Chapter Thirty-Three
Jax
The party-bus, as Adrian called it, rolled through the city’s night-lit streets like a moving coffin, headlights slicing through the fog. Adrian’s tattooed knuckles drummed a restless rhythm on the steering wheel, humming something to the tension thickening the air.
Connor sat shotgun, a coiled predator, black eyes fixed on the road ahead. His silence wasn’t calm. It was violence waiting for the right time to release itself.
We wore our black gear and leather gloves, but Adrian had once again added spy goggles to his look, sporting the awful things like some apocalyptic raccoon.
I leaned against the cold metal wall of the van’s interior, the familiar weight of the gun at my side a small comfort in the storm of rage and fear that churned inside me.
Above the workbench, the monitor glowed with the live feed from Connor’s penthouse. Estelle and Sierra were tangled in the sheets, their bodies curled next to each other under silk bedding.
Toffee was sprawled across their legs like a silent protector, his tail flicking in some feline dream. The sight of the girls together would have soothed me if not for the cold fury raging in my chest.
“Two minutes,” Adrian announced, his energy focused to a laser point. His drumming was in perfect rhythm with my heartbeat, or maybe our hearts had synced to this moment of perfect, terrible purpose.
We watched the building’s security feed on a tablet as Damon stepped into the garage. He was tall, built like a fighter who stopped training, with dark hair slicked back and sharp, cutthroat features. Cheekbones like blades, a mouth made for sneering.
He wore a black suit, open at the throat, a gold chain glinting against his skin. He looked angry, unafraid, striding toward the ‘meeting point’ like he owned the night.
Connor and I slid on matching sunglasses and slipped out the van’s side door, moving like shadows. No words, just action.
Connor broke right, silent on concrete like he was made of smoke. In less than two strides, he was behind Damon and locking a thick forearm around his throat.
Damon’s gasp was short-lived—no sound made it out. Just the thump of his back hitting Connor's chest and the rapid scramble of his shoes on concrete as his airway closed.
“What the—” Damon choked, thrashing, but Connor’s grip was iron. Adrian appeared at his other side, pressing the cold snick of a blade against his ribs.
“Field trip time, sunshine.”
Damon’s eyes darted between us, trying to get a good look at our faces, but the sunglasses and shadows kept us anonymous. He snarled, but he wasn't stupid. Not enough to fight three apex predators. We shoved him into the van, Connor's iron grip never leaving his throat.
Inside, the lights were dim, the air cold as a morgue. Adrian zip-tied Damon’s wrists and ankles, then duct-taped his mouth for good measure.
I sat across from him in the dark, sunglasses on, knees spread, forearms on my thighs, just watching him breathe .
I wanted him to feel it. The pressure, the unraveling. I wanted his body to know before his brain did.
He sat there, glaring at us, his posture furious and defiant. His breaths were shallow, and his expensive suit rumpled.
This was the man responsible for putting the weight of the world on my princess’ shoulders. For taking Leo’s mother and threatening his remaining family for years. Estelle bore the burden of all these hardships, and had almost paid for it with her life.
The warehouse was our cathedral of steel and shadows, dedicated to a very particular kind of justice. The air was sharp with the scent of bleach and Adrian’s fucking essential oils.
Concrete echoed under our boots as the guys hauled Damon to the center, chaining him to the metal chair Adrian recently bolted to the floor. The metal bit into his wrists and ankles, the cold seeping into his skin.
Connor moved to the wall of monitors, navigating through a few screens. He was shit with tech, but the screens flickered to life after a minute, each one showing a different angle of his penthouse.
The main display showed the master bedroom, where Estelle and Sierra were still sound asleep, Toffee still sprawled across their legs. Estelle's hair was fanned across the pillow, her face peaceful. She was perfect, beautiful, and I almost lost her today.
Adrian laid out his tools with a manic smile: pliers, a blowtorch, a bucket of saltwater. Connor stood behind Damon, arms crossed, eyes hidden beneath lenses as he stared down at him.
I strolled in front of Damon, sunglasses still on, lazily rolling up my sleeves. "You know," I said, voice easy, "violence was always too messy for my taste. But for you? It’s the only language you’ll understand.”
I ripped the tape from Damon’s mouth in a single, vicious motion. He spat, a red line on the cement, and glared with animal anger. "Who the fuck are you? Do you have any idea who I am?"
