Chapter 18
Jaxon
The second the word leaves his mouth, everything clicks into place so fast it almost makes me dizzy. I snap my head toward him. Instant regret. My vision blurs for a second, the movement too fast, my body not ready for it, but I don’t care, because now I know.
“It was you,” I say, my voice rough but sharper now, cutting through the haze. “I knew I was being watched. I felt it.” Anger spikes. It’s hot and immediate.
“Fuck my life, you’re my stalker.”
“Yes.”
One word. No hesitation. No denial.
I stare at him, trying to process how casually he just admitted that, how he didn’t even try to soften it or explain it away, and something in my chest twists hard.
“Turn around,” I snap, my voice gaining strength even if my body doesn’t. “Take me home. I’m not staying with you.”
My hand moves toward the door handle on instinct, even though I know I’m not in any shape to actually do anything about it, even though just sitting upright is already pushing it.
He just keeps driving out of the city.
“I’m serious, Conor,” I add, my breathing picking up again, frustration bleeding into something sharper. “You don’t get to just insert yourself into my life and—” I cut myself off, jaw tightening. “Take me home.”
“I can’t do that, Jaxon.”
I hear the faint creak of leather under his grip on the steering wheel, like he’s holding himself tighter than he wants to admit, like he already knows where this is going and isn’t backing down anyway.
“And why not?” I shoot back, my voice rough but sharp. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah,” he fires back immediately, no hesitation, no softening, “and you ended up in the hospital for almost four days. You didn’t even wake up for the first one.”
The words burn, and something in me snaps. I’ve held it in. Kept my mouth shut about what happened. Told myself it didn’t matter, that it wouldn’t change anything, that saying it out loud wouldn’t fix a damn thing. But that statement he just made, that pushes it too far and pisses me off.
“It’s your fucking fault this happened to me in the first place,” I force out, trying to raise my voice even though my throat protests hard enough to make it burn. “If you hadn’t gone all hero at the fights, I would have been fine.”
The words come faster now, fueled by anger more than sense.
“I would have taken the fourth fight and gone the fuck home.”
I see it. The reaction. He jerks back slightly in his seat, like I actually hit him, like the words hit harder than anything physical could have, his grip on the wheel tightening before he forces it to loosen again.
Good. Maybe now he gets it. Maybe now he understands that whatever this is, whatever he thinks he’s doing, made it worse.
He doesn’t say anything. Not a single fucking word. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t even look at me. He just keeps driving. And somehow that’s worse.
Because at least if he fought back, I’d have something to push against, something to hold onto, but this silence just sits there, heavy and unmoving.
It’s like nothing I said mattered enough for him to respond.
Fine, if that’s how he wants it. I don’t say anything either.
I’ll call an Uber when we get to wherever the fuck we’re going.
We pass through large iron gates, the metalwork intricate, a Celtic knot wrapped around an “M” at the center, and I catch it in a glance, my mind automatically registering the detail even though I don’t want to care.
The driveway stretches out ahead of us, long and perfectly paved, lined with trees that look like they’ve been placed there with intention rather than grown naturally. It’s beautiful, and I hate that I notice.
I hate that part of me wants to take it in, to appreciate it the way I would have once, back when things were different, back when I let myself think about a future that looked nothing like the life I ended up with.
And then the house comes into view. And everything in me goes still.
It’s massive. Modern. It’s all clean lines, steel, and glass, sharp edges and open space, the kind of place that looks like it belongs in a magazine.
The kind of place I used to spend hours looking at when I was planning a life I thought I’d have after the military.
I remember that version of me. The one who thought he’d have a home like this someday. Complete with a husband and a family. Room to build something that actually meant something. It was a dream. A stupid one, apparently.
Now I’m sitting in the passenger seat of some rich asshole’s car, being dragged into a life that looks exactly like what I wanted, except none of it belongs to me. And the guy who has it? He’s the same one who just turned my life upside down.
After he pulls into the largest garage I’ve ever seen, the space echoing slightly as the engine cuts off, I push the door open and step out without waiting for him, already turning toward the open exit with one goal in mind.
Leave.
He gave me my phone back at the hospital, probably thinking it would make me more cooperative, but all it really did was give me an out, and I fully intend to use it. I’ll walk to the end of the drive. Call a rideshare. Disappear back into my own life, however fucked up it currently is.
“We need to talk.”
His voice follows me, firm but not raised.
“No, we don’t,” I shoot back without slowing, not even bothering to turn around.
“Please, Jaxon.”
That stops me. Not because of the words. Because of the tone. I turn slightly, just enough to look at him over my shoulder.
“I need to know what’s going on,” he continues, stepping forward, his voice tighter now. “I need to know how this is my fault. I thought I was saving you from getting hurt that night.”
