Chapter 43
Jaxon
The surprise on my face must be obvious. Mrs. Murphy steps in front of me before I can say anything and rests a gentle hand on my forearm. The simple touch steals what little breath I have left. I lower my gaze to her.
This tiny woman somehow commands a room full of men who fear nothing.
All of them listen when she speaks. Not because they have to, but because they want to.
I find myself wondering what it would have been like to grow up with a mother like her.
To know there was someone waiting after every bad day.
Someone who celebrated your victories and mourned your losses.
Someone who loved you simply because you existed.
The money has nothing to do with it. Take away the mansion. The billion-dollar company. Take it all away, and she would still be exactly who she is. The center of this family. The place they all know they can return to. The safe harbor they measure everything else against.
A strange ache settles in my chest. It’s not jealousy. It’s grief. Grief for something I never had and never even realized I was missing until I walked into this house. Her thumb brushes once across my forearm. The gesture is small and motherly. It nearly undoes me.
Because in all my twenty-seven years, I can’t remember anyone touching me with nothing but affection.
“You didn’t…” The words catch in my throat. I clear it and try again. “You didn’t have to make everyone leave.”
“Yes, I did, Jaxon.” Mrs. Murphy’s voice is gentle. “I have something to say.” Her gaze shifts to Conor. “To both of you.”
She gives my arm one last reassuring pat before motioning toward the sofa.
“Sit.”
Conor and I obey without argument. The same man who would challenge a mob boss without blinking sits down because his mother tells him to. I lower myself onto the opposite end of the sofa. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us looks at the other.
Only when I settle back do I notice the space between us.
A few inches. Nothing more, but it might as well be an ocean.
For the last two weeks, we’ve existed within each other’s orbit.
Sleeping wrapped around one another. Sharing meals.
Passing in hallways with a hand brushing my back or fingers finding mine without thought.
Conor has always found a reason to touch me. Now he doesn’t.
The absence is immediate, painfully so. I keep my hands folded together to stop myself from closing the distance.
Because I’m still angry. And judging by the rigid set of Conor’s shoulders, so is he.
The realization settles heavily in my chest. Somehow, the few inches between us feel colder than every night I spent alone.
“Jaxon.”
Mrs. Murphy settles onto the edge of the coffee table directly in front of us. Close enough that neither of us can avoid looking at her. “First, thank you for protecting my son.”
The words steal the air from my lungs. Certain, I must have heard her wrong. Beside me, Conor stiffens.
“Mom.” The single word is full of disbelief. She doesn’t even look at him.
“Hush, Conor.” The reprimand is quiet. “That is something you should have already told him.”
I glance at Conor. His jaw is tight. His shoulders rigid. He looks as shocked as I feel. No one has ever thanked me for doing my job. For protecting the people beside me. It was simply expected.
Mrs. Murphy reaches forward and places her hand over mine. Her touch is warm and steady on my skin.
“You made sure my son came home tonight.” Her fingers squeeze gently. “As a mother, there are no words to express what that means to me.”
The knot I’ve carried in my chest since leaving the warehouse shifts. Just slightly. For the first time all evening, I don’t know what to say. And for a man who has spent his life believing he was alone, that silence feels strangely overwhelming.
“But…” She pauses. Of course, there is a but. There always is. For every good thing that’s ever happened to me, there’s always been a condition attached. Always a price to pay or a catch waiting around the corner.
“I want to ask you a question.” She folds her hands in her lap. “When you made Conor look at everyone in this room, what did you see?”
“Conor’s family.” The answer leaves my mouth without hesitation. It’s obvious.
She smiles softly. “Is that all you saw?”
The question catches me off guard. I replay the moment in my mind. The people in the room were people who have loved Conor his entire life. The people waiting for him to come home. The people I was trying to protect. I don’t understand what answer she’s looking for.
My silence stretches. Mrs. Murphy doesn’t rush to fill it. She simply waits. Patient. Certain I’ll find it eventually. I lower my eyes to my hands.
“Look up, Jaxon.” Mrs. Murphy gives my hand another gentle squeeze. “I want you to hold your head high when I tell you this.”
