5. The Show
The Show
Summer
Jackson steps out first. He adjusts his jacket like this is any other night—the unhurried movements of a man who has never once had to question whether the world will arrange itself around him.
Then he turns and extends a hand toward me.
It isn't an invitation. It's expectation. A command dressed up as manners.
I stay where I am. One second passes. Then another.
The muscles of his jaw contract and he exhales—the smallest betrayal of frustration, gone almost before it arrives. Small enough that most people would miss it. I don't.
His hand drops. The next second his fingers close around my arm, and he drags me from the car with controlled force.
"We're going to have to do something about your lack of compliance, princess." His voice is low and calm.
“Fuck. You.” I snarl, emphasizing each word.
A smile tips his lips as he pulls me hard.
I stumble onto the stone, cold seeping straight through the soles of my feet. The car door slams behind me, as vicious as a crack of bone in the quiet night.
The driver is already at the front door, unlocking it. The click is soft. But there is nothing gentle in the feeling it leaves behind.
I count my steps from the car to the entrance distance—twenty-three steps in total.
I clock the stone pillars flanking the door, solid and wide—perfect to hide behind.
There’s a single camera mounted above the entrance, angled downward, covering the steps but not the left side of the facade where the wall meets the tree line.
The second we step inside, everything changes.
The place smells faintly of polish and something sterile underneath it, something that reminds me of bleach, of scrubbed surfaces, of life removed on purpose.
The floors are white marble, glossy enough to throw back fragments of light.
The lighting is recessed and expensive, soft enough to look elegant but not warm enough to touch the corners, where shadows still gather like they belong there.
Paintings line the walls in heavy gold frames.
At first glance they're beautiful. At second glance they feel disturbed somehow, as though something ugly is hiding beneath the surface and only shows itself if you look too long.
There's no clutter. No personal things. No signs that anyone laughs here, forgets things here, lives here.
So, this is my prison.
Jackson lets go of my arm. Heat lingers where his fingers were, burning across my skin, promising a mark that won't fade fast. I fight the urge to rub at it, to scrub at it, to tear the feeling away.
It wouldn't help. Nothing would. But even as the shame settles I am still working. Still taking in everything I encounter.
The hallway runs straight from the entrance—long, wide, doors on either side, all closed.
I count them. Four on the left, three on the right before the hallway bends out of sight.
The staircase is at the far end, wide and central, which means it's the most visible route between floors.
There will be another way up. There always is in houses like this.
Something for staff. Something less exposed. I'll find it.
Footsteps sound behind us. I turn before I can stop myself, drawn to the sound the way something hunted turns toward the thing stalking it.
Three men.
My stomach twists the second I recognize one of them.
Donnie.
The name alone is enough to send bile up my throat.
Memory flashes hot and ugly—hands that hurt my best friends, the weight of him, the smell of sweat and something sour that overwhelmed my senses when I was forced to sacrifice myself for my girls.
The other two are strangers, which in a place like this means nothing good.
They look at me the way men look at things they've already decided belong to them.
The realization settles cold. I don't need anyone to say it. I'm not a person here. Not even a prisoner.
I’m something to be handled. Something to be used.
Jackson moves beside me, shrugging off his jacket with a calmness that feels obscene in a moment like this. He folds it over his arm, like this is no more than an introduction. Then he places himself just behind me. Just enough to control the space; enough to remind me where I am.
In the middle of the devil and the wolves.
Exposed.
Silence stretches as the men keep staring. I feel each second of it. Feel their attention crawl over my skin. The tall one with the black mustache runs his tongue over his lower lip. My fingers curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to hurt. Jackson breaks the silence.
"Summer will be staying here for quite some time." His voice is even. Controlled. Empty of anything human.
My heart jumps to my throat as I stare straight ahead, refusing to look at any of them again. Refusing to give them anything else.
"But there are boundaries with this one."
This one.
Not her. Not she. Not even Summer.
This one.
Like I'm a thing. Replaceable. Interchangeable. Disposable.
"None of you are to lay a finger on her."
