Chapter 6 Jackson #2
I give her space. Clean up the kitchen. Check the windows. Inventory weapons. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.
She hasn’t moved. Just sits there, chin on her knees, staring at nothing. But her eyes—Christ, her eyes are working overtime. I can see the thoughts churning behind them, calculations running, processing everything that’s happened. Brilliant mind trapped behind sealed lips.
I want to crack her open. Not violently—gently. Like defusing a bomb, finding each wire, and understanding the connections. I want to know what she’s thinking right now, what patterns she’s seeing that I’m missing. Want to understand how her mind works, what makes her tick.
It’s not just professional curiosity. It’s something deeper, more dangerous. I want to know her. Really know her. Not just the facts—FBI analyst, witness protection, trauma from an ex—but the real her.
The silence is suffocating. But also intoxicating.
Every minute she doesn’t speak makes me study her more.
The way her fingers tap out patterns—always in sets of three, some kind of mathematical sequence.
The micro-expressions that flash across her face—frustration, fear, and something else when she looks at me.
Interest? Attraction? Without words, I have to read her body, and her body is telling a story her voice won’t.
“You okay?” I finally ask.
Her eyes flick to me, then away. A tiny shrug.
“A lot’s happened. It’s okay to not be okay with it.”
Another shrug. Smaller this time.
“Is there anything I can do?”
She opens her mouth, closes it. When she finally speaks, her voice is so soft I have to strain to hear it. “I don’t know how to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Quiet or talking. Still or moving. Here or …” She trails off, curling tighter. “I don’t know how to be anymore. I don’t know what’s happening. Don’t know what to do, how to feel, what comes next. Everything’s just—spinning.”
The words tumble out, more than she’s said in hours, and something loosens in my chest. Finally.
“I used to know things,” she continues, voice small but gaining momentum.
“Used to understand patterns, predict outcomes. But now? Victor’s dead.
Morrison’s dead. Men are hunting me, and I don’t know why.
Not really. And you …” She stops, looks at me, then away.
“You killed people. For me. Because of me. And I should be terrified, but I’m not, and that doesn’t make sense either. ”
Christ, she’s unraveling, and all I want is to hear more. Every word feels like a victory, like I’m finally getting past her walls to the real her underneath.
“Nothing has to make sense right now,” I say, trying to keep her talking.
“But that’s what I do. I’m an analyst. I make sense of things.
Find patterns. Solve problems.” Her voice cracks slightly.
“Except I can’t solve this. Can’t analyze my way out.
Can’t think clearly because every time I close my eyes I see that man’s head exploding and every time you look at me I feel—”
She stops abruptly, pressing her face against her knees.
“You feel, what?”
Silence. Then, muffled, “Safe. Which is insane because you’re the most dangerous person I’ve ever met.”
This brilliant, vulnerable woman feels safe with me. After everything she’s been through, after watching me kill, she feels safe.
The need to protect her becomes overwhelming. Not just from bullets and explosions, but from this lost feeling, this spinning confusion. I want to cross the room, pull her into my arms, hold her tight against me, and tell her nothing will touch her.
But I stay where I am, gripping the chair, because if I touch her, I might not be able to stop.
“Be however you need to be.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me. “Nathan says I talk too much.”
“Who’s Nathan?”
“My boyfriend.” She pauses, color rising in her cheeks. “Ex-boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend.”
Interesting. The correction seems important to her.
“What did Nathan do?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Assistant US Attorney. The kind who cares more about conviction rates than justice.”
“I meant, what did he do to you?”
She curls tighter. “Made me smaller. Quieter. Less.” Another pause. “Told me I was exhausting. That I analyzed everything instead of living. That I talked too much, thought too loud, took up too much space with my words.”
“So you stopped talking.”
“I stopped everything.” Her voice is barely audible. “It was easier than fighting about it.”
“He sounds like an asshole.”
“He was—precise. Surgical. Knew exactly where to cut to make it hurt without leaving visible marks.” She looks at me. “You told me to be quiet too.”
“When?”
“On the roof. When we were running. You said, ‘stay close’ and ‘silent.’”
Shit. “That was tactical. We were escaping men trying to kill you. Not the same thing.”
She nods but doesn’t uncurl. The silence stretches again. I watch her retreating further into herself, and it’s driving me insane.
This is getting dangerous. I’m noticing too much. The elegant line of her neck. The way her borrowed shirt gaps slightly at the collar, revealing her collarbone. How small she looks curled up like that, but how much strength it must take to keep all those words, all that brilliance, locked inside.
