Chapter 6 Jackson
SIX
Jackson
BLOOD AND WATER
She moves past me toward the kitchen, and something dark catches the light in her still-damp hair. Not water. Something chunky, matted against the strands near her temple.
Brain matter. Probably the stocky operative’s.
I reach out, plucking it free before she notices. Mistake. The chunk pulls away with a wet sound, trailing hair and gore.
She turns, sees what’s in my fingers. Gray-pink tissue. Bone fragment. Her face drains of color.
“Oh God.” The words barely whisper out. Her hand flies to her mouth, her whole body recoiling.
“Stop.” I drop the tissue in the trash, grab her shoulders before she backs into the counter. “It’s nothing. Just debris.”
She’s hyperventilating, eyes wide, but no more words come. Just panicked breathing. The shower obviously didn’t do the job—she’s been walking around in shock, going through the motions without actually seeing the mess.
“Kitchen sink.” I steer her toward it. “Now.”
She looks at me, a question in her eyes.
“You missed spots.”
Her hand flies to her hair, fingers searching. She finds a wet clump, pulls her hand away like she’s been burned. A soft whimper escapes—the most sound she’s made in hours.
I turn on the faucet and test the temperature against my wrist. “Bend over.”
She hesitates, then complies. Silent.
She bends over the sink, and I have to step close to reach. Too close. Her hip presses against my thigh. The borrowed shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin above the cargo pants. Bruises bloom purple-black along her ribs.
Focus on the task. Not the curve of her spine. Not the way she trembles under my hands.
I work my fingers through her hair, finding clumps of dried blood, bone fragments, tissue. The water runs pink, then red, then pink again. She’s completely silent except for her breathing—quick, shallow, like she’s fighting not to cry.
The silence is unnerving. Usually, people talk to fill the space—nervous chatter, explanations, anything to avoid the reality of the moment. Even the women I take home usually fill the air with words, telling me what they want, how they want it. It makes things easy. Predictable.
But this woman? She gives me nothing.
No verbal cues. No nervous babbling. Just those golden eyes watching the water swirl down the drain.
It makes me want to figure her out. Makes me want to learn her tells through touch alone, map her responses without the roadmap of words.
Fuck. This is inappropriate. She’s a principal. A job. Not a puzzle to solve with my hands.
“You okay?” I ask, needing something from her. Needing her voice to ground me back in reality.
A tiny nod.
“The water too hot?”
Head shake.
Christ.
I find another clump, work it free gently. “You can talk, you know. I’m not going to—”
“Everyone wants me to stop talking.” The words come out so soft I almost miss them. “So I don’t.”
There’s pain in that admission that has nothing to do with physical injury.
“That’s their problem, not yours.”
She goes still under my hands. I rinse the last of the blood away, squeeze excess water from her hair, and grab a kitchen towel.
When she straightens, she’s looking at me strangely. Studying me. Then her gaze drops to my side, and her eyes widen.
She points at my shirt. There’s blood seeping through. Shit. The shrapnel from the alley—I ignored it. Adrenaline’s wearing off, and now it’s bleeding through.
“You’re hurt.” Barely a whisper.
“It’s nothing.”
She shakes her head, insistent. Moves closer, fingers hovering near the bloodstain. Her eyes ask permission.
“I said it’s fine—”
She grabs the first aid kit from the counter where I left it. Points at the kitchen chair. Commanding without words.
“You know, most women at least buy me dinner before they start ordering me around.” I try for levity. “Though usually they use words.”
Nothing. Not even a smile. Just another point at the chair, more insistent.
“Strong silent type, huh? I’m usually the one who doesn’t talk much.” Still nothing. “Not used to being out-silenced.”
She crosses her arms, waiting. Immovable.
“Fine. But for the record, I don’t usually take orders from women who won’t even tell me their favorite color.”
The tiniest quirk of her lips. Progress.
I sit. “It’s just a graze.”
She gestures at my shirt. Off.
“At least ask nicely,” I mutter.
Her eyebrow raises slightly. She mouths one word: “Please.”
Then crosses her arms again, waiting.
Fine.
I pull the Henley over my head, tossing it aside. The movement pulls at the wound—deeper than I thought. Shrapnel tore a decent gash along my ribs. Blood trails down my side.
Her intake of breath is sharp. She moves immediately, kneeling beside my chair.
Her hands are quick, economical as she arranges supplies.
Everything in order—antiseptic, gauze, tape, scissors.
