Chapter 8 Talia
EIGHT
Talia
INEVITABLE
The pasta sits warm in my stomach, the first real meal I’ve had in—I can’t remember.
Jackson clears the plates, his movements efficient, controlled.
Everything about him is controlled. Even when he talked about sex—about us, about the chemistry he claims burns between us—it was all so pragmatic. Clinical, almost.
You want me. I want you. The air practically ignites when we’re in the same room.
Like he’s describing a chemical reaction. Cause and effect. Simple physics.
Maybe that’s all it is for him. Bodies responding to stimuli. Arousal as a biological imperative. No emotion necessary, no connection required. Just friction and release.
Nathan always said I overthink everything, but at least he pretended there was emotion involved. Told me he loved me, even if his actions said otherwise. Even if his love came with conditions and criticism and constant reminders of my failures.
But Jackson? He strips it down to base components. Want. Need. Response.
It’s almost refreshing in its honesty. Terrifying, but refreshing.
“You’re thinking too loud again.” His voice cuts through my spiral.
I look up. He’s gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize.” The words come out rough. He pushes off from the counter abruptly. “I need a shower.”
The shift is so sudden it takes me a moment to process. “Okay?”
“Don’t go anywhere. Don’t order anything. Don’t call anyone. Don’t answer the door.” He’s already moving toward the bathroom, not looking at me. “Just—stay put.”
“For how long?”
“Until I’m done.”
The bathroom door closes. The lock clicks. The shower turns on.
I sit there for a moment, confused by his abrupt departure. Every time we edge close to something real, he shuts down. Classic avoidance behavior, though I suspect in his case it’s less about avoiding emotion and more about maintaining control.
Which is undeniably attractive. God, what is wrong with me?
The shower runs. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
Restless energy crawls under my skin. The safe house is small—too small. I pace the living room, taking inventory. Reinforced door. Windows with security film. Weapons laid out on the coffee table. Everything about this space screams temporary and functional.
I wander to the small bookshelf in the corner. Mostly tactical manuals, a few paperback thrillers, one surprising poetry collection—Neruda. I pull it out, flip through pages worn soft with reading. Annotations in the margins, careful handwriting.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
The line is underlined twice.
My face heats. I slide the book back and continue exploring.
The kitchen: basic supplies, nothing personal. The living room: one couch, one chair, both positioned for clear sightlines to all entry points. And then there’s the bedroom.
I push open the door. One bed. Queen size. Navy sheets, military corners.
One bed.
The sleeping arrangements hadn’t occurred to me until now. Will he share it with me? The thought sends an unexpected thrill through my body. Or will he take the couch, maintaining that professional distance even though he’s already admitted he wants—
The shower is still running. Twenty minutes now.
I drift back toward the bathroom, drawn by curiosity and something else. Something that makes my pulse quicken. The water sounds different through the door now. The hiss of the spray hitting tile has changed to the muffled drum of water hitting flesh.
A soft thud. Like a hand bracing against the wall.
My breath catches.
Another sound filters through the thin wood—low, guttural, unmistakably male. Strained. Needful. Almost pained.
Oh God. He’s—
My hand flies to my mouth, but my feet stay rooted. He’s touching himself. Right there, just beyond that door, Jackson is—
Heat floods my face, pools low in my belly. I should leave. Give him privacy. Walk away.
I press closer.
His breathing is harsh, uneven, filling the small space with a soundtrack of raw need. Another groan, deeper this time, vibrating through the door frame. My thighs clench involuntarily.
The pragmatist who described our chemistry like a science experiment is coming apart in there. All that control, shattered. Because of—
“Fuck.” His voice, wrecked. Then: “Talia.”
My knees nearly give out. I brace against the doorframe.
He’s thinking about me.
The image forms instantly, unstoppable: water streaming over those shoulders I’ve been trying not to stare at. His hand wrapped around himself, stroking with the same precise control he applies to everything else. Except it’s my name breaking his control, my face he’s seeing when he—
“Ta-lee-ya …” The name tears out of him, low and rough, more breath than sound.
Molten heat slides through me. It’s not just embarrassment. It’s a deep, hollow ache between my legs. Nathan never said my name like that. Like it was being torn from him. Like it physically hurt to want me this much.
If I were brave—if I were the kind of woman who could handle casual, who could separate emotion from sex the way Jackson clearly can—I’d open that door.
I’d step into that shower and find out what it’s like to be wanted by a man who doesn’t apologize for his needs.
Who doesn’t dress them up in pretty words or false emotion.
