21. Jackson
Jackson
T here’s something feral boiling in my blood.
Ozzy hadn’t even gotten the words out before she broke.
Her hands were shaking. Her pupils were blown wide with panic.
There were scratches on her hands. And when she looked at me, she didn’t see me.
Not really, not at first. She was somewhere else.
Somewhere cold and violent; filled with hands that didn’t ask. That didn’t stop.
And when she finally said his name— Dean —that was it.
I didn’t see red. It was white hot rage.
I had to hold back, though. My girl doesn’t need more violence in her life.
She needs to know there is somewhere safe she can go.
And she does. Despite our argument this morning, despite the hurt and betrayal I know is still breaking her heart because of my stupidity—despite all of that, she ran to me.
She came home… to me. And that means I still have a chance.
A chance to show her that she matters, that she’s someone to be cared for, cared about. To be worshipped and loved.
Which leads me to this moment.
“Where the hell are you going, Jackie?” Jensen asks, trailing after me across the gravel as I rip open the driver’s side door to my truck.
“I’m going to talk,” I growl while slamming the keys into the ignition.
“Talk,” he repeats, narrowing his eyes. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
“Get in or don’t.” My voice drops into something low and dangerous. I don’t even look at him when I say it.
“Jackie…” There’s a beat, followed by curse. Then the door opens and slams shut beside me.
“You're outta your goddamn mind,” he mutters, buckling up. “You touch that man, you know this won’t just be some bar fight. This’ll be charges. Jail. You’re a Rowe, and this town loves to watch Rowes burn.”
“I’m not touching him,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Oh yeah? Then what are you gonna do, Jackson?”
I slam my fist on my dashboard. “He touched her!” I roar, glaring at my little brother. “Wh–What if it was Theo? Or Mama? What if it was Niamh?” Jensen’s expression darkens as his jaw works.
“Then I wouldn’t be goin’ to talk,” he mutters as we turn out of the drive for the ranch.
I feel the bite of the wheel under my tightening grip, and I hear the engine roaring as my foot presses down on the gas. My blood is boiling so hot it feels like I might combust.
Ozzy was so scared. I could barely get two words out of her. She wouldn’t let me go until I promised to stay. Promised to hold her through the storm crashing inside her. And I did.
She begged. My girl should never be in a position where she feels the need to beg.
I held her to me. I helped her breathe. I carried her to my room, fetched her water and her medication. And the second I was sure she was sound asleep, I let go, and I left.
Because Dean and his fucking crew made her feel unsafe. I warned him, it’s not my fucking fault that he didn’t listen. Actions have consequences and Dean is about to have the consequences of his actions beaten into him.
“Jackson,” Jensen says, his voice tight beside me in the cab. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
I don’t answer. Just keep my eyes pinned on the stretch of road ahead as we crest the hill and the gravel lot of The Spur comes into view. The glow of the neon sign is smeared against the overcast sky, and a perfect row of shiny motorcycles are parked just outside.
Like they think they own the place. Like they think they’re untouchable.
Not tonight.
“Jackson,” Jensen says again, louder this time. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer. Just grip the wheel tighter. My hands ache. My knuckles are still bruised from last night when I beat the hell out of everything in the barn after searching Ozzy.
She was alone. She had no one to protect her. That’s not happening again. I will never allow another man to touch her again. I will break every bone in their bodies.
“Jackson—no! Shit!” Jensen fumbles with his seatbelt. “Jesus Christ?—”
My truck slams through the line of bikes like they’re made of tin and plywood.
Metal screeches. Tires explode. Chrome flies.
I feel the thud of impact under the tires, and the rush of adrenaline hits me like lightning through the skull.
I slam on the brakes just past the last twisted wreck, throw the truck into park, and kick open the door.
“Are you outta your goddamn mind?!” Jensen’s out behind me, his boots skidding in the gravel.
“I told that motherfucker,” I growl, jaw clenched so tight my molars grind. “I told him. I fucking warned him.”
The bar door bangs open.
Dean’s the first out. His crew follows—five or six of them, all gruff and leathered up, stumbling out of the bar like beer-bloated bulls.
They freeze when they see the carnage in the lot.
One guy lets out a strangled sound when he sees his bike under my tire, steam still curling off the twisted frame.
Dean steps forward, spitting onto the gravel. “You got a death wish, Rowe?”
“No.” I take off my jacket and toss it onto the hood of the truck. “But you do.”
Jensen steps between us, trying to talk me down. “Jackson, you made your point. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
“No,” I snap, my eyes locked on Dean. “He put his hands on her.”
Dean raises his brows. “What the fuck are you even talking about?”
“You touched her,” I growl. “In town. You and your fucking crew cornered her. You made her scared.”
There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. That’s all I need.
I charge him. Dean swings first but misses. Unfortunately for him, I don’t.
My fist connects with his jaw so hard it echoes like thunder across the lot. The others jump in. I barely register Jensen yelling as he tackles one of them off me. I take another punch to the ribs, a boot to the side—but I don’t stop.
I don’t stop until Dean’s on his back, gasping, bloodied and wheezing. I grab the front of his shirt and slam him back down against the pavement.
“You think you’re a man?” I growl through gritted teeth as I slam him again. “You think it makes you tough to scare a woman like her? You ever look at her again, speak her name, or breathe her goddamn direction, I’ll put you in the ground. Do you understand me?”
