7. Aliyah
ALIYAH
Sunlight pierces through unfamiliar curtains, and my eyes snap open. The events from last night flood back - the party, Jackson showing up, being hauled away like a sack of potatoes. My fingers curl into the silk sheets that are annoyingly incredible.
"Bastard." I swing my legs off the bed, my party dress wrinkled beyond salvation.
I had thrown myself into the bed to stew in my anger after washing away my makeup - thankfully the bathroom was stocked - and hadn't even taken the damn thing off.
My jewelry - my precious recording devices - sits in a neat pile on the dresser.
The en-suite bathroom calls to me, and a wicked smile crosses my face. Time for a little payback.
I dig through the cabinets, finding more high-end toiletries than the basic makeup remover wipes in the drawer and - thank god - some of Jackson's spare clothes. A black t-shirt that will hang like a dress on me, and drawstring pants I'll have to roll up ten times.
The shower runs hot enough to turn the bathroom into a sauna. I take my sweet time, using every expensive product I can find. The water pressure is divine, and I make sure to use the last of his fancy shampoo.
But even as I plot my petty revenge, anxiety gnaws at my stomach.
The parties are my lifeline, my source of information.
If word gets out about my real purpose there...
I've spent years building my network, collecting secrets that keep me safe.
One wrong move from Jackson could bring it all crashing down. And he wouldn't even know it.
I step out wrapped in a plush towel, wiping steam from the mirror. My reflection shows determination in my eyes, the same look I wore when I first started this dangerous game.
"Your move, tough guy," I mutter, running fingers through my wet hair. The shirt hangs past my thighs when I put it on, smelling of cedar and something distinctly Jackson. It irritates me how good it smells.
I need to figure out how to handle this situation without compromising everything I've built. But first, I'm going to use up every drop of hot water in this house. It's the least I can do for my gracious kidnapper.
After, I pad down the stairs, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The shirt brushes against my thighs with each step, a reminder of my deliberate choice to leave those ridiculous pants behind. My hair falls in damp waves down my back, still wet from using every drop of his hot water.
The kitchen isn't hard to find - I follow the scent of coffee through the modern open floor plan. Jackson stands at a sleek island counter, suit pants and white dress shirt already perfectly pressed despite the early hour. His back muscles shift beneath the fabric as he lifts his coffee cup.
"Morning, tough guy." I keep my voice honey-sweet as I saunter in.
He turns, and the coffee cup freezes halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes rake over my bare legs, lingering where his shirt barely skims my thighs. The muscle in his jaw ticks.
"That's my shirt." His voice comes out rougher than usual.
"Really? I had no idea." I stretch, letting the hem ride up. "The guest room closet had such limited options."
His knuckles whiten around the coffee cup. "Put some pants on, angel."
"Make me." I brush past him to explore his kitchen, making sure my hip grazes his thigh. The cabinets are a mystery - perfect excuse to search. "Where do you keep your mugs? I need coffee if you're keeping me prisoner."
I bend down to check a low cabinet, taking my time. The sharp intake of breath behind me is exactly what I'm after. But when I glance over my shoulder, the heat in Jackson's stare sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. His eyes have gone nearly black, predatory.
"Third cabinet on the left," he growls. "And you're playing a dangerous game."
"Good thing danger's my favorite way to start the day." I straighten slowly, holding his gaze as I reach for the cabinet he indicated. The tension crackles between us like a live wire. "That's why you took me, right?"
I pour coffee into a matte black mug, taking my time to add cream until it's the perfect shade of caramel. The kitchen is quiet except for the clink of my spoon against ceramic as I stir. Too quiet.
"So what's the deal here?" I hop onto the counter in front of him, crossing my legs. The shirt rides up higher. "You planning to keep me locked in your fortress all day?"
Jackson's eyes track the movement. "Get down."
"Nope." I grab an apple from the fruit bowl, taking a slow bite. Juice drips down my chin. "What's on the agenda for your captive?"
"For starters?" He stands, coming around to where I'm sitting and crowding into my space. "You're going to put some fucking clothes on."
"But I am wearing clothes." I bat my lashes, leaning forward until our faces are inches apart. "Your clothes, actually. They smell nice. When are you heading out? I'd love to explore while you're gone."
