21. Aliyah
ALIYAH
The gates to Ryker’s estate slide open with a low rumble, and the sleek black car I conned him into sending - not with Antonio driving this time - glides up the winding drive. The house looms ahead, all sharp angles and modern glass, a fortress dressed up as a mansion.
I’ve been here enough times now to know the drill. Security cameras track my every move. The man at the gate doesn’t stop the car with my driver, but I wave at him as I pass with a smile.
Once the driver parks, I step out, adjusting the strap of my bag. It’s heavier than usual. Inside, a couple of Naya’s favorite snacks, a bottle of wine I swiped from Jackson’s stash, and a small notebook I’ve been using to keep track of... certain things.
The front door opens before I can knock. Ryker’s there, his presence filling the doorway like a shadow. He’s in one of those tailored suits that cost more than my car, but there’s nothing polished about him. His eyes are cold, calculating, and they sweep over me like he’s cataloging threats.
“Aliyah.” His voice is low, a single word that sounds more like a warning than a greeting.
“Ryker.” I match his tone, sweet but sharp. “Here to check on my girl. Make sure you’re not holding her hostage.” I give him a wink so technically, he is. I guess she's made her choice, but still. That's how it started.
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes - amusement, maybe, or irritation. I never can tell with him. “She’s in the sunroom.”
I step past him, the air between us charged with tension. He’s not Jackson, but they’re cut from the same cloth. Dangerous. Overprotective. The kind of men who think they own the world - and the people in it.
Naya’s curled up on a plush lounge chair when I find her, a soft blanket draped over her legs. The sunlight streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the gold flecks in her eyes. She looks better than the last time I saw her, no more bandages peeking out, her smile easier.
“Hey, you,” I say, dropping onto the couch across from her. “How’s the patient?”
She laughs, the sound light but tinged with exhaustion. “Better. Ryker’s been... attentive.”
“Attentive, huh?” I wiggle an eyebrow. "Is that code for sex?'
Naya grins and shoves me. "Not everything is about sex!"
I roll my eyes. "So that's a yes."
"Shut up." She shakes her head, but she looks so light. Free. It makes me happy for her - and the only reason I didn't attempt to cut Ryker's balls from his body the second I found out what he did. “What about you? How has everything been.”
“I’m surviving.” I shrug, but the words feel hollow even as I say them. I haven't told her about Jackson really, but she has realized that the man I've been talking about is Ryker's cousin.
And she knows his reputation to say the least.
“Surviving,” Naya echoes, her voice soft but laced with something sharper, more observant. “You seem... different. Happier, maybe.”
I freeze, my fingers still on the chain of my necklace. “Happier? Me?” I laugh, but it’s forced, grating even to my own ears. “I'm always a delight. Can a ray of sunshine really get brighter?"
“Come on, Aliyah. I'm serious.” She tilts her head, those dark eyes of hers seeing too much, like they always do. “You’re not as... tense. You’re not looking over your shoulder every five seconds. That’s new.”
I open my mouth to deny it, to brush it off like I always do, but the words catch in my throat.
Because she’s right. I haven’t been on edge.
I haven’t been scanning every room for exits or locking myself in the bathroom to check my devices for tampering.
I’ve been... comfortable. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I hate it.
“Nothing much to tell,” I say finally, my voice tighter than I mean it to be. “I’ve just been busy. Work. Life. You know how it is.”
“Busy,” Naya repeats, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Or maybe you’ve finally found someone who makes you feel safe enough to let your guard down.”
“Safe?” I snort, but it’s more defensive than dismissive. “The only person who’s ever made me feel safe is me. I don’t need anyone else for that.”
Even Naya doesn't know all my deep dark secrets.
She raises an eyebrow, her expression softening. “Aliyah, it’s okay to not always be running. You don’t have to fight every battle alone.”
I stand abruptly, my bag slung over my shoulder like a shield. “I’m not running. I’m not fighting anything. I’m fine. Always have been.”
She doesn’t argue, but the way she looks at me - like she sees straight through my bullshit - makes my skin crawl.
After a little while longer of trying to keep the conversation focused on her, I make some excuse about needing to get back, and she lets me go without protest. That’s one thing I’ve always loved about her - she knows when to push and when to let me keep my walls up.
The driver takes me back to Jackson’s place, but my mind is restless the entire time. Naya’s words loop in my head, unwelcome and persistent. Safe enough to let your guard down.
Stupid. Dangerous. Jackson’s not the kind of man you let your guard down around.
