Chapter 6 Jett
JETT
She wears the cut to breakfast.
The bar goes silent when she walks in, her sunshine hair tumbling over the leather, the Property patch visible on her back. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Whiskey lets out a whoop, and the room explodes.
Cheers. Whistles. Mama Rosa crying into her apron while Tessa hugs her so hard she lifts her off the ground. Even the prospects are grinning, slapping each other on the back like they had something to do with it.
I watch from the doorway, something fierce and satisfied settling in my chest. She's mine. Everyone can see it now. Every person in this room knows that touching her means dealing with me.
She catches my eye across the crowd, and her smile could power the sun.
I cross the room, ignoring the catcalls and the knowing looks. When I reach her, I tilt her chin up with one finger and kiss her in front of everyone. Not a quick peck. A real kiss, the kind that makes it crystal clear what we are to each other.
"Looks good on you," I say when I pull back.
"Feels good on me." She's flushed, breathless, beautiful.
I force myself to let her go. There's work to do. Problems to solve. The biggest one being Garrett Ashworth, who's escalating faster than I expected.
The call comes in around noon.
My contact in Ohio—a guy who owes me enough favors to stay quiet about why I'm asking, and more importantly, won't ask questions—delivers news that makes my jaw clench. The news isn't good.
"Ashworth filed a missing persons report three days ago," he says, his voice crackling slightly over the connection.
"Local cops are taking it seriously because of who his daddy is—you know, the judge with connections all the way up the state government food chain.
They've got her plates flagged in three states: Ohio, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania. "
I grip the phone so hard the case creaks, the plastic threatening to crack under my fingers. "What else?"
"He's been in regular contact with her parents.
Multiple calls, visits to their house. Telling them she's mentally unstable, maybe on drugs—prescription pills, he suggested—definitely in danger from 'the wrong crowd.
' Classic manipulation. The mom's a complete wreck, apparently hasn't stopped crying.
The dad's different—angry, wants to hire someone to track her down and drag her home. "
I close my eyes, breathing slowly through my nose, trying to control the rage that wants to consume me, that wants to make me tear through the room and put my fist through the nearest wall.
This is exactly what men like Ashworth do.
They isolate. They manipulate. They systematically turn everyone against their target until she has nowhere left to run, no one left to trust.
Not this time.
"Get me a direct number for the parents," I say, my voice flat and controlled. "I'm going to make a call."
Sparrow's mother answers on the third ring.
"Mrs. Delaney?" I keep my voice calm, measured. Non-threatening. "My name is Jett. I'm a friend of your daughter's."
Silence. Then, cautious: "Where is she? Is she okay? Garrett said—"
"Garrett lied." I cut her off, but gently. "Whatever he told you about drugs, about instability, about danger, it's not true. What is true is that he hurt her. Badly. For a long time. She ran because she had to, and she's been running ever since."
I hear a sharp intake of breath. Then crying.
"She's safe now," I continue. "She's with people who care about her. If you want to talk to her, she can call you. But she's not coming back to Ohio. And she's not going anywhere near Garrett Ashworth ever again."
The father's voice comes on the line, gruff and suspicious. "Who the hell are you? How do we know you're not just—"
"I'm the man who's going to keep your daughter safe.
That's all you need to know." I pause, choosing my next words carefully.
"She loves you. She misses you. But she was too scared to call because she thought Ashworth might trace it.
I'm giving you a secure number. Use it. Tell her you believe her. "
I hang up before they can ask more questions.
When I find Sparrow in the storage room, surrounded by her spreadsheets and her color-coded folders, she takes one look at my face and knows something's happened.
"What is it?" she asks, her brow furrowing as she studies my expression.
"I called your parents."
The color drains from her face in an instant. "You what?"
"Ashworth's been feeding them lies for months now. Making them think you're unstable, that you're on drugs, maybe even dangerous. I set them straight. Told them the truth about what he did to you."
Her hands begin trembling visibly. I cross the cramped storage room in three strides and take them gently in mine, feeling how cold her fingers are.
