Chapter 9 Jinx
Chapter Nine: Jinx
Two weeks is too fucking long.
I know Asher is right. I know my body needs time.
The hole in my side is healing, the stitches dissolved, the skin knitting together into another scar to add to my collection.
But my muscles have gone soft from disuse.
My reflexes are slow. And every time I close my eyes, I see Geneva burning and those damn kids slipping through our fingers.
So I do what I always do when the world gets too loud.
I fight.
The barn is cold in the early morning, frost still clinging to the windows. My breath fogs the air as I wrap my hands, the familiar ritual settling my nerves. Left hand, right hand. Tape between the fingers, around the wrists. Armor for the parts of me that touch the world.
The heavy bag hangs in the center of the space, waiting.
I throw the first punch and pain lances through my side.
Not the sharp agony of a fresh wound, but a deep ache that warns me to stop.
I ignore it. Throw another punch. Another.
Build a rhythm, let the impact travel up my arms and into my shoulders, let the physical sensation drown out everything else.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Body shot.
My side screams. I keep going.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Body shot.
Sweat drips down my face. My lungs burn. My muscles shake with the effort of holding a pace I haven't maintained in weeks.
Jab. Cross. Hook—
"You're going to tear your stitches."
Jace's voice cuts through the fog. I stop mid-swing, catching the bag to still it, and turn to find my brother in the barn doorway.
He's dressed for training, loose pants and a fitted shirt, knives strapped to his forearms in the sheaths he designed himself.
His gray eyes miss nothing. Never have. That's what makes him the Reaper.
"Stitches are out."
"Internal damage isn't healed. Liver trauma takes weeks to fully repair.
You're working against a timeline that doesn't care about your impatience.
" He crosses to the equipment rack, selects a roll of tape with the same precision he uses for everything.
"Elliot said four more days minimum before you should be doing any kind of contact work. "
"Elliot's not my mother."
"No. He's the man who is monitoring you because he’s a nerd about learning how to do things and you’re his test subject for his medical hyperfixation.
" Jace's voice is flat, but there's an edge underneath.
Concern, maybe. With Jace it's always hard to tell.
He keeps everything locked down tight. "If you undo his work because you're too stubborn to follow advice, I'll hold you down while he stitches you up again. And I won't be gentle about it."
"You could try. Besides, he’s not a doctor, so I’m under no obligation to listen to that little dork."
"Watch yourself. You're at maybe sixty percent right now, probably less. I could take you with one hand tied behind my back." He starts wrapping his own hands, methodical, precise. Every motion perfect. "But I'd rather not. Asher would be upset, and upset Asher is annoying. He hovers."
My chest loosens. This is how Jace shows he cares. Not through words or gestures, but through presence. Through showing up in a cold barn at six in the morning because he knew I'd be here, pushing too hard, ignoring my limits.
"I need to move," I admit. "Sitting around is making me crazy. Every time I close my eyes, I see failure."
"Then move smarter." He finishes wrapping and steps onto the mat, his weight settling into a balanced stance. "Footwork drills. No contact, no strikes. You work on mobility, I work on timing. Everyone wins, nobody tears anything important."
"When did you become the reasonable one?"
"I've always been the reasonable one. You and Jagger are the chaos agents. I'm just here to clean up the mess." He settles into a fighting stance, hands loose at his sides. "Ready?"
We circle each other. No punches, no strikes. Just movement. Jace advances, I retreat. I advance, he retreats. Angles and positioning, the dance that happens before violence. The foundation everything else is built on.
It's surprisingly meditative. My side aches but doesn't scream. My muscles burn but don't fail. The rhythm of the drill pulls me out of my head and into my body, and for a few minutes, I can almost forget everything else.
Almost.
"Asher's good for you," Jace says without breaking stride.
"What?"
"You've been different since he showed up. Less..." He pauses, searching for the word with the same care he uses for everything. "Volatile. Chaotic. Self-destructive."
"I'm plenty volatile."
"Less, though. You're sleeping better. Eating more. Making stupid jokes instead of just being stupid." He shifts left, I mirror him. "Elliot noticed too. He says you're finally learning how to regulate your emotions instead of just reacting to them."
"Elliot uses too many therapy words."