He coughs but doesn’t answer.
I shake him. “Do you fucking understand me?”
“Yes!” he gurgles. “Jesus, man, I didn’t even do anything?—”
I cock my first back and slam it into his face before leaning in and hissing, “You made her feel scared. The next time my girl comes home shaking because of you bitch ass bikers, I’m putting one in your head and feeding you to my fucking pigs, you disgusting ass waste of fucking space bitch.
” I spit in his bloody face as I hear Niamh’s feminine voice behind me.
“Jen! Jackson! That’s enough! Get on before I can’t help you!”
I hear the sirens. Distant but coming fast.
Jensen grabs my arm. “Jackson, we have to go. Now.”
I let Dean drop like garbage and we scramble into the truck. I peel out of the lot, Jensen white-knuckling the passenger door.
“Christ, Jackson,” he gasps. “What the hell are we gonna tell everyone at home?”
“Whatever the fuck we want,” I mutter, knuckles raw on the wheel. “But Dean won’t be looking at Ozzy again. And that’s all I care about.”
The blood on my knuckles is already drying, crusting into the grooves of my skin as I turn down the drive. My heart's still pounding like I’m mid-swing. Jensen sits beside me, silent, holding a napkin to his busted lip, his jaw tight with the kind of quiet fury I know all too well.
Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing left to say.
I grip the steering wheel tighter. It’s like if I let go, I’ll come apart completely. My right hand’s starting to throb, swollen to hell.
As we pull up the drive I groan when I see the lights are still on at the house. Meaning Ozzy’s still up.
Fuck.
My stomach twists like barbed wire.
I didn’t do this for revenge. I didn’t do it to be a hero. I did it because the thought of that motherfucker touching her—looking at her—like she was some toy to paw at—I slam my palm against the steering wheel. The horn blares once, sharp and ugly, and Jensen jumps.
“Jesus,” he mutters, then sighs while looking at his bloody napkin before turning back to me. “You good?”
I shoot him a look.
“Right. Dumb question.”
I kill the engine and step out into the cold night. The gravel crunches under my boots. My whole body hurts, stiffening from the adrenaline dump, but I barely feel it. What I do feel is the fury still pulsing under my sore ribs, right next to the guilt I can’t seem to shake.
I walk up the porch steps and Jensen follows behind me, slow and limping.
The door opens before I can reach for it.
Ozzy.
She’s in a sweatshirt that swallows her and a pair of striped pajama pants.
It’s a Rowe Ranch sweatshirt— my sweatshirt.
Her hair’s in a messy knot on top of her head, and there’s something in her eyes I can’t name.
It’s not fear—thank fuck—but it’s not calm either.
It’s tight. Controlled. Like she’s holding something in by sheer force of will.
Her gaze drops to my hands.
I forgot about the blood.
“Jackson,” she says, quiet but sharp. She opens the door wider, and I step inside. The house is warm. Too warm. It makes the sweat on the back of my neck feel like guilt.
I look back at her, but she’s staring at my hands.
“I’m okay,” I murmur, even though I’m not sure I am.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she walks past me toward her room, and grabs the first aid bag. She sets it down on the table with a snap and points to the chair.
“Sit.” I sit, far too exhausted to fight her.
She starts cleaning my knuckles without a word. Her touch is gentle, careful, but there’s a tension in her shoulders, like she’s one thread away from unraveling.
“I asked you not to go,” she states finally, her voice low and steady.
“I know.”
“I asked you to stay with me.”
“I know.”
Her hands are still on mine, wiping dried blood from the gashes. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.”
“I stayed,” I quip, “until I was sure you were asleep.”
She exhales, sharp and bitter. “Jesus.”
I look up at her. “He touched you.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I told him not to. I told him back at the store, and he didn’t listen. So yeah, I ran over their bikes, and I beat the shit out of him and his boys.”
Her eyes finally meet mine.
“Would you do it again?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t blink. “Without question.”
She closes her eyes, jaw tight. “I don’t need Superman.”
“I know.” I lower my voice as I stare at the wood grain pattern on the table. “But it’s what I needed.”
Her hands still. The silence stretches. For a second, I think she might walk away.
But she doesn’t.
She kneels in front of me instead, resting her arms on my thighs, looking up at me with those big brown, wounded eyes. And fuck, it hurts. The weight of her gaze. The sadness there. The storm she’s carrying that I can’t take from her, no matter how many bones I break.
“You can’t fight every ghost I have, Jackson,” she sighs, her voice breaking just enough to gut me. “You can’t fix this with your fists.”
“I know,” I whisper, my fingers twitching in hers. “But if someone lays a hand on you, Ozzy...I’m not a man who can just sit with that.”
Her breath stutters. She leans her forehead against my knee, and my hands go to her hair automatically, softly and reverently. She smells like clean soap and tears.
“I don’t want you to be afraid,” I murmur. “Not of them. Not of me. Not of what I feel for you.”
She doesn’t answer, but I don’t need her to.
Her hands slide up to grip my thighs, and her forehead stays against me as her shoulders shake. I bend down and wrap my arms around her, folding her into me like I’m trying to shield her from the whole goddamn world.
Because I would.
Because I will .
Because no matter what ghosts she’s running from, I’ll be the man who runs into the fire for her every single time.
Even if it burns me alive.