Chapter 7 Jackson
SEVEN
Jackson
TWENTY QUESTIONS
She stays against the wall for another heartbeat, then pushes off, moving to the far side of the room. As far from me as she can get in this small space. She curls into the corner of the couch, knees to chest, making herself small again.
The silence stretches. Five minutes. Ten.
I clean my Glock, the methodical snick-click of disassembly usually calming my mind.
Not tonight. Every few seconds, my gaze pulls to her.
She’s staring at nothing, but I can see the thoughts churning behind those eyes.
Processing. Analyzing. Probably calculating the probability of what almost happened against that wall.
Fifteen minutes.
This is torture. Not the silence itself—I’m comfortable with silence. It’s her silence. The way she contains so much behind sealed lips. Like watching a bomb tick down with no idea when it’ll detonate.
Twenty minutes.
Fuck this.
“We’re going to play a game.”
She looks up, startled.
“Twenty questions. Well, ten each. Taking turns.” I set the slide spring aside. “I need intel. About you. Background, patterns, potential vulnerabilities Phoenix might exploit. Standard protection protocol requires understanding the principal.”
Complete bullshit. I know enough to keep her safe, but I need to hear her voice. Need to crack her open before this silence drives me insane.
She tilts her head, studying me. Then nods. Once.
“Good.” I lean back in the chair, trying for casual. “I’ll start. You said Nathan made you smaller. How?”
Her whole body tenses. She curls tighter, arms wrapping around her legs like armor.
“Specifics. What did he actually do to you?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens again. “Words.” Barely audible.
“What kind of words?”
“Careful ones. Surgical.” Her voice is a ghost. “He knew exactly where to cut.”
Christ, pulling information from her is like defusing a bomb blindfolded.
“Give me an example.”
She’s quiet for so long, I think she won’t answer. Then: “Said I was—exhausting. Too much. Too analytical.” Her voice drops even lower. “That I process everything instead of feeling anything.”
“What else?”
“That I talk too much. Think too loud. Take up too much space with my words.” She presses her face against her knees. “That I was embarrassing him at work functions with my constant need to analyze everything.”
“Talk too much?” The words burst out of me before I can filter them. “You’ve barely said fifty words since I met you. I’ve been trying to get more than three sentences out of you for hours.”
She peeks up at me over her knees.
“Nathan’s an ass.” The anger bleeds into my voice, hot and sudden. “You realize that, right? He beat you down so thoroughly that you’ve gone nearly mute. That’s not normal. That’s not you being ‘too much.’ That’s him being abusive.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“The woman who should be talking, sharing her brilliant mind, analyzing everything because that’s your gift—she’s hiding. Because some insecure prick couldn’t handle dating someone smarter than him.”
She blinks rapidly, fighting tears.
“What else did he say?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“My turn,” she whispers.
Fair enough. She earned it.
“Why explosives?” Her voice gains a tiny bit of strength. “Why that specialty?”
“Control. Precision. One gram off, one second wrong, everything changes. I like the certainty of it.”
She nods, as if this makes perfect sense. “Your turn.”
“What else did Nathan say?”
She flinches. “Why does it matter?”
“Not an answer.”
Her fingers twist in the hem of the borrowed shirt. “He said I was …” She stops. Swallows. Tries again. “That I have sex like a nun writing a thesis paper on the experience.”
The words hang in the air like smoke from a detonation.
I set down the gun oil with deliberate care. If I don’t, I’m going to throw it through the wall.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” Her voice cracks slightly. “I analyze everything. I don’t—feel. Not the way normal people—”
“Stop.”
The word comes out sharp. She flinches, and I force myself to soften my tone, if not my glare.
“You don’t know—”
“I know.” I lean forward, elbows on knees, closing the distance. “A nun doesn’t crawl through broken glass to get evidence. A coward doesn’t climb a fire escape despite being terrified of heights.”
Her eyes widen. She realizes I noticed.
“And in that alley?” My voice drops lower. “When I shielded you from the blast? When I had you pinned against that wall?”
She goes completely still. Not even breathing.
“The way your body responded to mine? The way you melted into me, the sounds you made? Trust me, Talia. There was nothing clinical about it.”
Color floods her cheeks. Her lips part slightly, but no words come.
“You responded like someone who’s been asleep their whole life and just woke up. That’s not analytical. That’s pure instinct.”
