Chapter 15
Conor
I have never been more thankful for my mother in my life, and that’s saying something considering everything she’s done for all of us over the years.
She’s been holding this family together for as long as I can remember, keeping us in line, keeping us grounded, saving us in ways we didn’t even realize we needed.
And from what I’ve been told, she was doing the same thing for Dad and Uncle Duncan long before any of us were even around.
Somehow, in a matter of minutes, she’s managed to do what I haven’t been able to accomplish in months of watching him, following him, trying to understand him from a distance that never should have existed in the first place.
She got through to him. Not much, not everything.
But more than I’ve ever gotten from him in every conversation we’ve had combined.
Just that quiet, steady way she has of making people feel like they’re safe enough to tell the truth.
I glance at her, watching the way she sits there beside him, calm and composed, like this is exactly where she’s supposed to be. And maybe that’s why it works. Because she doesn’t treat it like a problem to solve, she treats it like a person who needs to be seen.
Something tight settles in my chest as I look back at him, at the tear still drying against his skin, at the way he looks like he’s holding himself together by a thread. And for the first time since I saw him on that camera feed, I know one thing for certain. I’m not walking away from this.
I reach up without really thinking about it, my thumb brushing along his cheek to catch the tear before it can disappear into his hair, the motion careful, slower than anything I usually allow myself to be. I hate seeing him like this. He’s always been quiet. Closed off.
Broody in a way that made it hard to read anything from him at all, and in the eight months I’ve been watching him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile, not once, not even when he thought no one was looking.
My gut tightens at the thought, because I want to.
I want to see what that looks like. I want to hear him laugh, and I want to be the reason it happens.
“No one is going to touch you here,” She tells him, keeping her voice steady and even. “I’m stationing guards outside your room. You’re safe. Now for the next part,” She continues, as I watch his eyes closely. “You think, but you don’t know for sure if the person is dead.”
I wait. One blink. My jaw tightens.
“We need to know where and who, so we can figure this out, Jaxon.”
Mom’s hand moves over his hair, gentle and grounding in a way I wish came naturally to me, and I watch closely, noting the way he doesn’t pull away from her touch. Or mine.
He blinks twice, then closes his eyes, trying to shake his head, but the movement is weak, cut short by the pain that pulls a visible reaction from him. I shift, ready to step in, ready to say something, but Mom beats me to it.
“Listen to me, Jaxon,” she says softly, her hand moving to cup his cheek. “It’s okay for you to accept help. It’s okay to let people in when they can actually make a difference.”
He tries again to shake his head, stubborn even now, but the wince stops him before he can finish.
“My family and I can be that for you,” she continues, her tone never changing, never pushing too hard.
“Conor has offered, and I’m standing with him on that.
” There’s a pause, just enough to let it sink in.
“And even if you don’t agree,” she adds gently, “we’re still going to help. It’s what we do.”
She straightens, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair one last time.
“Get some rest,” she tells him. “We’ll talk later and figure out a plan.”
Then she turns, heading for the door, pausing just long enough to motion for me to follow. I hesitate for a second, my eyes going back to him, taking in the way his face tightens, the way another tear slips free despite everything.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him quietly before stepping out into the hallway.
The brightness out here is harsh compared to the dim room, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust.
“Don’t push him too hard right now, Conor,” Mom says, her voice softer now but no less firm.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair as I look down the hall, already knowing she’s right.
She always is. Out of all of us, I’m the one with the least patience.
The one who wants answers now. The one who acts first and deals with the consequences later.
It’s gotten me into trouble more times than I can count.
It’s the same reason I started watching Jaxon the first night I saw him. I couldn’t walk away. I still can’t.
That’s what I told Mom when I called her on the way to the hospital, my hands tight on the wheel, my thoughts spiraling so fast I could barely keep track of them, every instinct in me screaming for violence, for retaliation, for something that would make whoever touched him pay for it.
I wanted to burn it all down. Every single person who had ever laid a hand on him.
