Chapter 36
Conor
Three hours. Three fucking hours. I’ve worn a path into the hardwood floor of my living room.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Every now and then, I catch the murmur of voices coming from my office.
They’re too muffled to make out the words.
Not that I would listen if I could. Probably. Maybe. The point is irrelevant.
The little Jaxon told me this morning was enough to make my chest feel like it was being squeezed in a vise.
What would three hours be for him? Three hours of talking about things he has spent years avoiding, years burying.
More than once, I’ve found myself halfway down the hallway before stopping.
I have to fight the urge to open the door and pull him into my arms. To tell him he doesn’t have to do any of this.
Not because he isn’t strong enough. Quite the opposite. Jaxon has spent his entire life being strong. Surviving, enduring, and carrying burdens that should have crushed him. He shouldn’t have to anymore. Not if I can help it.
My phone rings. The sound cuts through my thoughts. Pulling it from my pocket, I glance at the screen. Uncle Duncan. I answer immediately.
“Hello, Uncle.”
“Update for you.”
No greeting. Straight to business.
Mom would hate it. She’d spent years teaching us that normal people exchanged pleasantries before discussing work. That pretending to be socially adjusted was an important life skill.
Right now, though, I appreciate Uncle Duncan’s straight-to-the-point attitude.
“What’s the update?”
My gaze drifts toward the hallway leading to my office.
“Manny should be back by the end of the week,” Duncan says. “I am setting up a meeting with him on Saturday.”
My attention snaps back to the phone. “Where and what time?”
I’m honestly surprised my phone hasn’t cracked yet. Anger churns beneath my skin, hot and vicious. Everything Jaxon endured. Everything his mind is still putting him through. The need to make someone pay claws its way through me. I want to tear Manny apart and watch him bleed out slowly.
“I would tell you that it’s not a good idea for you to be there. But for one, you wouldn’t listen, and second, Manny wants Jaxon there.”
For a second, I can’t process the words. Then I do, and my vision goes red. Every muscle in my body locks. The hand holding my phone tightens until the plastic creaks.
Manny wants Jaxon there. After everything. The cage, the fights, after the panic attacks I spent half the night helping him through.
“Fuck no.” The words scrape out between clenched teeth. “He’s never laying eyes on Jaxon again.”
I don’t care what Manny wants. I don’t care what deal he thinks he’s entitled to make. Jaxon isn’t a bargaining chip. He isn’t property. And he sure as hell isn’t stepping foot anywhere near that man.
Silence greets my outburst. Uncle Duncan lets me burn through the initial wave of anger. Then he delivers the part he knows I’m not going to like.
“That’s the deal if you want Jaxon totally out of this mess.”
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I turn toward the hallway leading to my office.
Toward the closed door. He’s been in there for three hours trying to put himself back together. Trying to heal. And now Manny wants him brought back into this.
“No.” My voice is calmer this time, which is far more dangerous.
“Find another way.”
“Conor—”
“Find. Another. Way.” Because as far as I’m concerned, Jaxon has already paid enough.
“There isn’t another way unless you want us to go to war with the mafia.” Uncle Duncan’s tone remains irritatingly calm. Matter-of-fact. Like we’re discussing weather patterns instead of Jaxon’s future.
“Our involvement is already known,” he continues. “That’s what would happen.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Trying and failing to contain my irritation. Going to war isn’t the problem. If it came to that, every man in my family would be loading weapons before the conversation was finished. The problem is Jaxon. What would this do to him?
The thought of asking him to stand in front of Manny again makes something ugly twist in my chest. “Absolutely not.”
“Conor.”
The warning in Duncan’s voice is subtle. Which means it’s real.
“Talk to Jaxon.”
I look toward the hallway again. Toward the office. Toward the man currently trying to put years of trauma into words.
“Let him decide.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because it’s exactly what Mom told me this morning.
Exactly what Neil would probably tell me.
Exactly what I don’t want to hear. I know they’re right.
That’s the irritating part. I hate it. Hate the idea of placing this burden on his shoulders.
Hate the possibility that he’ll say yes.
“Fine.” The word comes out clipped. “I’ll talk to him.”
Duncan is quiet for a moment. “Good. I’ll text you the information.” He ends the call without another word.
The office door opens. I immediately stop pacing. Neil steps into the hallway and gently pulls the door closed behind him. For one irrational second, my eyes flick to the door. Looking for Jaxon. Looking for any sign of how he’s doing.
“Is he okay?” The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
Neil studies me for a moment. “He will be.”
Relief hits first, immediate and overwhelming. Followed quickly by frustration. Because that answer tells me absolutely nothing.
Neil smiles slightly. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“I can’t discuss any particulars with you. That’s up to Jaxon to share.” I glance toward the office again. The closed door suddenly feeling much farther away than it should.