I spin around fully, the anger already rising, ready to throw it back at him, ready to make him feel exactly what I’ve been carrying since this all started. But the words don’t come. They stall out, caught in my throat.
He’s pacing. Back and forth across the garage floor, his hands dragging through his hair again and again, like he’s trying to physically work something out of his own head.
He’s no longer controlled or composed. Not like the man who walked into that cage without hesitation.
He looks frustrated. It’s like he actually doesn’t understand.
I was ready for a fight, ready for arrogance and entitlement. For him to act like he knew better. But this? This looks a lot more like someone who genuinely thinks he helped and doesn’t understand how badly he didn’t.
He stops pacing. Like someone hit pause. His eyes lock onto mine, and the shift in him is immediate, the restless energy gone, replaced with something far more focused, far more intense, and there’s something in that look I wasn’t expecting. Something closer to desperation.
“Explain this to me,” he says, his voice lower now, steadier, but there’s something underneath it that wasn’t there before. “Please, Jaxon. I need to know how I caused this.”
I exhale slowly, the tension in my chest tightening before easing just enough for me to think.
I hate that he affects me. I hate that after everything, after finding out he’s been watching me for months, after everything that’s happened, the fact that it was him doesn’t send me running the way it should.
If anything, it settles something. That realization alone pisses me off.
“Fine,” I mutter, stepping toward him, closing the distance even though my body protests immediately, my ribs aching from the movement, from the ride, from everything I’ve pushed through to even get this far. I sway slightly, just enough to notice. He notices too.
“Let’s go inside,” he says quickly, moving to open the door before I can argue. I don’t fight him. Not this time.
The second I step inside, I stop. Because what the hell. The garage opens straight into a kitchen that looks like something out of a damn magazine, and for a second, I just stand there, staring, my brain struggling to process it all at once.
It’s massive. Open. Double ovens are built into the wall. Stainless steel everywhere. Sleek surfaces, polished and perfect. I don’t even see a fridge at first, which means it’s hidden, built into the cabinetry like everything else, designed to blend in instead of stand out.
Jesus. It’s huge. And I’m just standing there, taking it in like an idiot, because I’ve never actually been inside something like this, only seen it in pictures, only imagined what it would be like to have something like this as part of my life.
I finally shake myself out of it, forcing those images away before they can take root, before they can turn into something I’ll regret letting myself feel.
Me in this kitchen cooking for him. It’s a fantasy, a stupid one.
Not worth the effort it takes to even dream about it.
I push it down hard and follow him deeper into the house, my steps slower now, more measured, my eyes taking everything in whether I want them to or not.
We move into the living room, and it hits just as hard as it did in the kitchen.
Maybe harder. The space opens up even more, wide and expansive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that rise toward the ceiling and stretch across the back of the house, letting in light and offering a full view of the property beyond.
Expensive in a way that doesn’t need to be obvious to be known.
The furniture is real and looks comfortable.
It should feel warm and inviting. But it doesn’t.
That realization settles in slowly, creeping in the longer I stand there. This is his house. There’s no denying that, but it doesn’t feel like a home. It feels empty somehow. Like everything is here except the part that actually makes a place lived in.
I push that thought away. Not my business. I take a seat on the large overstuffed couch, and yep, it’s just as comfortable as it looks.
“Explain.” The word is delivered differently this time. Controlled and commanding.
I feel it immediately, the shift in him, like a switch flipped somewhere between the garage and here. Whatever crack I saw earlier has been sealed back up, replaced with the man who walked into that cage without hesitation, without doubt.
He sits beside me on the couch, close enough that I’m aware of him, of his presence, of the heat coming off his body, but not touching.
Everything about him is deliberate. I glance at him, really look this time, and yeah, he’s back in control.
Something about that pisses me off more than when he was pacing.
“You don’t get to demand anything from me,” I say, my voice rough but steady, even as I shift slightly, trying to get comfortable without showing how much it still hurts. I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face before letting it drop into my lap.
“You stepping in that night didn’t just stop a fight,” I start, my gaze drifting toward the windows for a second before coming back to him. “It screwed up the entire setup.”
His jaw tightens, but he stays quiet.
“Henry had money riding on that fourth fight,” I continue, forcing the words out even though every instinct I have is telling me to shut up, to keep this to myself. I shift again, my ribs protesting, but I push through it.
“He was trying to wear me out,” I add. “He was trying to make sure I lost. When you stepped in,” I go on, “you didn’t just take my place. You cost him whatever he had riding on that outcome.”
I let that sit for a second. Let it sink in.
“So he made an example out of me,” I finish, my voice quieter now, but heavier. “To get his money back. To send a message. To make sure I don’t step out of line again.”
Silence stretches between us again. I meet his eyes, holding his gaze.
“That’s how this is your fault.”