For one split second, something stupid inside me stirs. A satisfaction that I'm off limits to the wolves.
Then he finishes.
"You don't hurt a hair on her head without my say-so."
The meaning twists instantly; he’s not offering protection. He’s saying they need to ask permission.
His gaze moves between them, slow and certain, making sure every one of them understands him. Making sure there's no space for misunderstanding, no excuse later.
"Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir."
All three answer at once. No pause. No resistance. Just obedience.
The sound hollows something out inside me, because it feels too natural. Too practiced. Like this isn't the first time. Like I'm not the first girl who's stood where I'm standing now.
Jackson steps closer. Barely anything. My body reacts anyway.
Every muscle tightens. My breath catches before I can stop it.
I hate that. Hate that he can do that without touching me.
He stops just behind my shoulder, bringing his hand up to gently tuck my hair behind my ear, sending a chill of repulse through me.
Lowers his head until his mouth hovers over my ear.
"Because…"
His voice drops, quieter now. Heavier. Intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"…every tear you shed…"
My pulse turns unsteady. A chill slips down my spine.
"…will belong to me."
The reality of it hits all at once—the men behind me, the guns at their hips, the walls closing in, nowhere to go and no way through any of it. I don't run. I don't scream. There's no point and I know it, and knowing it is its own kind of horror.
I'm fucked.
It barely settles before the ground vanishes beneath me as he lifts me and puts me over his shoulder.
A gasp tears out of me as I'm lifted in one easy motion. My body reacts before my mind does—hands pushing, twisting, fighting for space—but it means nothing. Jackson doesn't even stagger. His hold is solid, immovable, like I weigh nothing.
Like I am nothing.
A sob breaks free, raw and humiliating, as he carries me down the hall like my choices no longer belong to me.
"Have fun." The voice comes from behind us, laced with mockery. I twist just enough to see Donnie raising a hand in a slow, taunting wave, his grin wide and ugly. The other men laugh under their breath, and nausea slams into me all over again.
Heat rushes to my face, shame and fear twisting together until I can't pull them apart.
I force my gaze away and go rigid in Jackson's arms, trying to make myself smaller.
It doesn't work. Nothing works. Jackson doesn't react to the laughter.
Doesn't acknowledge any of it. He just keeps walking with the same steady calm, like this is routine.
Like it belongs in his world. Even now, carried down this hallway like something purchased, I am still counting doors.
Still noting which direction we've turned.
Still mapping the distance between where we started and where we're going.
We reach a door at the end of the hall, and before I can brace myself, he drops me back onto my feet.
The impact jolts through my legs. My knees buckle, and I catch myself at the last second, breath coming fast and shallow.
Jackson pushes the door inward with one hand before stepping aside.
And for whatever stupid reason, I lift my head.
It’s not the expression he wears that knocks the breath out of me, not even the sweat beading at his hairline. It’s his eyes.
Every story I've ever heard about Jackson Moore crashes into me at once. My breath falters. My skin turns to ice. I can't make my feet move, can't drag my gaze away from his. It's like looking into the eyes of something that already knows exactly how easily it could kill me.
His expression barely changes. It doesn't have to.
"Go,” he almost growls.
The sound slides over my skin, low enough to feel more than hear.
It sends a shudder racing through me, every instinct recoiling as though my body recognizes the danger before my mind can catch up.
It isn't the volume that terrifies me. It's how effortlessly he pulls fear from somewhere deep inside me I didn't know existed.
"Please… please Jackson," my lip trembles, tears tracking silently down my cheeks as I plead for my freedom. For my life.
"If you don't follow my instructions, I can have my men bring you in here," he says, his voice dropping to something quieter and more dangerous than a shout would ever be. "A snap of my fingers and they'll tear you apart."
Every instinct screams at me to run, to fight, to throw myself back down the corridor if that's what it takes, but my eyes betray me, darting past Jackson to the men standing at the end of the hall.
Huddled together, laughing, one of them mimicking movements with his hands.
And I can picture just how much damage he could do with those hands on me.