15. Aliyah
ALIYAH
Ismooth down the silky black blouse - the one Jackson mentioned looked good on me - and study my reflection. The neckline dips just low enough to be enticing without looking desperate. I pair it with a skirt - for ease of access. Perfect for making a man's mind wander.
My fingers trail over my lips, remembering last night's kiss. The way Jackson devoured me, like a starving man at a feast. No one's ever kissed me like that before - like they wanted to consume my very soul.
I can't even lie to myself and say I don't want more.
I take extra care with my makeup, defining my eyes with precise strokes of liner. The small tattoo behind my ear peeks through my carefully arranged curls. Time to see if I can crack that infamous control of his.
The wooden stairs creak under my heels as I descend. Jackson stands at the kitchen counter, dress shirt rolled to his elbows as he pours coffee. He looks up and freezes, coffee forgotten as his dark eyes rake over me.
"Morning, tough guy." I slide onto a bar stool, crossing my legs slowly.
His jaw tightens. "That's an interesting choice for the house, angel."
"Just because I'm your prisoner doesn't mean I can't look good." I reach for the coffee pot, letting my blouse gape just slightly.
Jackson's hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist. "I remember this shirt."
"Do you?" I blink innocently.
"What exactly are you doing?" His voice drops an octave lower, sending shivers down my spine.
"Having breakfast?" I pull my wrist free and pour my coffee, hiding my smile behind the rim. "Unless you're suggesting something else is on the menu?"
The air crackles between us, heavy with unspoken promises and barely contained desire. Every movement feels charged, meaningful. Even the simple act of buttering toast becomes an exercise in restraint.
His eyes linger a little longer before he scoffs and turns to leave. I hate the disappointment that trickles through me, but it's far harder than that to get Jackson to give in. I know that.
I spend the morning leaving pieces of myself scattered through Jackson's house like breadcrumbs. My favorite mug - the one with gold stars he bought me last week - sits next to his plain black one in the dish rack. I trail my fingers over the ceramic, imagining our morning routines colliding.
My worn copy of The Art of War - Well, I stole it from him if I'm being honest - finds its way to his bedside table. The irony isn't lost on me - Sun Tzu would appreciate this particular battle strategy.
The leather jacket he gave me drapes over his office chair, the scent of my perfume lingering in the air. Each item is a calculated move in our dangerous game of chess. I'm everywhere he looks and always in his head.
When Jackson takes an important call, I slip into his office without knocking. His eyes narrow as I perch on the edge of his mahogany desk, legs crossed at the ankle. I examine my nails while he discusses weapons shipments in clipped tones.
"We'll double the security detail." Jackson's voice carries that edge of authority that makes lesser men scramble to obey. "No, that won't be necessary. I'll handle it personally."
I lean back, bracing my hands behind me. The movement draws his attention to the strip of skin exposed between my blouse and skirt.
His jaw ticks. "We're done here." He ends the call without waiting for a response.
"Problem?" I ask, not moving from my spot.
"Need something, angel?" His hands grip my waist, pulling me into his lap. The leather chair creaks beneath our combined weight.
"For you to stop running." I settle against him, feeling the hard planes of his chest against my back.
"Is that what this is about?" His fingers dig into my hip. "Marking your territory?"
"I have no idea what you mean." But we both know it's a lie. Every trace I've left today has been deliberate - each one a silent claim.
His laugh holds no humor. "The devil in disguise, that's what you are." But he doesn't push me away, and I count that as a victory.
But sitting on his lap, his hand stroking up and down my leg, feels far too intimate. Not sexual but…something I can't handle. Something I need to stop right now.
I push off Jackson's lap, ignoring the way his fingers tighten on my hip before releasing me. "Don't miss me too much, tough guy." I throw him a wink over my shoulder, swaying my hips as I leave his office.
Trying to wrestle my heart back to a reasonable pace, I make my way to his pristine kitchen.
Everything gleams - stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, industrial-grade equipment that probably costs more than most people's cars.
His staff keeps it spotless. But since it's the weekend, they aren't here - though they did leave dinner for us already prepared.
Thankfully. I'm a terrible cook.
I pull open the massive refrigerator, surveying the perfectly arranged containers inside. Trust Jackson to have everything labeled and dated with military precision. The weekend menu includes grilled salmon with roasted vegetables, his favorite. My fingers trail over the container.
A melody rises in my throat as I arrange appetizers on serving platters - prosciutto-wrapped melon, stuffed mushrooms, bruschetta. The knife slides smoothly through crusty bread, and I catch myself swaying to the rhythm of my own humming.
I freeze, the knife hovering mid-slice. When did I get so comfortable here? When did Jackson's kitchen become a place where I could lose myself in domestic tasks, like some content little housewife?
My heart pounds against my ribs. This isn't me. I don't do comfortable. Comfortable gets you hurt. Comfortable makes you weak.
I grab the salmon, cranking the burner too high. The pan heats too quickly, but I slap the fish down anyway. Smoke rises as I deliberately leave it too long, watching the edges blacken. The smell of burning fish fills the kitchen.
"Oops." I flip it, making sure to tear the flesh. The perfectly seasoned salmon transforms into an inedible mess. "Guess I'm not cut out for playing house after all."
The ruined dinner sits like evidence of my rebellion. See? I'm not domesticated. I'm not tame. I destroy beautiful things - that's what I do. What I was taught to do.
But my hands shake as I dump it in the trash, and I can't quite convince myself it's anger making my chest ache.
So, instead of facing Jackson, I head for my room. He's not giving into my games, and my head is getting way too confused. I was supposed to be wrapping him around my finger with ease, having him relax his hold on me.
Now… I'm not sure what the fuck I am doing.
In my room, I decide to relax for a while.
I sink into the steaming bath, watching ripples dance across the water's surface.
The massive tub - because of course Jackson has a tub that could fit three people - cradles me in warmth.
Vanilla-scented bubbles tickle my nose, a luxury I didn't ask for but he provided anyway.
Just like the coffee maker in my room. The silk pajamas. The books that keep appearing on my nightstand - all my favorites, though I never told him what they were.
"Fuck." I slide deeper into the water until it laps at my chin.
I came here ready to wage war. To make his life hell until he got sick of me and let me go. Instead, I find myself looking forward to our morning coffee ritual. The way he automatically slides my favorite mug across the counter. Somehow, things have gotten far too comfortable with each other.
My necklace - the one with the hidden SD card - sits on the bathroom counter, untouched for days. When was the last time I even thought about gathering intel?
The water splashes as I sit up abruptly. This isn't me. I don't do this - this settling in, this comfort. I don't memorize the way someone's eyes crinkle when they're trying not to smile. I don't notice how their voice gets rougher late at night.
I'm supposed to be the girl who uses men's secrets against them. Who never stays long enough to leave traces. Who definitely doesn't wonder what it would be like to wake up next to someone every morning.
The plan was simple: seduce him, fuck him, make him realize I'm more trouble than I'm worth. Get back to my life of perfect control and careful distance.
Instead, I'm learning his habits so I can understand him. Cataloging his preferences. Wanting to crawl under his skin and stay there.
My fingers prune as I soak, but I can't make myself leave the water. Can't face him with this revelation burning in my chest. Because the truth is, I'm not failing at making his life hell.
I'm failing at keeping him out of mine.