He’s the kind of man who’ll use it against you the second he gets the chance.
That's why I can't trust anyone. Because everyone is out for their own game and a handful of orgasms and a promise not to run isn't the same as letting someone in.
I didn't even realize how dangerously close I was getting to do such a thing.
I think about the way he looks at me sometimes, that dark, unreadable gaze that makes my stomach twist. I think about the way he moves, silent and deliberate, like a predator always on the hunt.
I think about the way he’s kept me here, under his thumb, under his roof, like I’m some kind of prize he’s won.
And then I think about the nights I’ve spent in his guest room, the ones where I’ve actually slept instead of lying awake, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The ones where I’ve woken up to the smell of coffee and the sound of him moving around downstairs, and for a moment, I’ve felt...
something. Something I don’t want to name.
But no. That’s exactly the problem. People like Jackson don’t keep people like me around because they care. They keep us around because we’re useful. And the second I stop being useful, he’ll toss me aside like I’m nothing. That’s how men like him operate. That’s how everyone operates.
I've just been waiting for him to prove me right.
By the time the car pulls into the driveway, my jaw is tight, and I fight to keep my composure. I don’t need anyone. I don’t need him. I survived this long on my own, and I’ll keep surviving, just like I always have.
Jackson’s car is already there, the sleek black Aston Martin parked in its usual spot.
I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over my hair like I’m brushing away the thoughts that cling to me like cobwebs.
Then I grab my bag and head inside, my mask firmly in place.
Safe? No. I’m not safe. And I never will be.
I step inside, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that makes my shoulders tense. The house is quiet, but I can feel his presence before I see him. Jackson’s sitting on the couch, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, tracking my every move as I cross the room.
“How’s Naya?” His voice is low, steady, the kind of tone that makes people think he’s calm. I know better. There’s always something simmering beneath the surface with him.
“Fine,” I say, short and clipped. I drop my bag on the kitchen counter, the sound louder than necessary. “She’s healing. Ryker’s still hovering like a damned guard dog, but she’s handling it.”
He nods, his gaze never leaving me. “Good. That’s good.”
I don’t look at him. Instead, I busy myself with pulling out a glass and filling it with water, my movements quick and deliberate. I don’t need this. I don’t need him pretending to care about something that has nothing to do with him.
“Anything else you want to know?” I snap, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or are we done with the small talk?”
He doesn’t react to the bite in my words, just leans back on the couch, his arms draped over the back of it. The way he looks me over sets my teeth on edge. “You seem tense.”
“Tense?” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “I’m not tense. I’m just not interested in playing house with you, Jackson. This?” I gesture between us, my movements sharp and jagged. “It’s temporary. Physical. A transaction. That’s it. So let’s not pretend this is something it’s not. Don't act like you care.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes darken, that quiet intensity of his shifting into something sharper, more dangerous. “We both know that’s not true anymore.”
He’s wrong. He has to be wrong. This can’t be more than what it is. It can’t. Because if it is, then everything I’ve built, everything I’ve fought for, everything I’ve told myself - it’s all a lie.
I force myself to breathe, to steady the tremor in my hands. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” He leans forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice low but cutting. “You told me you weren't trying to leave. You told me to stop running. I have. But have you?"
My stomach twists, a sickening mix of anger and fear and something else I refuse to name. I want to lash out, to hurt him the way he’s hurting me, but the words don’t come. Instead, I’m stuck there, frozen, my mind racing.
“You think you’ve got me figured out, huh?” My voice is shaking now, and I hate it. “You think you know me? You don’t know shit.”
“I know enough,” he says, his tone calm but relentless. “I know you’re not the same person who I dragged in here weeks ago. And neither am I.”
I shake my head, my fingers tightening into fists at my sides. “That doesn’t mean anything. This is just... convenience. That’s all it is. That’s all it can be.”
He stands then, the movement slow but deliberate, and I have to fight the urge to step back. He’s too close, his presence too overwhelming. “Keep telling yourself that, angel. But we both know the truth.”
My chest aches, a sharp, stabbing pain that I can’t ignore.
He’s wrong. He has to be wrong. I can’t do this.
I can’t let him in. I can’t let him see the cracks in my armor.
My father taught me better than that. He taught me that love is a weakness, that attachment is a liability, that the only person you can trust is yourself.
But standing here, with Jackson’s dark eyes locked on mine, I feel those lessons slipping through my fingers like sand. And it scares me more than anything else ever could.