His hands plant on either side of my thighs, caging me in. "Not going anywhere, angel. I'll be here all day, keeping an eye on you."
My teeth grind together. The smirk that crosses his face tells me he caught the reaction.
"Why are you doing this?" I gesture between us, frustration building. "I don't see why you want me as your fucking prisoner-"
"Prisoner?" He laughs, but there's no warmth in it. "If I wanted you as a prisoner, you'd be in chains, not stealing my clothes and eating my food."
"Then what do you want?"
His fingers drum against the counter beside my leg. "Maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm."
I hate him. I hate the way he towers over me, hate how his presence fills the kitchen until I can barely breathe. Most of all, I hate how my skin prickles with awareness every time he moves.
"You're an ass." I take another deliberate bite of the apple, letting juice run down my wrist.
His eyes follow the movement. "You'll learn to live with it."
A sharp ring cuts through the tension. Jackson's phone. His jaw tightens as he checks the screen, then he stalks toward the back doors without a word. Through the wall of windows, I watch him pace the stone patio, phone pressed to his ear.
Perfect.
I slip off the counter and pad down the hallway, testing doors until I find his office. The room is a study in obsessive organization - everything labeled, color-coded, perfectly aligned. Files arranged by date. Pens sorted by color. Even his Post-its are stacked by size.
Exactly what I thought I'd find for a man like him.
"Oh, this won't do at all." I crack my knuckles and get to work.
Twenty minutes later, his precious filing system is completely scrambled. Blue pens mixed with black. Post-its scattered like confetti. Files reorganized by the first letter of every third word. I'm admiring my handiwork when the door slams open.
"What the fuck did you do?" Jackson's voice is deadly quiet.
I perch on the edge of his desk, swinging my bare legs. "Just tidying up. Your system seemed so... rigid."
He advances on me, shoulders tight with fury. "Put. It. Back."
"Put what back?" I widen my eyes, the picture of innocence. "I was just trying to help."
His hands slam down on the desk on either side of me, caging me in. His face hovers inches from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"You do not want to push me, angel." His breath fans across my lips.
My heart pounds against my ribs. This close, the scent of his cologne wraps around me - cedar and smoke and something dangerous. His gaze drops to my mouth and for one electric moment, I think he's going to kiss me.
I hate how much I want him to.
"Maybe I do," I whisper, and watch his pupils dilate.
The muscle in his jaw ticks. He's so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, see the way his chest rises and falls with each measured breath. The air between us crackles with possibility.
"You don't." It's a deep growl. "So stop trying to piss me off before you face the consequences."
I lean into his space, fury bubbling up. "You chose this. You dragged me here like some caveman. What's wrong - don't have anyone else to play nice with? No friends to help you out?"
His fingers dig into the wood of his desk. The veins in his forearms stand out as he looms over me, blocking out the morning light streaming through his office windows.
"We're mutually assured destruction, angel." The words slice through the air between us. His eyes bore into mine, dark and unreadable, and I don't even know what to make of those words. He's blackmailing me but we're mutually assured destruction? "Nothing more, nothing less."
The declaration hits like a physical blow. I've known Jackson for months now, circling each other, trading barbs and heated looks. But I've never heard him sound so cold. Not toward…me.
"Fine." I slide off his desk, shoving past him. My bare feet make no sound on the hardwood as I stalk toward the door. "Then let's get this over with."
"I'll get you some fucking clothes." He runs a hand through his short hair, messing up the perfect style. His voice drops and I swear he didn't mean for me to hear, "So I have a chance of keeping it together until you can fucking leave."
The dismissal stings more than it should. We're enemies - that's all we've ever been. The fact that my chest feels tight, that my eyes burn, means nothing. I refuse to let him see how his words affect me.
But god, the hatred in his voice...
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I am in just his shirt. The fabric that felt like a victory minutes ago now feels like armor that's far too thin.
"Perfect." I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. "The sooner I'm gone, the better."
His jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised I don't hear teeth crack. The muscle there jumps as he stares me down, and for a moment something flashes in his eyes - something that looks almost like pain. But it's gone so fast I must have imagined it.