But I’m not brave. I’m the woman who spent three years with someone who made her feel like too much and not enough at the same time. Who needs connection, emotion, something more than just bodies responding to animalistic urges.
Even if my body is screaming for exactly that right now.
A final groan echoes through the door—deep, destroyed—followed by ragged breathing.
The water shuts off.
Panic shoots through me. I scramble backward, nearly tripping in my haste to get away from the door.
I grab the first book I see—one of the tactical manuals—and throw myself onto the couch.
By the time he emerges, towel slung low on his hips, I’m curled up pretending to read about close-quarter combat techniques.
“Found something to read?” His voice is carefully neutral, but there’s heat in his eyes.
Water droplets trail down his chest, catching the light.
The towel hangs dangerously low on his hips, revealing those cut lines that disappear beneath terry cloth.
And there’s no missing the evidence of what just happened—he’s still partially aroused, the outline unmistakable behind the towel even as his erection softens.
My mouth goes dry. I can’t help wondering what he looks like without that towel. What it would feel like to trace those water droplets with my fingers, my tongue. The thought shoots heat straight through me.
“Yes. Just—passing time.” My voice comes out too high, too breathy.
His gaze drops to the book in my hands. A slow smirk spreads across his face.
“Tactical Close-Quarter Combat Techniques. Interesting choice.” He steps closer, and I catch the scent of his soap—something clean and masculine that makes my head spin.
“Though it might help if you read it right-side up.”
Horror floods through me. I flip the book quickly, face burning.
“Unless you were—distracted?” He turns toward the bathroom, then glances back over his shoulder. One eyebrow cocks up, that smirk deepening.
He knows. He knows I heard him. Knows I was listening at the door like some desperate voyeur while he—
“I was just …” The words die in my throat. What can I say? I was just casually eavesdropping while you stroked yourself to thoughts of me?
“Tactical movements can be very educational.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “All about positioning. Leverage. Finding the right angle of approach.”
The double meaning isn’t subtle. My whole body flushes hot.
“I should—” I stand too quickly, the book tumbling from my lap.
We both reach for it at the same time. His hand covers mine on the spine, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.
He’s close now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
The towel has shifted lower, barely hanging on, and my gaze travels down before I can stop it.
“See something interesting?” His thumb strokes across my knuckles, the lightest touch, but it makes me tremble.
“I wasn’t … I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to … what?” He’s definitely toying with me now, that controlled facade cracking just enough to show the predator beneath. “Listen? Look? Or imagine?”
All three. Definitely all three.
“You’re being inappropriate.” The accusation would carry more weight if my voice didn’t shake.
“Am I?” He releases my hand but doesn’t step back. “You’re the one studying tactical positions while I shower. Making all kinds of noise out here. Breathing so hard I could hear it through the door.”
My eyes widen. He heard me listening?
“Thin walls,” he says, answering my unspoken question. His gaze travels down my body, slow and deliberate, taking in my flushed face, my rapid breathing, the way my thighs press together. “Very thin walls.”
“You should get dressed,” I blurt out, horribly.
But he doesn’t move. Just stands there, water still glistening on his skin, that towel one wrong move from falling, watching me with eyes that promise he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Exactly what I want.
“I can … Unless there’s something you’d like to discuss about … tactical movements?”
“No. I’m good.” My face feels like it’s on fire.
He disappears into the bedroom. When he returns, fully dressed but hair still damp, I can’t look at him without remembering those sounds. Without imagining what his face looked like when he groaned my name.
“About sleeping arrangements.” His voice cuts through my thoughts. “You take the bed.”
“I can take the couch—”
“You take the bed.” No room for argument in his tone. “I’ll be out here.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“It is.” He meets my eyes, and something electric passes between us. “Trust me, it’s necessary.”
He knows. He knows that if we share that bed, all his pragmatic analysis about want and chemistry will combust into something neither of us is ready for. Well, he’s probably ready. I’m definitely not brave enough for something more, no matter how much my body is begging for it.
“Goodnight, Talia.”
“It’s only seven-thirty.”
“Long day tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
I retreat to the bedroom, closing the door between us. The bed stretches out before me, too big, too empty. All I can think about is him on the other side of that door. Lying on that couch. Maybe still hard. Maybe still thinking about me.
I press my fingers to my wrist where he held me during training, where faint marks still linger. Tomorrow we’ll pretend none of this happened. The wall. The shower. The way my name sounded when he came.
But tonight, I lie awake knowing he’s out there, just as awake as I am.
Both of us burning.
Both of us waiting.
Both of us pretending we don’t know exactly how this ends.