Chapter 9
By mid-afternoon, or the ninth hour, of Mackenzi avoiding me, I’m ready to put my fist through one of the security monitors. Not because she’s difficult. Christ, she’s been difficult since I pulled her out of that lecture hall. It’s because I know exactly why she’s avoiding me.
Good girl.
Two careless words.
That’s all it took.
Now, every time she enters a room, she does this subtle shift whenever I look directly at her, like she suddenly remembers breakfast and doesn’t know where to put her eyes. I can’t tell whether she’s angry at herself for reacting or embarrassed.
And fuck, if I haven’t been thinking about that reaction all goddamn day.
Her cheeks flushed, and her fingers tightened around that coffee mug as she sucked in a sharp inhale that she tried to hide the second the words rolled off my tongue.
But it’s not just that. Not for me. It’s the way she responds to my direction without even realizing she’s doing it.
The moment I give her a strong enough structure, all that bratty energy wanes.
The constant testing, pushing, and provoking isn’t because she wants chaos. It’s because she needs boundaries and guidance. Someone solid enough to push back and take control when her emotions start outrunning her common sense.
Not protection wrapped in softness and coddling, but authority, care, and discipline balanced with patience.
Someone who will feed her when she forgets to eat and put that smart mouth in place when she spirals too far with it.
Someone who will make her feel safe enough to stop fighting every second of the day.
A Daddy.
The realization lands like a fucking landmine to my soul every time I think about it, because I know exactly how naturally she’d respond.
And worse, I know how much I would enjoy taming her.
I scrub a hand over my face and lean back in the chair inside the command center, eyes tracking the security feeds, trying to think about literally anything else.
The room hums quietly with electronics and overlapping camera angles of perimeter views, interior hallways, and thermal scans outside the fencing. Every inch of this place is under surveillance to mitigate threats, which means I notice Mackenzi the second she storms into the east-wing hallway.
My posture straightens instantly. She’s moving fast. Too fast. Dark hair bounces behind her while anger radiates off her even through grainy security footage. She is making a beeline for the patio French doors at the rear of the mansion.
“Shit.” I shove aggressively away from the desk, hard enough that the chair slams into the console behind me.
I take off down the hallway, my boots pounding against the tile floors as I race to catch up with her.
I round the corner just as her hand touches the door handle.
“Hey,” I bark sharply. “Where do you think you’re going? ”
She startles violently, spinning toward me with wide eyes.
And the second I see her face, my irritation evaporates. Her eyes are glassy, and her breathing is erratic. “I need to get out of here,” she whispers, her voice cracking slightly with every word.
Fuck.
I slow my approach immediately. “You know I can’t let you go anywhere.”
Her shoulders tremble beneath the oversized sweater she’s wearing as she tries desperately to hold back her tears. “I just…” She swallows hard. “I just need some fresh air.”
Her simple request hits harder than it should, because suddenly, she doesn’t look spoiled, bratty, or difficult. She looks trapped, cabin-fevered, and overwhelmed, trying not to crawl out of her skin.
I glance at the security camera overhead before pressing two fingers against my earpiece.
“Jagger.” Static crackles briefly.
“Yeah, Damon?”
“Extra eyes on the perimeter. I’m taking Mackenzi for a walk.”
“Oh, this should be?—”
“Jagger,” I huff the admonishment through the comms.
“Right. Copy that.”
Mackenzi blinks at me in surprise. “Really?”
I meet her gaze steadily and gruff, “Do not make me regret this.”
We walk the compound in silence, the late-afternoon sun hanging low across the estate grounds, washing everything in a veil of gold.
Gravel crunches softly beneath our feet as we walk along the winding garden paths.
Somewhere near the outer fence, guards rotate positions while birds chatter noisily in the trees overhead.
Mackenzi breathes deeper the farther we get from the house, like the walls themselves were suffocating her. I keep half my attention on the perimeter, while the other half stays entirely fixed on her. The conversation between us flows surprisingly easily.