I’m getting turned on by a woman who won’t speak to me. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Twenty minutes of this torture, and I can’t take it anymore.
“Get up.”
She looks startled.
“I’m teaching you basic self-defense. You were FBI, you should have some training, but I’m not assuming anything.” I move to the center of the room. “And maybe hitting something will help. With whatever you’re processing.”
She unfolds slowly, approaching like she expects me to change my mind. Three steps forward, then she stops. Arms wrapped around herself.
“Come on,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “I won’t hurt you.”
She takes another step. Stops again. Those golden eyes are studying me like she’s calculating the probability of harm.
“I promise, I’ll be gentle.”
Wrong words. Her eyebrows rise slightly, and there’s something in her expression—not fear. Something else. She takes two more steps, close enough that I could reach her, but not close enough for training.
“You need to be closer.”
She shakes her head slightly, takes a half-step back.
Christ, this is like coaxing a spooked animal. Except she’s not spooked exactly. She’s—something else. The way she’s looking at me, the way her breathing has changed …
“Look, if you’re not comfortable—”
She moves then, quickly, before she can change her mind. Suddenly she’s right there, close enough that I smell the shampoo in her hair, see the pulse fluttering at her throat.
Too close.
“Give me your hand.”
She extends it slowly, trembling slightly. When our skin connects, we both freeze. Her pulse jumps under my fingers. Mine probably does too.
“Someone grabs your wrist.” I demonstrate, wrapping my fingers around her forearm. The contact is electric. “What do you do?”
She tugs backward, testing. My grip doesn’t budge.
“Don’t pull against their strength. Work against their weakness—the thumb.” I adjust my hold. “Turn your wrist toward where my thumb and fingers meet. Then jerk down and out in one motion.”
She tries, her movements tentative.
“Harder. Commit to it.”
She tries again, this time with more force. Breaks free.
“Good. Again.”
I grab her other wrist. She breaks free faster this time.
“Now both.” I grab both of her wrists and pull her closer. “Same principle.”
This position puts us face-to-face. Close enough to see gold flecks in her eyes. Feel her breath accelerate. Her pulse hammers under my fingers.
She twists, drops her weight, jerks free. The momentum makes her stumble. I catch her waist to steady her.
Mistake.
My hands span her ribs. Her breathing is fast, shallow. Not from exertion. The air between us is charged with the same electricity from the alley.
She looks up at me. Still silent, but her eyes are asking something.
“What if they grab me from behind?” Her voice is soft, rusty from disuse.
I should step back. Don’t.
“Let me show you something different.” I move toward her, deliberate, predatory. “Sometimes they come at you head-on.”
I lunge forward, not full speed but fast enough. She gasps, stumbles backward. I keep advancing, herding her until her back hits the wall with a soft thud.
My hands slam against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. We’re inches apart. Less. I can feel her breath on my face, see her pupils dilate.
“When an attacker gets this close,” my voice comes out rough, “you have limited options.”
She’s staring at my mouth. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and fuck, I want to taste her. Want to close this insignificant distance and claim that mouth. Want to know if she kisses as quietly as she does everything else.
My body leans in without permission. She arches slightly off the wall, closing the gap further. We’re sharing breath now, her chest rising and falling rapidly, brushing against mine with each inhale.
I’m going to kiss her.
The realization hits like cold water. I’m about to kiss the principal. Worse—I’m thinking about more than kissing. Thinking about hiking her up against this wall, wrapping her legs around my waist, and fucking her the way I haven’t fucked a woman in years.
Christ, I can see it. Feel it. Her tight heat wrapped around my cock, her quiet gasps in my ear, the wall shaking with each thrust. Doing the very thing I promised myself I’d never do again—putting my dick inside a woman, making myself vulnerable in that primitive, dangerous way.
I jerk back so suddenly she gasps.
“Knee to groin,” I say, voice hoarse. “Headbutt if you can manage it. Strike the throat. But your best option—” I take another step back, needing distance, “—is not letting them get that close.”
She stays against the wall, breathing hard, staring at me with those golden eyes that see too much.
“That’s enough for now.”
She nods slowly but doesn’t move from the wall. There’s something in her expression—disappointment? Understanding? Want?
Without words, all I have is her body language. The way she leaned into me. The way her breath caught. The way she’s looking at me like she wants something she doesn’t have words for.
And I want to give it to her.
Which is exactly why I can’t.