Instead of answering, I gestured to the monitors. "Take a look. "
Damon's eyes flicked to the screens, confusion flickering across his sharp features. "What the hell is this?"
"Security footage.” My voice went softer, more intimate, like the beginning of a story told only between monsters. "From across town. See the woman there?"
His eyes narrowed as he studied the feed. Recognition dawned slowly, like a sickness spreading through his features. "That's... that's Estelle Moore.”
"Mmm." I leaned closer, savoring the moment. "Tell me, Damon, what did you try to do to her?"
“What the fuck—” His gaze swung between the white-noise flicker of the screens and the impassive wall of Connor’s form behind him. "Who are you?"
"You really want to know?" I crouched further, close enough for him to see the hard line of my jaw, the gold around my neck. "She’s sleeping so peacefully. No fear, no wondering if today’s the day someone tries to take Leo from her."
Damon's breathing quickened, and beneath the bravado, I saw the beginnings of panic bloom. "You’re fucked, you know that?" he snapped, his voice brittle. "Watching her sleep like some kind of?—"
"Like some kind of what?" I interrupted. "Like someone who loves her? Like someone who would do anything to keep her safe?"
His angry eyes widened. Something was clicking into place.
"Or maybe," I continued, reaching up to remove my sunglasses, "like someone who remembers exactly what you tried to do earlier.”
The moment my eyes were revealed, Damon's expression shifted from confusion to recognition to pure, undiluted terror. His skin went ashen, his mouth falling open as he stared.
"You," he breathed. "You're the one who threatened my men at her apartment.”
"That's right." I folded my sunglasses carefully, tucking them into my shirt’s neckline. "I'm the man who told your boys to stay away from her. The man who made it very fucking clear I’d gut them if it didn’t happen. ”
All that charm, all that cartel bravado—it wilted at the realization.
His voice dropped low. "Easton. Jax fucking Easton."
"In the flesh,” I smirked wickedly, gesturing back to the monitors.
There was something so goddamn addicting about this—being recognized for the blood running through my veins, for the reputation my father had chiseled from broken men and shattered enemies. Watching a predator realize he’d just become prey.
Estelle shifted slightly in her sleep, her hand reaching out before flopping over Sierra.
The rage inside me had crystallized into something focused, a diamond-hard purpose that left no room for mercy. I could feel it in my chest, this perfect, terrible love that would tear the world apart to keep her safe.
"Damon," I continued, my voice dropping to a whisper, "you made a mistake. You thought you could hurt her, kill her. You thought you could take what was mine."
I leaned in close enough that he could smell my cologne, expensive and civilized—a stark contrast to the monster I was about to become.
"You're the man who killed Giselle Moore. You're the man who tried to steal her son. You're the man who tried to kill Estelle Moore."
Damon tried to sneer, baring his teeth. “Giselle was a junkie. I did her a favor."
"Wrong fucking answer," I said softly.
The first punch was for Estelle and her sister. My rings cracked against his cheekbone, splitting the skin open like overripe fruit. Blood bloomed instantly, painting his face crimson. The second was for Leo—a sharp jab to the ribs that left him gasping, his body folding inward like paper.
Connor held him upright when he sagged, his massive hands gripping Damon's shoulders. "Stay awake," he rumbled, voice carrying the weight of granite. "You're not done yet."
I stepped back, rolling my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache in my knuckles. The sound of my fists connecting with his flesh echoed in the warehouse, a percussion of justice that had been years in the making. This wasn't the clean violence of the ring. This was personal, necessary.
"You know Estelle found her sister that night?” I asked, my voice conversational despite the blood on my hands. “Her whole life tilted while you were counting money.”
Damon spat blood at my feet. "I gave her what she wanted. The needle was her choice."
I threw another punch, followed by a pounding of Connor’s fist straight to the top of his head, shutting him up. I breathed hard, cooling the rage surging through me as I watched Adrian grab the tools.
He stepped around Connor with a pair of surgical shears from his kit, the blades gleaming under the dim warehouse lights. The metal whispered against itself as he opened and closed them, teasing the sharpness.
"Here's how this works," Adrian said, his voice taking on that manic edge that meant someone was about to suffer.
"I'm going to ask you to sign some papers.
Very important papers. And for every ten seconds you don't comply.
.." He snipped the shears in the air, the sound sharp and final.
"I take a finger. Starting with your left pinky. "
Damon's eyes widened, understanding dawning. "You can't?—"