"They want to hear from you, Sparrow. They're scared for you, confused about everything that's happened, but they want to believe you. I gave them a secure number that can't be traced back to here."
Tears spill down her cheeks, leaving wet tracks in their wake. "Jett, I can't— what if he finds out? What if he—"
"He won't." I pull her against my chest, wrap my arms around her. "I've got people watching him. He can't move without me knowing. You're safe. Your parents are safe. And when this is over, you can see them again. I promise."
She cries into my shirt for a long time. I hold her and let her, stroking her hair, murmuring words I didn't know I had in me.
When she finally looks up, her eyes are red but her voice is steady. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I want to." She reaches up, traces my jaw with her fingertips. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."
"You walked through my door." I press a kiss to her forehead. "That's all it took."
That night, after the bar closes, she comes to me.
I'm in the bedroom, reading through reports I should have dealt with hours ago, when the door opens and she slips inside. She's wearing one of my shirts, nothing else, and the sight of her knocks the breath right out of my lungs.
"I talked to my mom," she says, climbing onto the bed. "She cried. She apologized. She said she should have known, should have seen something was wrong." Sparrow settles into my lap, straddling me, her hands flat on my chest. "She asked about the man who called her. I told her you're good to me."
"Am I?"
"The best." She kisses me, soft at first, then deeper. "I want to be good to you too."
Before I can respond, she pushes me back onto the pillows. Her hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. Her mouth follows, tracing the tattoos on my chest with lips and tongue.
"Sparrow—"
"Shh." She looks up at me with those bright blue eyes. "Let me."
I let her.
She takes her time exploring my body, learning what makes me groan, what makes my hands fist in the sheets.
When she takes me in her mouth, I nearly come off the bed.
She's tentative at first, testing, but she finds her confidence fast. Her tongue swirls, her hand strokes, and I'm fighting for control I don't usually have to fight for.
"Enough." My voice comes out rough, wrecked. I pull her up, flip her beneath me, and strip the shirt off her in one motion. "My turn."
I worship her the way she deserves. Every inch. Every curve. Every soft gasp and broken moan. When I finally sink into her, she arches up to meet me, nails raking down my back.
This time is different from the first. Less careful. More desperate. We've crossed a threshold somewhere in the past twenty-four hours, and there's no going back. She's mine in every way that matters, and I'm hers, and the truth of that burns through me with every thrust.
She comes with my name on her lips, and I follow right after, burying my face in her neck as the world whites out.
After, lying tangled in the rumpled sheets with her warm body pressed against mine, she traces lazy, aimless patterns on my chest with her fingertips.
"Jett?"
"Mm?"
"I love you."
I go completely still, every muscle tensing. The words hang in the air between us, heavy and terrifying and more right than anything I've ever heard in my entire life.
"I don't know if I know how to love," I admit, the words dragging up from somewhere deep inside. The honesty hurts, scraping against old wounds and buried scars I thought had healed over years ago. "I know how to protect. How to possess. How to fight for what's mine. But love..."
She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression so tender, so full of understanding it makes my chest physically ache.
"That's love, Jett. Just dressed up in leather and wrapped in different words."
I pull her close, holding her tight against me like I can press her into my bones. I want to say it back. God, I want to. The words are right there, crowding my throat, pushing at my teeth. But something holds them back—some old fear, some deep-rooted damage I haven't managed to shake yet.
She doesn't push. She doesn't demand. She just curls into me, fitting perfectly against my side, her head resting on my chest, her breathing gradually evening out as she drifts toward sleep.
I lie awake for a long time afterward, watching her peaceful face in the dim light, wondering how the hell I got so lucky to have her here.
And planning, step by step, exactly what I'm going to do to Garrett Ashworth when I finally get my hands on him.
The next morning, one of Ashworth's PIs turns up dead. Car accident on the highway. Seemingly random. Nothing to connect it to us. But I know better. This is Ashworth sending a message. He's willing to clean house to protect himself. He's willing to burn everything down.
The war has begun.
I look at Sparrow across the breakfast table, laughing at something Tessa said, her whole face lit up with joy.
I'll burn down the world before I let him touch her again.