She shakes her head, starting to curl away from me. “You don’t—”
“And twenty minutes ago?” I continue, not letting her retreat. “When I had you against the wall during training? The way you arched into me? The way your pupils dilated? The way you looked at my mouth?”
“Stop.” The word comes out strangled.
“Why? Because it’s true?”
“Because it’s embarrassing.” She presses her face against her knees. “You’re talking about it like … Like—”
“Like foreplay?” I lean back, deliberately casual. “It’s physical attraction. The chemistry between us is so thick I could cut it with a knife.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” I study her—this brilliant woman, made small by someone’s cruelty. “You want me. I want you. The air ignites when we’re in the same room.”
“That’s not—” She stops, swallows. “You’re my protector. This is just—proximity. Adrenaline. Trauma bonding.”
“Bullshit.” I set my elbows on my knees, getting closer to her level. “You think I can’t tell the difference between fear and arousal? You think after years of reading bodies in combat situations, I can’t recognize when someone wants me?”
She peeks up at me, eyes wide. “This is inappropriate.”
“Probably. Doesn’t make it less true.” I hold her gaze steady. “When I touched you during training, your whole body responded. Not with fear. With want.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel anything when I pinned you. Tell me your body didn’t wake up when I covered you with mine in that alley.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Can’t say the words.
“That’s what I thought.” My voice gentles. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting someone. Nothing wrong with your body responding to mine. That’s not being analytical or clinical. That’s being human.”
She shifts uncomfortably, face still hidden.
“And there’s nothing wrong with talking about it either.” I keep my voice steady, matter-of-fact. “We’re both adults. Sex exists. Attraction exists. Talking about what you want, what you like, what you don’t like—that’s normal. Healthy, even.”
She peeks up at me, eyes wide with something between shock and curiosity.
“But you’ve never done that, have you?” The realization hits me. “Never told Nathan what you wanted. Never told any man. Because talking was too much. Because having needs was ‘exhausting.’”
Her silence is all the confirmation I need.
“But Nathan said—”
“You threaten Nathan. He’s a weak man who needs to break you down to feel powerful.” The anger rises again, protective and fierce. “But your body knows the truth. It responded to me because it recognized something it wants.”
She’s trembling now. Just slightly. “But Nathan said—”
“And I said, Nathan’s a piece of shit who needed to make you small so he’d feel big.” The anger in my voice surprises us both. “My turn. When’s the last time someone made you feel good about yourself?”
She’s quiet for so long, I think she won’t answer. Then: “I can’t remember.”
The admission hits like shrapnel.
“Your turn,” I prompt, needing to give her back some control.
“Why did you leave the military?”
The question I’ve been dodging. But she gave me truth, so: “Syria. Mission went wrong. Lost my team. Couldn’t trust my judgment after that.”
“What happened?”
“That’s two questions. You just asked why I left. That’s my answer.”
She waits, patient. Those amber eyes see too much.
“My turn,” I say, not letting her push for more. Besides, I’m actually enjoying this—watching her slowly unfold, hearing her voice get stronger with each answer. She’s shy about sex. Embarrassed by her desire. Something to remember.
“Did Nathan ever make you come?”
She jerks back as if I’ve slapped her. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s …” Her face goes scarlet. She opens her mouth, closes it, then whispers, “Why would you ask that?”
“Because he told you that you have sex like a nun. Made you think you’re broken. I’m betting he never satisfied you.”
She curls tighter, face hidden against her knees. The silence stretches so long I think I’ve pushed too far. Then, barely audible: “I don’t … I don’t know.”
Christ. She doesn’t know? Which means she probably never has. Nathan, that selfish prick, spent three years with this woman and never once made sure she—
“You’d know,” I say gently. “Trust me, you’d know.”
She peeks up at me, mortified but also—curious? “Can we please talk about something else?”
“Fair enough. Your turn to ask.”
She takes a shaky breath, clearly desperate to change the subject. “Do you have family?”
“Mother in Seattle.”
“So you were an only child?”
“Yeah. However, I had twin sisters who died before I was born. Complications. Mom never really recovered.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is stronger now, gaining confidence. “And your mom?”
I should remind her it’s my turn to ask, but Christ, she’s actually talking. Multiple sentences. Questions flowing naturally instead of being pulled out word by word. I’ll let her have this.
“Alive. Seattle. Thinks I work private security.”
“Does she worry about you?”
“Every day.”
“What about your father?”