Chapter 17
Conor
It’s been three days since Jaxon first woke up. Three days of slow progress, measured improvement, and absolute silence when it comes to anything that actually matters.
His throat is better. Not healed, not fully, but better. Enough that he can speak. Enough that he can fucking argue. And enough that he can keep shutting me out.
I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. I’ve followed Mom’s advice, given him space, held back when every instinct I have tells me to push, to demand answers, to take control of a situation that is very clearly not under control.
Today I don’t have that option. They’re releasing him. And there is no way in hell I’m letting him walk out of here and go back to that apartment as if nothing happened.
“You’re coming home with me,” I tell him, my tone leaving no room for interpretation, no room for argument, even though I know exactly what’s coming. Because I’ve already said this once. More than once, actually.
“I’m not arguing with you about this again, Conor,” he shoots back immediately, his voice still rough but stronger than it was, stronger than I’d like given the situation. “I’m going back to my place.”
My jaw tightens.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” he continues, and there’s something in that, something genuine that only makes this worse, “but I can’t keep this up.”
Keep what up? Breathing? Staying alive? Letting someone help him?
The frustration spikes, sharp and immediate, but I hold it in, watching instead as he reaches for the clothes I brought him, moving with that same slow, careful precision that tells me he’s still in pain even if he won’t admit it.
Every step costs him something. I can see it. The way he shifts his weight, the way he braces, the way he refuses to show it. He heads toward the bathroom without looking at me again.
That’s where my patience starts to snap. Because he’s still acting like this is a choice. Like I’m just going to stand here and let him walk right back into whatever almost got him killed.
As soon as he steps out of the bathroom, I’m already there, closing the distance before he can take more than a step, positioning myself directly in front of him so there’s no way he can just walk past me. This conversation is happening.
He stops short. Not because he wants to.
Because he has to. There’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes, sharp and immediate, but underneath it I can see the strain, the way his body is still fighting to keep up with what he’s demanding from it.
The way even standing there is costing him more than he’s willing to admit.
“You’re not going back there,” I say, my voice low but firm, not raised, not aggressive, but final in a way that doesn’t invite argument. His jaw tightens.
“I don’t get a say in that?” he shoots back, his voice rough but steady, pushing through the pain.
“No,” I answer without hesitation.
Oh, he doesn’t like that. I see it in the way his shoulders pull back, in the way his expression hardens, the walls slamming back into place just as quickly as they dropped when he was lying in that bed.
“I’m not your problem, Conor,” he says, each word deliberate, like he’s trying to make me understand something I clearly don’t. “You don’t get to decide what happens to me.”
“And you don’t get to walk back into a situation that almost killed you,” I fire back, stepping closer without thinking, my voice tightening despite my effort to keep it controlled. “Not when I know about it. Not when I can do something about it.”
His eyes flash, hot and intense.
“This isn’t your life,” he snaps. “You don’t know what you’re stepping into.”
“I know enough,” I counter immediately. “I know you were left bleeding in a hallway. I know someone is still out there who did that to you. And I know you’re not in any condition to handle it on your own right now.”
The silence between us stretches, thick and charged, neither of us backing down, neither of us willing to give an inch. He shifts slightly, the movement small but telling, the way his body reacts betraying the pain he’s trying so hard to hide. That’s all the confirmation I need.
“You’re coming with me,” I say again, quieter this time but no less certain. “Whether you like it or not.” Because I’m done asking. He’s not walking away from me. Not again.
I grab his bag before he can protest again, slinging it over my shoulder like the decision has already been made.
There is no version of this where he walks out of here alone.
Then I place my hand on the small of his back to guide him forward.
He stiffens for a fraction of a second. He comes with me, step by step, not fighting it outright, but not giving in completely either, his body moving forward while his mind clearly hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s leaving with me.
As soon as my hand settles against him, something shifts. Something immediate. It hits deep inside me. This is right, my hand belongs there. Like it’s been waiting for that contact and finally found it.
I keep my hand there as we walk, steady but not forcing, letting him set the pace even if it’s slower than I’d like, even if every careful step reminds me that he’s still hurt, still recovering, still not anywhere close to okay.
I haven’t touched him much. Not really. A few necessary contacts. The ice. His hair. That kiss on his forehead. My jaw tightens slightly at the thought of it.