Each item positioned exactly where she’ll need it.
The same way I lay out demolition components. Nothing wasted.
She knows what she’s doing.
Her fingers are gentle but sure as she cleans around the wound. No hesitation. No squeamishness. Just competent care.
But Christ, her hands on my skin.
I haven’t let a woman touch me like this since Syria. Since Amara. The women I meet in bars don’t get to touch—they get my hands, my mouth if they’re lucky, but never this. Never gentle fingers on bare skin, never careful touches meant to heal instead of take.
My body doesn’t understand the difference.
Every brush of her fingers sends signals straight to my cock. She leans closer to see better, her breath warm on my ribs, and I have to grip the edge of the chair to keep still. This is medical care, nothing more, but my body is responding like she’s stroking me with intent.
Three years. Three years since a woman’s hands were on my bare chest in a way that wasn’t transactional. And now this silent woman is unraveling all that control with nothing more than her gentle touch as she treats my wounds.
The silence should be peaceful. Instead, it’s charged with everything I want to do to her. Every nerve ending focused on where her fingers connect with my skin. She shifts again, her breast accidentally brushing my arm, and I have to bite back a groan.
Fuck. I’m about to come undone from basic first aid.
“You’ve done this before.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. I desperately need a distraction.
Her response is a frustrating nod.
“FBI training?”
Another nod.
“You’re good at it.”
She pauses, looks up at me. There’s surprise in her eyes, like she’s not used to compliments. Then back to work.
“Why’d you leave the Bureau?”
Her hands still for a moment. When she speaks, it’s barely audible: “Couldn’t save anyone that mattered.”
“Victor?”
She shakes her head. Presses gauze to the wound, starts taping it down. Each piece of tape requires her to lean closer, her hair brushing my chest. She smells like shampoo and something uniquely her.
“Before Victor?” I prompt.
“Children.” One word, loaded with weight.
She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to. I know that particular weight—the cases you can’t solve, the people you can’t save. They accumulate until you either break or walk away.
“Is that why you left? The children?”
A small nod. She returns to taping the bandage, but there’s tension in her movements now.
“How long were you with the Bureau?”
Silence. She focuses on the bandage as if it requires all her concentration.
“Come on, give me something here.” I try to keep my tone light, but frustration bleeds through. “Favorite food? Where you grew up? Anything?”
She glances up, those golden eyes wide, vulnerable. Like she wants to answer but can’t find the words. Or is afraid to.
And fuck, that vulnerability—it’s hitting every protective instinct I have. This woman, who faced down armed killers and kept evidence safe despite everything, now looks like she might shatter if I push too hard.
It’s dangerous; this need to protect her. Not just from Phoenix or Nexus or whoever’s hunting her. But from whatever made her go this quiet. Whatever convinced her that her words were too much.
“Forget it,” I say, softer. “You don’t have to—”
“Five years.” Her voice barely carries. “FBI for five years.”
Not much, but it feels like a crack in the wall between us.
She finishes the bandage and sits back on her heels.
The sight hits me like a sucker punch.
That position—kneeling, head slightly bowed, eyes lifted—is one I’ve seen too many times. But this is different. Talia doesn’t know the language of obedience, but she’s sitting in it—unaware, unguarded, perfect—and my body reacts the same way it always has.
Fast. Hard. Hungry.
Jesus Christ.
Too many thoughts flash, hot and filthy, before I slam them down.
She’s not one of them. She’s not a release valve. She’s the woman I just rescued from a kill squad.
I drag in a breath, force control back into my hands, my voice, my face.
Our eyes meet and hold. The silence hums—thick with everything I shouldn’t be thinking.
She’s beautiful like this. Focused. Competent. Those golden eyes that see everything but give nothing back. The way her teeth catch her lower lip when she concentrates.
It shouldn’t make me want her more. But it does.
And that terrifies me more than any gunfight ever could.
I reach for my shirt, needing distance before I do something that will ruin both of us.
“Thank you,” I manage, rougher than I mean to.
She stops me with a hand on my wrist. Points at the shirt—bloody, ruined. Then disappears down the hall and returns with a clean black T-shirt from the closet.
“Thanks.”
She watches me pull it on, something unreadable in her expression. When I’m dressed, she starts cleaning up the medical supplies. Silent. Efficient.
Then she retreats to the far corner of the living room, sliding down the wall until she’s sitting with her knees pulled to her chest. Arms wrapped around her legs. Making herself as small as possible.