40. Jax
forty
Jax
M y boots wear a path between the French doors and the kitchen island, but the cottage feels like a cage. Every circuit brings me past Mira at the dining table, and every time I have to touch her—shoulder, neck, the silk of her hair. Like if I stop touching her, she'll disappear. Like Roman did.
"Play it again."
She doesn't look up from the laptop. "That's the seventh time, Jax."
Seven. Everything's seven today. Seven months since Roman "died." Seven times watching this video. Seven cups of coffee making my hands shake. Or maybe that's the rage. Or the grief. Or the way she smells like gun oil and vanilla, making me insane.
"Seven fucking months." The words taste like betrayal and bourbon, though I haven't had a drink in days. "Seven months of thinking I failed him. Of gambling away everything because I couldn't save another brother."
The video shows Roman entering a safe house. Tactical vest. Careful movements. Breathing. While I was drowning in survivor's guilt, betting on underground fights, convincing myself I was cursed—everyone I care about dies or disappears.
"He's been alive this whole time." I'm behind her now, both hands on her shoulders, kneading the knots I find there. She leans into my touch—a tell, that lean. Usually she holds herself separate. My cock hardens instantly. "Playing some game while we planned his funeral."
"The timestamp is recent." Her voice stays clinical, but I feel her pulse quicken under my thumbs. Another tell. "Whatever he's doing—"
"He could have sent something. Anything." My voice cracks, and suddenly I'm spinning her chair around, dropping to my knees between her thighs. The position puts me at eye level with her chest, and I have to fight not to bury my face there. "I thought I lost him like Tommy."
Her hands frame my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. Those hazel depths that see too much, know too much, want too much. But there's something else there—a flicker of uncertainty she's trying to hide. "Stop."
"I can't stop. My brain won't stop. It keeps spinning and spinning and—"
She kisses me hard, swallowing my spiral.
I whimper into her mouth as her tongue invades, demanding submission, and I give it gladly.
My hands grip her thighs, pulling her to the edge of the chair as I press closer, needing to crawl inside her skin.
When she breaks the kiss, we're both panting, and I can feel how wet she is through her jeans.
"Better?"
"No." My hands are already sliding higher, desperate. "Need more. Need you. Need—"
The phone buzzes on the counter.
"Leave it," she says, but there's a tremor in her voice. Like she needs this as much as I do.
"Could be about Roman." I stand reluctantly, legs unsteady, and cross to the counter.
She follows immediately, wrapping her arms around me from behind, pressing against my back. Can't let go either. I hit speaker.
"Centurion's got a situation." Kade's voice fills the cottage. "Four federal judges dead in the last week."
I turn in her arms, keeping her close, my hand splayed possessively across her hip. "Pattern?"
"Started in Texas, spreading west. One in Seattle yesterday."
There's a pause, then Cole's voice, tighter than I've ever heard it: "I'll investigate the Seattle connection."
Too quick. Too personal. But I can't process Cole's demons right now when I'm drowning in my own, when Mira's pressed against me and all I want to do is bend her over this table.
"Copy that." I disconnect before anyone can say more.
She studies me with those predator eyes that make my cock throb. But her pulse flutters at her throat—faster than it should be. She's affected too.
"You're vibrating out of your skin."
She's right. My whole body thrums with chaotic energy—grief, rage, want, all tangled together in a storm that's going to tear me apart if I don't do something with it.
"I need to move." I grab my tactical knife from the counter, and her pupils blow wide. Not fear. Recognition. "Need to do something or I'll explode."
Outside, the Napa Valley evening air hits my heated skin like a slap. The private vineyard stretches out in neat rows, moonlight turning everything silver and dangerous. Like her.
"You know what we are?" I turn to face her, words tumbling out while my hands won't stop moving—through my hair, across my jaw, reaching for her.
"We're completely fucked. Roman playing dead, your thirteen-year revenge quest, judges being executed, both of us too damaged to know what normal even looks like. "
She moves closer, backing me against the patio railing. Her hand presses against my chest, feeling my racing heart. But there's a tremor in her fingers she's fighting to hide. "So?"
"So we're made for each other."
Something shifts in her expression. Recognition. Agreement. Hunger. And something else—surprise at her own reaction.