Neither of us has said anything about it. And I’m not sure what I would say if he did. I didn’t plan it. I just did it. Because in that moment, he looked too vulnerable, too exposed, too alone. And something in me wouldn’t let me leave it like that. I don’t regret it. Not even a little.
I open the door to my Range Rover, the size of it practical more than anything else, built to fit someone like me without feeling cramped, and now, someone like him too.
Jaxon pauses for half a second when he looks at it, his eyes taking it in, the quiet luxury of it, the kind of vehicle that makes a statement whether you want it to or not, and then he sighs.
Like this is just another thing he doesn’t have the energy to fight right now.
He climbs in without another word, careful with his movements, still favoring his ribs even if he’s trying to hide it, and I close the door behind him before moving around to the driver’s side.
By the time I slide into my seat, he’s already leaning back slightly, his head resting against the headrest, his eyes flicking toward me.
“So,” he says, his voice still rough but edged with something dry, something almost sarcastic, “where are you kidnapping me to?”
I huff out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, as I start the engine, the low rumble filling the space between us.
“Home,” I answer simply, pulling out of the hospital lot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then I glance at him. “My place,” I add, just to make it clear. And then, a little quieter. “Somewhere you’ll actually be safe.”
“I don’t know why I’m going along with this.” He says, laying his head against the headrest. “I probably should go back to the hospital to have another brain scan done.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your brain other than the concussion. I had a specialist look at it.”
He turns his head slightly toward me but doesn’t lift it from the headrest, his eyes half-lidded, still watching me even through the exhaustion.
“Of course you did,” he mutters, his voice dry despite the rasp. “Are you ever going to tell me what this is all about? Your mother was at the hospital, for fuck’s sake.”
I glance at him briefly before pulling my attention back to the road.
“Mom,” I correct automatically, my tone firm without being sharp. “Don’t ever let her hear you call her ‘mother.’ She hates that.”
“What?”
I explain, partly because he asked, and partly because it feels easier than answering the question he actually meant.
“She was raised in one of those old southern families where everything was ‘Mother’ and ‘Grandmother,’” I say, my grip tightening slightly on the wheel as I think back on what she’s told us over the years.
“She said it always felt… distant. Formal in the worst way.” I exhale slowly.
“Titles mattered more than the people using them.”
I glance at him again, making sure he’s still with me. “I think her family cared more about how things looked than what they actually were,” I add. “Social standing, appearances, all of that.” A small shake of my head. “She cut ties with them right after she married my dad.”
That part I respect. Always have. I let the silence sit for a moment after that, knowing full well I still haven’t answered his real question, knowing he’s going to circle back to it.
“Okay, so even your mom was at the hospital,” he says, putting just enough emphasis on the word to make it clear he heard me and is choosing to ignore the correction anyway. “Now explain why you think my life has anything to do with you.”
The question hangs there, heavier than it should be, because it’s not just curiosity, it’s a challenge, it’s distance, it’s him trying to put a line between us that I’ve already stepped over.
I keep my eyes on the road for a second longer than necessary before answering, my hands steady on the wheel even if everything else isn’t.
“Because you made it my business the second you stepped into that warehouse,” I say finally, my voice calm but deliberate, not rushed, not defensive. He lets out a quiet breath that sounds suspiciously like disbelief, but I keep going before he can cut in.
“I saw you that first night and something didn’t sit right,” I admit, the words coming easier now that they’re out. “Not the fighting, not the crowd, not any of that. You.”
I glance at him briefly, then back to the road.
“You didn’t belong there,” I continue. “You weren’t fighting like someone who wanted it.
You were fighting like someone who had no choice.
” The memory of it sits heavy. “And then you lost to Declan, and instead of being pissed or trying to prove something, you just accepted it,” I add.
“That’s not normal in a place like that. ”
I tighten my jaw slightly. “So I watched,” I say, not sugarcoating it, not pretending it was anything else. “At first, to figure out what was going on, and then,” I pause because this is the part that doesn’t make sense. “Then I couldn’t stop.”
The admission sits between us, quiet but solid.
“You can call it whatever you want,” I finish, my voice lower now, more certain, “But I’m not walking away from you. Not when I know what you’re dealing with, and definitely not when someone tried to kill you.”