And somehow, in the middle of all that, she pulled me back. Like she always does.
Her voice alone is enough to cut through it, to slow me down just enough to think instead of react, to breathe instead of explode.
I told her everything. Everything I knew, everything Taylor had reported.
Every detail I had gathered, every piece I had put together, even the parts I hadn’t wanted to say out loud before.
She was quiet for a long moment after I finished, and I knew that silence meant something, knew she was thinking, weighing it, deciding what mattered most. Then she asked me the one question I had been avoiding.
“Is he yours?”
There was no hesitation.
“Yes.”
The answer came out of me before I could think about it, before I could analyze it or justify it, and even now I can’t fully explain it.
I’ve seen this before. First with Declan, and then with Ronan.
I understand what it looks like. I just don’t understand why it feels like this.
Because when I look at Jaxon, I don’t just see a man in trouble.
I see something broken. Something worn down and pushed too far.
And every instinct I have tells me to take care of it. Of him.
When I can’t watch him, my mind fills in the gaps without permission, wondering if he’s eaten, if he’s sleeping, if he’s safe, things I don’t give a fuck about when it comes to anyone else. But with him I do.
“Did you hear me?” Mom’s voice pulls me back to the present, her hand squeezing my forearm just enough to ground me. “Let him tell you in his own time,” she says gently. “Right now, just keep reminding him that he’s safe.”
I nod once, even though she already knows I heard her.
“Your dad and the rest are looking into Henry,” she adds, her tone shifting slightly, more focused now. Good. Because if Henry is behind this, he’s not walking away from it.
I watch her walk away, her posture straight, her steps steady and assured, confidence in every movement. She always moves like that. Like nothing is out of her control. I stand there for a second longer, letting that settle, before turning back toward the room.
Jaxon is exactly where I left him. Same position. Same stillness. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and even, and the tension that had been pulling at his face earlier has eased just enough to make him look almost peaceful.
I step closer without thinking, drawn back to him in a way I’ve stopped trying to question, and just stand there for a moment, looking down at him, taking him in without the noise, without the fight, without the walls he keeps throwing up every time I get too close.
He’s not what people see at first glance. Not just size and strength, but also the hard edges that come from everything he’s been through. Lying here like this, stripped of all of that, there’s something else. Something quieter. Something that doesn’t match the life he’s been forced into.
His features are softer when he’s not guarding himself, the tension gone from his brow, his mouth relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before, and for the first time since I found him, he doesn’t look like he’s bracing for the next hit. He just looks tired.
And something in my chest tightens at that, deeper than anything else I’ve felt so far. Because he shouldn’t look like this.
I see it the moment he becomes aware of me again, the subtle shift in his face as some of that tension creeps back in, like even half-conscious, his body knows to brace, knows not to fully relax.
His eyes open slowly, heavy and unfocused at first, before they settle on me, and even through the pain, through the exhaustion, there’s awareness there.
He lifts his hand just slightly, the movement weak but intentional, motioning toward the cup of ice.
I grab it without a word, stepping closer as I scoop a small amount onto the plastic spoon and bring it to his lips.
He opens for me, and I give him one spoonful.
Then another. Then a third. Watching him the entire time.
His lips brush against the plastic each time, soft despite everything, the contrast catching me off guard more than it should, pulling my focus for a fraction longer than necessary before I force it back where it belongs. On taking care of him.
When he turns his head slightly, the smallest indication that he’s done, I don’t push it. I set the cup back down. Give him space.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then he looks at me. Really looks at me. And when he speaks, his voice is rough, shredded from whatever damage was done, each word dragged out through gravel and pain.
“What do you want from me?”
The question lands heavier than anything else he could have asked, not because of the words themselves, but because of everything behind them. The expectation and resignation. Like he already believes there’s a cost.
I hold his gaze, not looking away, not softening it, but not hardening it either.
“I don’t want a damn thing from you, Jaxon,” I say, my voice steady, leaving no room for misunderstanding. Then, quieter, “I want to give you everything.”