My instinct is to keep looking at the floor. To make myself smaller. To become invisible. But something in her voice won’t let me. Slowly, I lift my head. She smiles.
“I want you to know who was in this room.” Her gaze sweeps over the now-empty living room before returning to me. “This room was filled with family.”
She lets the words settle.
“Not just Conor’s.” A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. “Not anymore.”
I shake my head automatically. As though denying it will somehow make it less dangerous to believe.
“Every person who sat in this room tonight walked into that warehouse willingly.” Her thumb brushes across the back of my hand. “They didn’t go because they were ordered to. They didn’t go because they were paid to. They went because of you.”
My throat tightens. I try to swallow, but I can’t. The weight of her words presses against every wall I’ve spent a lifetime building.
“No,” I whisper. The denial is immediate. “They don’t even know me.”
Mrs. Murphy’s smile softens. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice cracks just enough to make my chest ache. “They know everything they need to.” The room blurs as my tears continue to spill over.
I feel the sofa move and then the feel of Conor’s hand rubbing circles on my back. I shake my head again.
“You are part of this family now, as crazy as it is.” Mrs. Murphy smiles. “That is something you’re going to have to get used to, because it’s true.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside me. Somewhere I’ve spent a lifetime trying to convince myself that it didn’t exist. Before I can find a response, she turns toward Conor.
“Now,” she says with an exaggerated sigh, “I’m going to explain some truths about my bullheaded oldest child.”
The endearment is accompanied by a roll of her eyes. But it does nothing to hide the affection behind it. If anything, it makes it more obvious. I glance at Conor. He’s already looking at me. He hasn’t looked away since this conversation started.
His large, warm hand is still rubbing the center of my back.
The same place it settles when a nightmare drags me awake.
The same quiet reassurance that tells me I’m not alone.
I don’t pull away. I should. Every instinct born from years of surviving on my own tells me that depending on someone else is dangerous.
That comfort can be taken away. That people leave.
Instead, I find myself leaning into the touch almost imperceptibly.
My body is making a choice my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
The realization is both terrifying and strangely comforting.
“The men of the Murphy clan are,” she says, smiling over at Conor, “different.”
Conor lets out a quiet sigh. One I’ve come to recognize as the sound of someone who knows exactly where this conversation is headed.
“They’re possessive. Obsessive. And fiercely protective of anything or anyone they decide belongs to them.” She holds up a finger before I can misunderstand. “Not ownership.” Her gaze softens.
“That’s not what I mean.” She leans back slightly. “Think of it more like imprinting.” The word hangs in the air. “When they care for someone, they weave that person into every part of their lives. They stop thinking in terms of me and start thinking in terms of you.”
I glance toward Conor. His hand is still resting against my back. Mrs. Murphy notices. She always notices.
“So when you threw yourself in front of those bullets…” She looks directly at me. “You weren’t just risking your own life. You were asking him to imagine a future without you in it.”
The room falls silent. I feel Conor’s hand tense against my back.
“And to a Murphy man,” she says quietly, “that’s a thought almost impossible to survive.”
The words settle heavily in my chest. Because for the first time since leaving the warehouse, I begin to understand why he was so angry. But that does not stop the denial still sitting inside of me.
“Your entire life has been filled with pain, rejection, and violence,” she continues softly. “No child should grow up believing those things are normal.”
Her words aren’t filled with pity. Only certainty.
“To Conor, those are problems he can fix. He’ll remove the danger. He’ll pay the debt. He’ll build walls high enough that nothing can reach you.” She smiles sadly.
“But when it comes to emotions…” Her eyes drift to her oldest son. “He wasn’t built for speeches. He’ll never instinctively know the perfect thing to say. He loves differently.”
The words settle over the room.
“He shows up. He stays. He puts a hand on your back when you’re hurting. He sits awake through your nightmares. He notices when you stop eating. He remembers the little things that make your day easier.” Her gaze returns to me. “Those are his love languages.”
Without thinking, I become aware of the hand still resting against the middle of my back.
The same hand that steadies me after nightmares.
The same hand that guides me through crowded rooms. The same hand that found mine in the back of the SUV.
I’d noticed all of it. I just never understood what it meant.
