13. Aliyah
ALIYAH
The study door creaks open, and I slip inside, intent on my daily mission of reorganizing Jackson's perfectly organized space. It started as a way to get under his skin, but lately I've been more careful with his belongings. Not that I'd ever admit that to him.
My fingers trail across his mahogany desk. Everything has its place - pens lined up like soldiers, papers stacked with military precision. A cabinet in the corner catches my attention. I've never looked inside before.
The bottom drawer slides open to reveal a wooden box, worn at the corners. Inside, photographs spill out, their edges softened with age. I settle cross-legged on the floor, spreading them around me.
A young boy with familiar dark eyes stares back at me.
Jackson. But not the cold, controlled man who keeps me prisoner.
This boy grins wide, gap-toothed and carefree, his arm slung around a smaller version of one I recognize.
Ryker, I think his name is from the few interactions he and Jackson have had around me.
"Shit," I whisper, my chest tightening at the sight.
I sort through more photos. Jackson at what must be ten, learned to throw a punch from Ryker. Jackson as a teenager, standing proud in his military academy uniform. With each image, I watch his smile fade, replaced by the hard mask I know today.
One photo makes me pause. Jackson, maybe sixteen, stands between two other boys. His stance is protective, shoulders squared against some unseen threat. Even then, he was their shield.
"What happened to you?" My fingers trace his face through the glossy paper.
These past weeks, I've tried everything to make him crack - to seduce him into growing bored with me so he'll let me go. But seeing him like this, young and unguarded, stirs something dangerous inside me. Something that feels too close to understanding.
I shouldn't care about his past. I shouldn't want to know what carved that perpetual coldness into his features. Yet here I am, surrounded by pieces of his history, fighting the urge to know more.
My dreams of him are bad enough - hot, desperate things that leave me aching. I don't need this added complication of seeing him as human.
A photo slips from between two others, and my breath catches. The woman's features mirror Jackson's - same sharp jawline, same dark eyes. But where his hold cold calculation, hers shine with a familiar wariness. I've seen that look in my own mirror too many times.
She stands apart from young Jackson in the photo, her body angled away even as she rests her hand on his shoulder. The gesture feels performative, like she's playing a role she'd rather not have.
My father was a master at those moments - the perfect family man when marks were watching, then turning me into his perfect little con artist the second they looked away.
"Smile prettier, baby girl. Now tell the nice man about your sick grandmother.
" His voice still echoes in my head, teaching me to weaponize innocence before I even understood what that meant.
I shuffle through the remaining photos, searching for more of Jackson's mother, but she's vanished like a ghost. Just like my father disappeared the moment the feds started closing in, leaving sixteen-year-old me to navigate the aftermath of his cons alone.
The similarities twist something in my chest. Jackson's controlled exterior, his obsession with order, the way he keeps everyone at arm's length - even me, despite forcing me to stay here. They're all weapons forged in the same fire that created my own arsenal of secrets and manipulation.
"You learned early too, didn't you?" I whisper to young Jackson's face. "That trusting the wrong person is worse than not trusting at all."
My fingers shake as I gather the photos, carefully returning them to their box. This is too dangerous - this understanding, this recognition. I've spent years building walls around myself, using other people's secrets as mortar. I can't afford to see Jackson as anything but my jailer.
But as I slide the drawer open, I can't shake the image of his mother's guarded eyes. Or the knowledge that somewhere beneath his iron control, Jackson might be just as scared as I am.
The wooden box slips from my fingers, clattering against the drawer bottom as Jackson's massive frame fills the doorway. I can't hide what I've done in time. I freeze, caught between fight and flight, but something in his expression stops my usual sharp retort.
His dark eyes lock onto the box, the drawer that's open, and for a heartbeat, I glimpse beneath his armor. Raw pain flashes across his features, gone so fast I might have imagined it. But I know that look. I've worn it myself.
Jackson's jaw tightens, muscles working beneath his perpetual stubble. His fingers flex at his sides - not in anger, but something closer to uncertainty. The crisp lines of his dress shirt stretch across broad shoulders as he takes a measured breath.
"Dinner's ready." His voice comes out rougher than usual, lacking its typical edge of command.
I rise slowly, smoothing my borrowed sundress. "Jackson, I-"
He cuts me off with a sharp head shake. The vulnerability vanishes behind familiar walls of ice, but something has shifted between us. We both know it.
"Come on, angel." The nickname lacks its usual mocking bite. "Before it gets cold."
I follow him down the hallway, watching the predatory grace of his movements. Even in this moment of exposure, danger radiates from his frame. But now I understand it better - the way he uses control like armor, just as I use secrets as shields.
The dining room lights cast shadows across his face as he pulls out my chair. His fingers brush my shoulder, barely there and gone, but electricity crackles through the touch. Neither of us acknowledges it.
We take our seats in silence, the pretense of captor and captive temporarily suspended. Tonight, we're just two people who recognize the scars they share, even if we're both too damaged to admit it.
A part of me wonders if he knows that I've been through the same things he has. If he's gathered that there's more to my job than just servicing rich guys.
I hope not. I've never let anyone in before and I don't know what I would do if he got that deep.
Steam rises from the pasta on my plate, but I barely notice the food.
My eyes keep drifting to Jackson's hands - the way his fingers curl around his fork, how they could snap a man's neck yet somehow maintain such precise control.
I track the movement of his throat as he swallows, remembering the photos of him as a boy, before life taught him to build walls.
"You're staring." His dark eyes lock onto mine, fork pausing halfway to his mouth.
I force my lips into their usual smirk. "Just wondering if you learned those impeccable table manners at military academy or if they came standard with the whole criminal empire package."
His jaw tightens, but something flickers in his expression - a crack in the marble. "Angel, if you've got something to say, say it."
"Would you even answer if I did?" The words slip out before I can catch them, more honest than I intend.
Jackson sets down his fork with deliberate care. The overhead light catches the scar along his forearm as he leans back, studying me. His silence fills the space between us, heavy with things neither of us wants to acknowledge.
"Depends on the question." His voice drops lower, rougher around the edges.
I twirl pasta around my fork, buying time. "No question. Just observing that for someone who claims to be the devil, you've got your own collection of demons."
"And you don't?" He arches an eyebrow, challenge written in the sharp lines of his face.
"Please." I wave my fork dismissively. "I'm a simple waitress you're keeping prisoner. What demons could I possibly have?"
His laugh is more exhale than sound. "There's nothing simple about you, Aliyah. We both know that."
Heat crawls up my neck at the way he sees through my deflection. I hide behind another bite of pasta, but I can feel his gaze on me - assessing, calculating, maybe understanding more than I want him to.
"You're doing it again," he says.
"Doing what?"
"Deflecting. It's what you do when something hits too close to home." He leans forward, forearms braced on the table. "Want to try again? What were you really thinking?"
I meet his stare, forcing myself not to fidget with my necklace - my tell when I'm plotting. "That you should invest in better locks for your study drawers, tough guy."
The corner of his mouth twitches. We both know it's not the truth, but he lets it slide. The air between us crackles with unspoken understanding, with the knowledge that we've glimpsed beneath each other's masks and found matching scars.