrees quickly, practically vaulting off his bar stool and abandoning his coffee on the island. "Very thorough perimeter assessment required."
Asher closes his laptop, unplugging from the island's docking station. Just a single word. "Leaving."
They move toward the door quickly. Cole pauses at the archway, his sharp eyes taking in everything—the way she's standing with her weight carefully distributed, the scratches visible on my forearms where my sleeves have ridden up, the specific six feet of granite she's maintaining between us.
"Resolve this. Efficiently." His voice carries quiet authority. "Mission prep begins in twenty."
They're gone in under thirty seconds, the door closing with finality.
She pours her coffee with deliberate grace, the industrial machine humming as liquid streams into her mug. But when she reaches for the sugar, her hand trembles slightly. The movement makes her wince, so subtle most would miss it.
"I believe we established appropriate boundaries last evening, Jax."
"No, you established them." I move around the granite island slowly, noting how she doesn't retreat but shifts her weight carefully, favoring her left leg. "After you screamed loud enough for everyone to hear exactly what I was doing to you."
Color floods her cheeks. "Physiological responses during intimate encounters are—"
"Mira." I stop just close enough to smell her expensive shampoo mixing with my body wash—she used my shower. "You can barely walk."
"Temporary muscular—"
"You have my teeth marks on your throat." My voice drops lower. "Fingerprints on your hips. Scratches down your back that burn every time fabric touches them. Trust me, I know. You returned the favor."
Her coffee cup rattles against granite. Behind her, the ocean view creates a stunning backdrop, but all I can focus on is the way morning light shows every mark I left.
"Physical evidence of a moment's... indiscretion hardly constitutes—"
"Six hours." I lean against the counter, using the island's edge to create intimacy without crowding her. "We fucked for six hours. You came eight times. Nine if we count when I had you against the wall."
"That's—" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat, tries again. "Irrelevant to our professional—"
"You said my name like a prayer." I let that hang between us, watch her pulse jump at her throat. "Right before you drew blood with your nails."
The mask cracks. Heat flares in those hazel eyes—memory, want, fear. Behind us, the coffee maker gurgles, finished brewing.
"What occurred between us changes nothing regarding our operational arrangement." She sets her mug down with careful control, the sound sharp in the kitchen's acoustics. "I trust we can maintain appropriate discretion moving forward."
The polite dismissal should sting. But something warm and dark unfurls in my chest. She's working so hard to convince us both that she doesn't care, but her pupils are dilated and I can see the faint sheen of sweat at her temple.
"Appropriate discretion." I straighten, letting her see the scratches visible through my shirt. "While you're walking like I fucked you through the mattress?"
Her sharp intake of breath makes it clear the words hit their target.
"While everyone can see exactly what we did to each other?"
Her breath catches. "The marks will fade."
"Not before tonight's operation." I move closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. "Not before you spend all day remembering exactly how you got them."
"Jax—"
"I need time." The words surprise us both. I step back, giving her space while morning light floods between us. "To figure out what this is."
She blinks, clearly not expecting retreat. Behind her, the Pacific stretches endlessly, but she's focused entirely on me.
"Time?"
"Three days. After the mission. Give me three days to show you this isn't just physical."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll protect you professionally and pretend those sounds you made didn't rewire my entire brain." I grab my coffee, the ceramic warm against my palm. "But we both know you're curious what three days would prove."
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant crash of waves through the windows. Her fingers trace the rim of her mug, a nervous gesture she'd never normally allow herself.
"Three days," she finally says, so quiet I almost miss it. "After the mission."
"And then?"
"Then we determine if this... intensity has substance beyond physical compatibility."
The door opens and the team files back in. Cole's eyes sweep over her rigid posture, my calculated calm, and the careful distance we're maintaining, his expression shifting to something resigned.
"Status?" His tone suggests he already knows.
"Complicated," I answer.
Asher's laptop chirps as he settles back at the island. He glances at the screen, then at us. "Physiological indicators suggest recent intimate contact." His tone stays clinical. "Extensive."
Remy shifts into medical assessment mode, setting his kit on the counter. "Should I be concerned about anyone's physical condition?"
"We're functional," Mira says stiffly, though she sits carefully on the barstool, weight distributed to minimize discomfort.
"Functional." Cole's tone carries subtle irony as he returns to his tablet. "Outstanding."
"It won't compromise the mission," I state firmly, though the scratch marks pull when I cross my arms.
"The mission." Cole studies us both with that penetrating gaze. "Already compromised. Question becomes damage mitigation."
"We can maintain—" Mira starts.
"No." Asher cuts her off with characteristic bluntness. "You can't. Evidence suggests escalation, not resolution."
Remy leans forward, medical concern shifting to something more personal. "You realize what this is? Both of you?"
"Dangerous," Mira answers.
"Inevitable," I say at the same time.
Cole stands with fluid grace, gathering his tablet and intelligence reports. "Twenty minutes until departure. Whatever this is, table it until after we handle Viktor."
They disperse to their stations, collecting equipment bags and weapons without wasted motion. But Remy lingers, studying me with those eyes that see too much.
"That bad?" he asks quietly, nodding toward where Mira disappeared down the hallway.
"Worse." I roll my shoulders, feeling every scratch pull against fabric. "One night and now I'm—"
"Addicted." Not a question. "Both of you. Classic dependency pattern. You were already suffering from it."
"Is there treatment?"