I want to tell her she’s wrong. That no one could possibly care that much about me.
The words never leave my mouth. Instead, I sit there in silence.
Listening. Feeling the quiet weight of Conor’s hand against my back.
And wondering if, all this time, he’s been telling me exactly how he feels in the only language he knows.
“I know this isn’t something you’re going to accept after one conversation.” Mrs. Murphy’s voice is quiet. “You’ve had years of people telling you—and showing you—that you don’t matter.”
The words land with uncomfortable accuracy. The years of foster homes, years of being forgotten. Passed over. Left behind. She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She knows there isn’t one.
Slowly, she stands. Leaning down, she presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head. The gesture is so unexpected my breath catches. Something inside me cracks.
“You may not be a Murphy by blood, Jaxon.” Her hand briefly cups the side of my face. “But you’re part of this family now.”
Not if. Not one day. Not when you believe it. Now. The certainty in her voice is terrifying because a part of me wants to believe her. She turns to Conor. Presses the same familiar kiss to the top of his head. Then she walks toward the door, stopping only long enough to look back at us.
“I’ll let the two of you talk.”
The door clicks softly behind her. The room falls silent.
I stare at the floor. Unable to look at Conor.
Unable to trust myself if I do. The place where she kissed my head still feels warm.
As though years of believing I was unwanted collided with one simple gesture…
and neither of them knows which one is supposed to win.
“Your mom is the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” My voice cracks. “Do you know how fucking lucky you are?”
The tears come before I can stop them. I don’t bother wiping them away. I don’t have the energy. Conor reaches for me. Both hands framing my face with familiar certainty.
“How fucking lucky we are.” His thumbs brush away the tears as fast as they fall. “We, Jaxon. She wasn’t saying empty words.” A faint smile touches his lips. “The one thing she has never done is say something she doesn’t believe.”
His forehead comes to rest against mine. “You’re part of this family.” The words are spoken as fact. Not opinion. Fact.
“And you’re part of me, A Chroí.” His hands don’t tremble.“I told you I wanted to give you everything.” He punctuates each statement with a kiss.
“A home.” Kiss to my forehead
“A family.” To my right cheek.
“Safety.” Left cheek.
“A place where you never have to wonder if someone is coming back for you.” Tip of my nose. His eyes search mine.
“And love.” A sweet, gentle kiss to my lips. The last word is almost a whisper. “If you’ll let me.”
I close my eyes. Because looking at him hurts. Because believing him hurts even more. Conor presses one last kiss to my forehead.
“You spent your whole life being shown that you didn’t matter.
” His voice is steady. Certain. “I can’t erase that.
I can’t make you believe me tonight or next week, or even next year.
” He pauses. “But I have the rest of my life.” His thumb brushes across my cheek.
“And I’ll spend every single day proving you wrong. ”
The room falls quiet. For the first time in a very long time, the thought of forever doesn’t terrify me. It sounds a little like coming home.
“Your mom was wrong about something.” The words make Conor pull back just enough to search my face. Confusion flickers across his features.
“Yeah?” His thumbs are still resting against my jaw. “What was that?”
I let out a shaky breath. “She said you don’t have the words.” A small smile finds its way to my lips through the tears. “I think she’s wrong.”
His brow furrows.
“What you just said to me…” My voice catches. I swallow and try again. “…was the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me.”
For a moment, Conor simply stares. As though I’ve spoken a language he doesn’t understand.
“I’ve never been good with words.” He says it like a fact. Not fishing for reassurance. Just stating the truth as he sees it.
I shake my head.
“No.” I reach up and cover one of his hands with mine. “You’re not good at pretty words.”
His lips twitch.
“You’re good at honest ones.”
The room falls quiet again. Different this time.
Peaceful. I think about everything he’s done since walking into my life.
Holding me through nightmares. Cooking for me.
Finding a therapist. Sleeping in an uncomfortable position just so I wouldn’t wake up alone.
Putting his hand on my back whenever the world became too much. Every action saying the same thing.
You matter.
I smile through the tears. “You’ve been telling me how you feel since the day we met.”
My fingers tighten around his hand.
“I guess…” I let out a watery laugh. “…I just finally learned how to hear you.