"Elliot survived things that would have broken most people. He earned his therapy words." Jace stops moving, drops his hands. His gray eyes find mine, and for once they're not flat. They're searching. "Do you love him?"
The question catches me off guard. Jace doesn't ask about feelings. Jace barely acknowledges that feelings exist. The fact that he's asking now means something, though I'm not sure what.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "Maybe. Probably. I'm not good at identifying this shit."
"Neither was I. Then Elliot happened." His eyes soften. "It's terrifying. Loving someone. Knowing they can be taken from you. Knowing that everything you've built can be destroyed in a single moment."
"You're really selling it. Please, continue."
"I'm telling you the truth. Love is terrifying." He picks up a towel, wipes sweat from his face. "But it's also the only thing that makes any of this worth surviving. The Foundry tried to make us into weapons, tried to strip away everything human. Love is how we prove they failed."
I stare at my brother. The Reaper. The silent killer who's put more men in the ground than either of us can count. And he's standing here in a cold barn, talking about love like it's a tactical advantage.
"When did you get wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just weren't paying attention." He tosses me the towel. "Go shower. Singapore briefing is in two hours. And Jinx?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever you decide about Asher, decide it soon. Uncertainty is a liability in the field. You need to know what you're fighting for before you walk into another facility."
He leaves before I can respond, silent as always, the barn door swinging shut behind him.
I stand alone in the cold, turning his words over in my mind.
Know what you're fighting for.
I think I already do.
The briefing isn't until ten. It's barely eight now.
I shower, dress, wander through the farmhouse. Everyone is occupied with preparation. Jagger hunched over his tablet, running simulations. Marlee checking weapons with Thiago, whose shoulder has healed enough to be useful. Kira pacing by the window, still jumpy from Geneva.
And Asher.
He's in the kitchen, making coffee, because apparently that's what he does. His back is to me, broad shoulders shifting under his shirt as he moves.
I watch him, unobserved. The way he holds himself. The economy of his movements. The quiet strength that radiates from him even when he's doing something as mundane as brewing coffee. The beard he’s been growing in and the stubble across his head from lack of time to shave it bald.
Know what you're fighting for.
I cross the kitchen in four strides and spin him around.
His eyes widen, hands coming up instinctively, but I'm already kissing him. Not gentle. Not careful. The kind of kiss that says things I don't have words for, that pours everything I'm feeling into the press of lips and the clash of tongues.
He recovers fast, hands finding my hips, pulling me closer. The counter digs into his back. My body presses against his. The kiss deepens, turns desperate, turns into something that feels like a promise.
"Jinx." He breaks away, breathing hard. "What—"
"Upstairs. Now."
"The briefing—"
"Isn't for two hours." I grab his hand and drag him toward the stairs. "We've got time."
"You're still healing—"
"Then we'll be careful." I stop at the bottom of the stairs, turn to face him. "I need this, Asher. I need you. Not because I'm scared or hurting or trying to forget. Because I finally figured out what Jace meant."
"What did Jace mean?"
"That I need to know what I'm fighting for before I walk into another mission." I hold his gaze, let him see everything I've been hiding. "It's you. You're what I'm fighting for. Just you.”
His expression shifts. The surprise fades, replaced by something warmer. Something that makes my chest ache in the best possible way.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay?"
"Okay." He takes my hand, threads his fingers through mine. "Lead the way."
We make it to the bedroom without encountering anyone. Small miracles.
I lock the door behind us and turn to find him watching me, dark eyes soft, waiting.
"What do you want?" he asks.
"You. All of you. Whatever you'll give me."
"That's not very specific."
"Fine." I cross to him, grab his shirt, start unbuttoning. "I want to taste every inch of your skin. I want to make you come so hard you forget your own name. I want to feel you inside me, filling me up, making me forget that anything else exists except the two of us."
His breath catches. "That's more specific."
"I'm a fast learner."
His shirt hits the floor. Then mine. We strip each other with an urgency that has nothing to do with desperation and everything to do with want. Pure, simple want.
The bed catches us when we fall, tangled together, skin against skin.
This time is different.
The first time was violence and need and two dominants fighting for control. Teeth and nails and the desperate clash of bodies that couldn't decide whether to fuck or fight. This time is slower. Deeper... loving.