Chapter 14 I Want This
The next day Jackson texted at four forty-five. Outside.
We'd agreed to meet after class to start on the project. Apparently "partners" also meant he got to organize my schedule.
I grabbed my bag, checked that I had what I needed, and headed outside.
He was parked at the curb in the same dark SUV from Saturday night, engine running. As soon as I stepped outside, he got out, circled the car, and opened the passenger door for me.
I got in without comment.
The drive toward the east side of town took about fifteen minutes. The streets changed gradually, commercial blocks giving way to quieter residential ones, then to something still quieter. I watched through the passenger window, noting entry points, sight lines, the thinning foot traffic.
The gate to pack territory appeared sooner than I expected. Solid iron set into a stone wall that stretched out of sight. A guardhouse sat to the right, manned, with a camera angled for plates. I noted the model, the angle, the blind spots.
The guard recognized Jackson's car and waved it through without stopping us. I noted that too.
"The grocery store is down that way," Jackson said, nodding left as we passed a junction. "Opens at seven, closes at nine. Bakery next to it does everything fresh. There's a gym, a medical clinic, a school for the younger kids." He glanced at me. "It's self-sufficient. That's the point."
I wondered if he realized what he was giving me. The layout. The rhythms. The points of entry. Maybe he did. More likely, he'd decided it didn't matter.
We passed a narrower road lined with older trees that arched overhead.
At the end of it, set back and elevated, sat a larger, older house.
Stone facade. Wide porch. Gravel drive. The alpha's house.
Thomas Black's house. I had studied it from satellite images, but seeing it in person hit different. Power built into the architecture.
Jackson didn't mention it and I didn't ask.
His own house was three minutes farther in, a two-story white clapboard on a corner lot with a wide porch and cars in the driveway.
My research had told me he didn't live in the alpha's house. That had been one of the first things I confirmed before I ever set foot in this town. The whole community sat on pack land, every house inside the gates owned by the pack in some way, but there was a difference between living under your father’s roof and living three minutes down the road with roommates. Jackson had chosen the latter. What that said about him, whether independence, practicality, or something else, I still hadn’t decided.
He parked and we got out. The front door opened before we even reached the porch. Jason stood there grinning.
"She actually came," he said to Jackson.
"Don't make it weird," Jackson said.
“I’m not.” Jason stepped back to let us in, still smiling. “I’m just saying… I win.”
Jackson sighed. “What did you win?”
“A private victory,” Jason said cheerfully. “Rick’s in the kitchen. Lia’s upstairs.” He raised his voice. “Lia!”
The house felt lived-in — open floor plan, worn hardwood, bookshelves stuffed full, a couch that had clearly seen years of use. It smelled like someone had been cooking.
Rick appeared from the kitchen, dish towel over his shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said.
Footsteps came down the stairs. Lia appeared, took us in, and descended at her own pace.
“Didn’t realize Jackson was bringing company,” she said, eyes flicking over me. “Harper, right? From lectures.”
“That’s me.”
“Mhm.” She continued toward the kitchen, then looked at Jackson. A small smile tugged at her mouth. “Two girls in three days. That might be a record.”
The silence was sudden and heavy. I didn't react outwardly and ignored the unwelcome stab of... whatever that was.
“Lia,” Rick warned.
“What?” She blinked, all innocence. “Naomi was here Saturday. I just meant—”
“Lia. Stop.” Jackson’s voice was low and flat. The warmth had vanished.
She recalibrated instantly. “Sorry. Bad joke.” Her gaze slid to me. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I said nothing. She understood the silence perfectly.
Jackson’s hand settled at the small of my back. Every sensible part of me told me to step away.
I didn't.
“Come on.”
We headed for the stairs, Lia's eyes on my back the whole way up. My cat was hissing. I told her to knock it off. She didn't listen.
Jackson's room was at the end of the hall. He pushed the door open, let me in, and closed it behind us. When he turned to face me, there was nothing casual left in his expression.
“Naomi broke in Saturday night,” he said. Straight to it. “After the party. She was in my bed when I got home.”
Something tight twisted in my chest.
“She wasn’t wearing anything,” he continued. “I told her to leave. She argued. I told her again. She finally left.” He held my gaze. “That’s what happened.”
I didn’t say anything. My cat had gone quiet.
“I’m telling you because Lia’s comment might have given the wrong impression.”
“It’s not my business,” I said.
“Maybe not.” He took a step closer. “I’m telling you anyway.”
I looked around his room. Neat without being sparse. Books on the shelf in no particular order. A desk that had been used. A window looking out over the corner lot and the quiet street below.
“She has a key?” I asked.
“She didn’t. We’re changing the locks.”
“Mm.”
“Harper.”
I met his eyes.
“I don’t want her,” he said, low and steady. “I haven’t for a long time.”
“You were together?”
“No. A few times when we were younger we slept together—hormones and proximity, nothing more. Never serious. Never exclusive.” His voice stayed even.
“Once she started pushing for more, I kept my distance. Saturday night was not something I invited or wanted.” A pause.
“What’s happening right now is something I do want. I need you to know the difference.”
Relief arrived before I could stop it. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.
The silence that followed felt different.
I had nothing clever to say, no deflection that would land, so I looked away, studying the notebooks on his desk, anything but him.
“Okay,” I said finally. "We should get started."
His eyes searched mine. Whatever he found eased the tension in his expression. He nodded once and reached for his notebook.