Neil falls into step beside me as I walk him toward the front door. “I would like to arrange to see him twice a week for now.”
The statement catches my attention immediately. Twice a week. Which means Jaxon talked, really talked. The realization leaves me feeling oddly proud. Even though I had nothing to do with it. Neil reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card.
“I can come here or meet him in my office.” He hands it to me. “My personal number is on there. Call me, and we’ll arrange times.”
I take the card. Looking down at it briefly before slipping it into my pocket.
“Thank you.”
The words feel inadequate. Because while I don’t know what was said behind that door, I know how difficult it must have been for Jaxon. How much trust it took.
Neil nods. “He’s stronger than he thinks he is.” The comment catches me off guard. Before I can respond, Neil opens the front door. “Have a good evening, Conor.”
Then he’s gone. The door closes behind him. Leaving me alone in the foyer. My fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the business card in my pocket. Then I head back to him.
Knocking gently on the door, I don’t wait for a response.
I push it open and step inside. The office feels strangely quiet after the constant noise in my head for the last three hours.
Jaxon is exactly where I expected him to be, in the window seat.
His elbows are on his knees, and his head hangs between his hands.
For a moment, he doesn’t even seem to notice I’ve entered.
He looks exhausted. Like he’s spent hours carrying something heavy and has finally put it down.
The sight makes me want to gather him into my arms and take the weight back. An irrational impulse. One I’m having with alarming frequency lately.
Quietly, I cross the room. Jaxon finally looks up when I stop in front of him. His eyes are tired, red around the edges, but clearer somehow. Like some of the pressure that’s been building inside him finally found somewhere to go.
“Hey.” His voice is rough. I lower myself into a crouch in front of him. Refusing to loom over him.
“Hey.”
For a second, neither of us speaks. I study his face. Looking for signs that the session was too much. Looking for signs that he’s okay. Looking for anything.
“How are you doing, A Chroí?”
Even as I ask, the weight of Duncan’s phone call settles heavily in the back of my mind. Sooner rather than later, I’m going to have to tell him about Manny. But not right now. Right now, I need to figure out what he needs.
I run my hand through his short hair. The strands slide between my fingers.
I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.
A gesture I’ve learned he likes. One that almost always pulls some of the tension from his shoulders.
This time, though, Jaxon remains silent.
His gaze stays fixed on the floor. Lost somewhere inside his own head.
I wait. Giving him the chance to answer my question. When he doesn’t, concern tightens in my chest. Gently, I hook a finger beneath his chin and lift his face toward mine. His eyes meet mine. The vulnerability there hits harder than I expect. Because Jaxon rarely lets anyone see it.
“Tell me what you need, A Chroí.” My thumb brushes his cheek. “And it’s yours.”
His breath catches slightly. I don’t look away. Don’t give him the opportunity to doubt that I mean every word.
“Tell me what I need to do.” The words come easily. “And I’ll do it.”
His eyes widen. Just slightly. Like the idea itself is foreign to him. I can practically see the argument forming behind his eyes. For the first time since I walked into the office, something in his expression cracks.
“I need to…” He swallows hard and clears his throat. The words seem to physically hurt coming out. “I need to forget.” His voice cracks. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”
Something inside him finally gives way. The floodgates open. “I don’t want to make any decisions.” Tears spill down his cheeks faster now. “I don’t want to think.”
My chest tightens. “Jaxon—”
“I want to feel wanted.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Cared for.” Another broken breath leaves him. “Safe.”
The last word nearly destroys me. Because it sounds like a plea. Not a demand. Not an expectation. A plea.
“Even if you have to fake it.” I brush away a tear before it can reach his jaw. “Just for a little while.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Please.”
For a moment, I can’t speak. I simply stare at him.
At the man who survived foster homes. Who survived war.
Who survived addiction. Who survived being exploited and used by people who should have protected him.
And somehow still believes affection is something that must be earned.
Like it’s something temporary. Something that can only be given out of pity.
My hands slide to either side of his face, holding him still. Making damn sure he looks at me.
“A Chroí.” The endearment comes out rough. “Nothing about this is fake.” Fresh tears gather in his eyes. I press my forehead against his. “You are wanted.” His breath hitches. “You are cared for.”
I stand and pull him to his feet. Jaxon comes willingly. His fingers immediately tighten around mine. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. I lead him from the office. He doesn’t ask where we’re going.
Tonight is about Jaxon and no one else. It’s about giving him exactly what he asked for. A chance to breathe. A chance to feel wanted. A chance to stop carrying the weight of the world for a few hours.
His shoulder brushes mine as we walk. The contact feels intentional. My grip tightens slightly. By the time tonight is over, Jaxon will never question how real this is for me.
Not again.