Chapter 22
Jaxon
The sound of Mrs. Murphy’s voice hits me like ice water dumped straight over my head, cold enough to jolt me out of whatever dangerous fantasy Conor had started pulling me into.
I met her while I was in the hospital. She was kind, and I didn’t understand why she was there, why she was looking at me the way she did.
The way her hand moved through my hair, gentle and unhurried, the way her eyes softened when she looked at me…
it wasn’t pity. It was something else. Something I didn’t recognize. Compassion, maybe?
It felt foreign enough that I didn’t know what to do with it, how to respond, how to be the kind of person someone looks at like that.
I’ve spent my whole life without knowing what a parent is supposed to be.
And I know enough to understand it was never anything like the foster homes or group homes I was passed through.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Conor pulls the covers up around me, tucking me in with a care I’m still not used to. My eyes sting the second his lips brush my forehead again, the warmth of it settling deeper than it should. At this rate, I’m never going to stop crying if he keeps doing that.
I let my head sink back against the soft pillows, breathing in the scent of Conor lingering in the sheets around me.
It’s everywhere now, wrapping around me so completely that it’s hard to think about anything else.
And maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.
Letting Conor get close feels dangerous in a way I’m not prepared for, because if I let him pull himself deeper into my life, then I’m dragging him straight into the mess of it with me.
But if I push him away, if I refuse the help he’s offering, this strange, impossible kindness, then I don’t think I’ll ever really get free of any of it. Not while I’m still alive.
I don’t know why I haven’t given up yet. Lately, the thought comes more often than it should. How easy it would be to just stop fighting, to let everything go quiet. Hell… who would even notice? The question sits there longer than I want it to.
Maybe I’ve been waiting. Waiting for something—someone—to pull me out before I sink too far under. Maybe… Maybe that someone is Conor. And if that’s true… Then I’d be an idiot to push him away.
God, I need therapy. Not that it ever did much good before. Because if I’m even considering putting my life—my trust—in the hands of someone I barely know, then something has to be wrong with me. I have to be losing it.
Except that doesn’t feel right either. He saved me. More than once. He stayed with me at the hospital. Brought me here. Hasn’t asked for anything in return. And he keeps saying he doesn’t want anything from me.
Voices in the hallway pull me out of my thoughts.
The bedroom door opens, and Alessia Murphy steps inside.
She’s beautiful. Long auburn hair falls in soft waves around her face, framing features that are far too young-looking for someone with grown kids.
If I’d passed her on the street, I never would’ve believed she was Conor’s mother, let alone that she had three more besides him.
Her smile lights up the room as she turns toward me.
“Hello, Jaxon. It’s so good to see you awake and out of the hospital.”
She moves to the side of the bed and sits near my hip, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her beside me.
Then she takes one of my hands in both of hers.
They’re small, so much smaller than mine.
And I can’t stop staring at the way they wrap around it like they’re trying to hold something too big for them.
“Mrs. Murphy,” I manage, dipping my head slightly.
“None of that, dear. Please, call me Alessia.” She pats the back of my hand, her thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I brought food. Conor called earlier to ask what would be best for you while you’re healing.”
Conor steps closer, and I catch the way his gaze drops immediately to where our hands are still joined.
I can’t quite read his expression, but there’s a slight pull between his brows, something tight.
Does he not like this? The thought settles uneasily in my chest. Maybe he doesn’t like sharing his mother.
“I’d rather bring it in here,” Conor says, glancing at me before shooting his mom a look, “but she thinks it’ll be good for you to move around a little.”
The look he gives her is almost comical. The big guy’s actually a little intimidated by his mom. A quiet laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
“I think getting up is probably a good idea,” I say. “The doctor said light activity would help.”
Alessia smirks like she’s just won something. “See? I told you.” She rises to her feet. “We’ll meet you in the dining room.”
She disappears out the door before I can respond.
“We?” I ask, glancing up at Conor.
“Yeah. My brother and his partner are here. He’s helping look into things, and he’s got a few questions.”
Before I can react, Conor is already moving, helping me sit up and then to my feet, his hand steady at my side. He doesn’t let go as he guides me out of the room and down the hall toward the dining room.
The sound of a baby’s laugh hits me out of nowhere, sharp and bright, and I stop without thinking. A little boy, maybe two, comes charging across the room, all wobbly steps and reckless confidence, his small arms thrown up as he runs straight for us.
“Up!” he demands, eyes fixed on Conor like there’s no one else in the world.
“Just a minute, Ollie.” Conor keeps us moving, guiding me carefully into a chair before stepping back.
The kid’s attention shifts to me instead, his little head tilting to the side as he studies me like I’m something new and not entirely figured out yet. I’ve seen myself in the mirror. I know I look like hell. I just hope I’m not scaring the little guy. I manage a small smile anyway.
“Hi there,” I say, keeping my voice low and gentle.
“Owey?” he asks, his voice soft and impossibly sweet.