I pull out the tactical knife fully, letting moonlight catch the blade. The weight of it centers something violent in my chest. Something that wants to hunt. To claim. To possess.
"You know what you need?" I trace the flat of the blade along her collarbone, watching her breath catch, her pupils dilate. Her nipples harden against her shirt. "To stop thinking. Stop analyzing. Just feel."
"Jax—" Her voice comes out breathy, needy. Not her usual control.
"Run."
The word hangs between us for a heartbeat. Then she bolts.
She's fast, disappearing into the vineyard rows, but I don't follow immediately.
I count, letting anticipation build while my cock strains against my jeans.
One. Two. I can hear her breathing, rapid and excited.
Three. Four. My fingers flip the knife, blade to handle to blade, the repetitive motion soothing and arousing simultaneously.
Five. Six. A security truck rumbles on the access road—private property patrol.
Perfect. Seven. Eight. She's trying to be quiet now, but I can smell her arousal on the wind. Nine.
Ten.
I hunt.
"I know you're close," I call out, moving through the vines silently. "Can hear your breathing. Quick inhale, held breath, shaky exhale. That's fear mixing with arousal, isn't it?"
Silence, but I catch movement two rows over.
"You're trying to double back. Smart. Using the vine supports for cover." I track her by sound and scent. "But you favor your left foot when trying to move silently. And that breathing pattern when you're aroused and afraid? Dead giveaway."
"Fuck you." Her voice comes from the left, but movement flickers right. Misdirection.
"That's the plan, baby."
"Never been prey before, have you?" I'm closer now, circling. "Always the hunter. Always in control. But right now? Right now your pussy's already wet just from running. From being chased."
Another row over, moonlight on skin. Got you.
I find her pressed against a thick wooden support post, chest heaving, eyes wild. Sweat glistens on her throat, and I want to lick it off. Want to taste her fear and arousal mixed together. Her hands shake before she clenches them into fists—fighting for control even now.
"Caught you."
The knife comes up, blade flat against her throat. Not cutting, just cold metal against hot pulse. Her whole body shudders, and I can smell how wet she is.
"Anyone could see us." My free hand pins her wrist above her head, stretching her body out for my viewing. "Security patrols all night. They could find us any second."
"That's—" She swallows hard, the blade moving with her throat. "That's what you want. To be seen. To be caught."
"And you want the fear." I press closer, the knife still between us, my cock grinding against her hip. "The danger of it. The loss of control you never allow yourself. Not knowing if I'll fuck you or hurt you."
"Both," she breathes, and her eyes widen like she didn't mean to admit it. "I want both."
Christ.
I kiss her with the blade still at her throat, careful but present. She moans into my mouth, then bites my lip hard—a flash of the predator still fighting. When I pull back, her lips are swollen, eyes glazed.
"You're shaking," I observe, moving the knife down, using the tip to pop the first button of her shirt.
"Shut up." But her voice wavers as the second button goes. Then the third.
When her shirt falls open, revealing black lace barely containing her breasts, I have to pause. Have to just look at her—this deadly woman who trusts me with a knife at her throat, who gets wet from being hunted, who's as fucked up as I am.
"So fucking beautiful." The knife clatters to the ground as I drop to my knees, hands shaking as I work her jeans open. "Need to taste you. Been thinking about it all day. How you'd taste with fear and arousal mixed together."
"Jax—" But it's not a protest. It's need.
I yank her jeans and underwear down to her ankles in one motion, leaving them tangled there. She tries to step out of them but I hold them in place.
"Leave them. Makes it harder to run if you need to."
"Bastard," she breathes, but she's already trembling.
"Turn around." My voice comes out rough, commanding. "Hands on the post."
She obeys—and that's when I see it. The moment she surprises herself by obeying so easily.
A tiny hesitation, then surrender. She bends at the waist, bracing herself against the wood, and the position is obscene—ass pushed out, legs forced together by the denim shackles at her ankles.
The moonlight shows everything—her glistening pussy peeking between her thighs, already dripping.
"Spread as much as you can." I drop to my knees behind her, hands gripping her ass, spreading her cheeks. "Let me see that pretty cunt."
She shifts her feet as wide as the jeans allow—maybe eighteen inches—and the view makes my cock throb painfully. From this angle, I can see everything. How swollen she is. How wet. How her hole clenches on nothing, desperate to be filled.