“So,” I say after several subject changes from one meaningless topic to the next with unexpected ease. “What’s got you so worked up, trouble?”
She snorts softly without looking up at me. “Besides being held prisoner?”
“Yes,” I reply dryly. “Besides that.”
Silence stretches for a brief moment before she answers quieter than before. “I haven’t been able to reach anyone at school.”
“Anyone,” I ask carefully, something ugly twisting unexpectedly low in my chest, “or someone?”
Her gaze drops toward the gravel path.
“… someone.”
The jealousy that hits me is immediate and irrational.
“Their loss.” My thought comes so fast, it surprises me. Her eyes snap toward me, and I realize the words spilled out of me as quickly as I thought them, leaving me to wonder whether I have somehow developed Jagger’s brain-to-mouth filter issue.
“How can you say that?” she asks softly. “You don’t even know me.”
I study her profile for a moment before answering, “I already know a lot about you.”
Her eyes lift back to mine, the dark pools suddenly full of curiosity.
“Really?”
I nod once.
“Mackenzi Ann Bradenburg. Born September nineteenth to Richard and Camille Bradenburg.”
The second her mother’s name leaves my mouth, the air changes.
It’s subtle but immediate. The lightness disappears from her expression so quickly, it feels like watching a door slam shut.
Camille. Nobody in this house says that name.
When she died, she became a ghost in memory, too.
Something tightens painfully across Mackenzi’s features before she looks away.
Fuck.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
She swallows hard before nodding once. “It’s okay.”
But it’s not. I can tell it’s not.
We walk in silence for a few steps before I continue, “You were an early graduate from Monte Claire Prep. It obtained you early acceptance into Westbridge, where you are double-majoring in chemistry and bioengineering.”
She groans softly beside me.
“Okay, okay. I get it.” A small laugh escapes her. “You read my file.”
One corner of my lips pulls slightly. I’ve memorized her file.
“That doesn’t mean you actually know me,” she adds.
I hold my breath for a second, debating whether or not I should continue. Because the truth is, I am beginning to actually know her. More than I should, and far more than is safe.
“You put on a brave face because you’ve had to for a really long time,” I share quietly, and her teasing smile falters. “But in reality, you’re worried people won’t like you for who you are.”
My words land harder than I intended, her breath catching and her shoulders tensing. “Ouch,” she mutters weakly, pressing a hand dramatically against her chest. But the overly dramatic feigned response doesn’t quite hide the truth underneath it: that I’m right.
I’ve watched her enough now to see the pattern: the sarcasm, the performance, and the way she talks first, so nobody else gets the chance to define her before she can control the room. And most notably, the way she acts out preemptively in an attempt to give herself the semblance of control.
“You shouldn’t, though,” I add before I can stop myself.
She blinks up at me slowly. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Worry.” The lone word falls from my tongue as we reach the patio doors. The second it leaves my mouth, I know I’ve said too much.
Mackenzi slows beside me, not completely stopping, but enough that the shift registers.
Her eyes search my face with an intensity that pulls tight beneath my ribs, like she’s trying to figure out whether I actually meant it or if this is just another carefully measured response from the man assigned to keep her safe.
The problem is, I did mean it. The low sunlight catches against her hair as the breeze lifts a few strands across her cheek, and I fight the urge to tuck the strays behind her ear.
With my hands shoved firmly in my pockets, I stare down at her.
She looks softer outside the house, and it might honestly be more dangerous than when she’s mouthing off.
Because when Mackenzi drops the attitude for even half a second, it becomes painfully easy to see what’s underneath.
Distance, Damon. You need distance.
After taking my hand from my pocket, I reach past her to pull open one of the heavy patio doors, my arm brushing lightly against her shoulder in the process. The contact is brief and accidental, but it’s electric. She glances up at me again as we step inside, her expression quieter now.
“What?” I ask finally, rougher than intended.
“Nothing.” I can see the lie on the tip of her tongue, unspoken words I am certain will unravel my restraint more than her attitude ever could.