Then his expression shifts, a tiny glare snapping toward Conor. “Urt.”
“Yeah,” Conor says, his tone softening in a way I haven’t heard before. “Jaxon’s got some owies. He’s hurt.”
Conor reaches for him, but Ollie turns away at the last second, heading back toward the table where the two men are already sitting. He plops down beside a dinosaur-covered diaper bag and digs through it with purpose before pulling out a well-worn teddy bear.
Then he stands again and toddles back to me, holding the bear out like it’s something important. My chest tightens as I take the bear from him.
It’s worn in that way only something loved too much can be, the fabric soft and faded from years of small hands holding on. He’s giving me something that matters.
“Wow,” the smaller of the two men says, sounding almost impressed. “He must really like you. I’m Colton. That’s Ollie, and this is Ronan, Conor’s brother.”
I force my eyes away from the bear, though my grip on it tightens as I nod toward Colton. I try to say my name, but the words get stuck somewhere in my throat, caught up in everything I’m still trying to hold together.
Ronan speaks before I can manage it. “Jaxon Kane.” His voice is calm, measured. “We know who you are.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ronan.” Colton rolls his eyes.
“You sound like a damn cartoon villain.” He looks back at me, his expression softening slightly.
“Ignore him, Jaxon. What he means is we know your name. And we’ve been looking into your…
” He pauses, tilting his head as he searches for the right word. “…situation with Manny Deluga.”
My heart stutters, my chest tightening hard enough that I have to force a breath. What is it with this family and their need to insert themselves into my life?
I shake my head slightly, my fingers brushing over the worn fur of the teddy bear, focusing on the texture, the softness, something real, something solid to hold onto.
A small weight presses against my leg, pulling my attention down.
Ollie stands there, those big, soulful eyes fixed on me as his tiny hand moves slowly over my thigh.
The gesture is gentle. Careful and feels reassuring.
Is it weird to think he’s trying to tell me it’s okay? Because it feels like he is.
I chance a look at Conor. His gaze is already on me, steady, unwavering. Something loosens deep inside my chest, and I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. And then I tell them everything. The bar. Why I stepped in. Everything that came after.
“Wednesday…”
The word catches in my throat, sticking there no matter how hard I try to force it out. Because the second I reach for it, the memory hits—sharp and relentless. Being dragged from the ring. The warehouse. Yuri’s body crumpled on the floor. It plays over and over, refusing to let go.
I’ve killed before. I know that. It’s followed me into my sleep, into the quiet moments I can’t escape, but I could always explain it away. It meant something; it was for my country. But this wasn’t that.
Mrs. Murphy reaches over and covers my large, calloused hand with her smaller, softer one.
“He’s not dead,” she says gently. “We figured out who was there that night.” Her gaze shifts briefly to Conor before returning to me, her fingers tightening slightly around mine.
“You know Henry’s connected. But do you know who else was there?”
I shake my head slowly. I didn’t recognize any of them.
They all looked the same to me, wealthy, polished, the kind of men who don’t get their hands dirty themselves.
But the look on Conor’s face causes something in my stomach drops.
I have a feeling I’m about to hear something I don’t want to know.
“They’re Russian mafia,” Ronan says, like he’s stating a fact that doesn’t need dressing up. “How Henry got tangled up with them… we’re still working that out.” He leans back slightly, eyes sharp as they stay on me. “There were also a few high rollers there. Regulars at the fights. Big money.”
My grip tightens around the bear without me meaning to. Conor steps in before the silence stretches too far.
“From what we can tell,” he says, his voice steadier, more controlled, “Henry set you up against their top fighter.” He watches me carefully before adding, “He’s not dead. But he’s in the hospital.”
I put a man in the hospital. It doesn’t matter that he did the same to me. The thought hits, and suddenly I can’t breathe. My chest locks up, air catching halfway in, like my lungs just forget how to work. Tears spill before I can stop them. I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt anyone again.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
The words break apart, swallowed by a sob before I can finish.
Conor is there before I even realize he’s moved.
He shifts me in the chair, pulling me close until I’m half in his lap, his arms wrapping around me in a hold that’s firm but careful.
My head is guided into the space between his neck and shoulder, his hand steady at the back of it, keeping me there.
A soft kiss presses to my forehead. That’s all it takes. A broken sob tears out of me, louder this time, impossible to hold back. I grip onto his t-shirt. No longer holding on to the bear. Now it’s Conor holding me in place.
“Shhh… it’s okay,” Conor murmurs, his voice low against me. “You did what you had to do, Jax.”
His fingers comb through my hair in slow, repetitive strokes, grounding, patient. It’s like he’s willing to stay there as long as it takes for me to come back down. My breathing stutters, then starts to even out under his touch.
I lean into him, giving in to it completely. Letting myself be held, letting myself be touched like I’m allowed to have this. God… if I could keep this. If I didn’t have to lose it, maybe it would be enough. I don’t think I’d ever let him go.