19. Chapter 19 #2
I can feel the shift in him the moment the words leave my mouth. He freezes mid-step. His jaw locks, as if my request is threatening whatever fragile state of control he’s holding onto.
“No,” he says immediately, voice low and strained.
“Yes,” I repeat, softer this time, but steady. “Now.”
His gaze flickers toward my face just long enough for something to register, and then he looks away again, like it hurts. His shoulders tense sharply, hands flexing at his sides as if he’s physically restraining himself from reacting.
“You don’t want that,” he says, almost quieter now. “You don’t want me looking at you like that.”
“Try,” I whisper.
Behind me, Micah’s voice cuts in, tighter now. “Emma, this is a bad idea. He’s not in a good place right now.”
But I don’t turn. I don’t break my gaze on Jude. Because I can feel it too now. The way he’s holding himself together by force instead of choice. The space between us is starting to feel unstable. Goosebumps break out over my arms.
But I continue anyway. “I said, look at me.”
And that’s when he moves.
It happens so fast that my body reacts before my mind can catch up. One second, there’s space between us. And the next, he’s closing it in a single, decisive step that forces me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs in a gasp.
“Jude—” Micah snaps from somewhere behind us, his voice sharp with alarm.
But Jude doesn’t even hear him. His entire focus is locked on me, his hazel eyes a storm of confusion and something darker than I’ve ever seen in him.
For one horrifying second, I think I’ve pushed him too far.
His arm lifts, his body tight with volatile energy, every muscle coiled beneath his scattered tattoos, and fear surges through my chest like ice water.
This is it. He’s going to hit me.
The conditioning they did, the lies they planted about me, they’ve won.
And I lost.
But instead of striking, his hand catches my jaw.
His trembling fingers dig into my skin, enough pressure to make me wince.
He forces my gaze up to his, and everything in him stops.
His breathing changes, pulling through his nose in short, almost panicked bursts, like he’s bracing for something terrible.
Pain, maybe? Or the collapse of whatever walls they built inside him.
His eyes search mine for a fraction of a second, and I see it all—the conflict, the recognition, and the deeper, agonizing pull of him fighting through whatever was done to him.
Fighting for me. His grip tightens, and then his mouth crashes into mine with heat, desperation, and urgency.
It’s like he needs this and hates that he does at the same time.
His lips are familiar, yet foreign now, with a roughness that wasn’t there before.
My mind goes completely blank. It feels like Jude, but it doesn't. For a heartbeat, I can’t even process what’s happening.
His body presses against mine, the lean, muscular frame I’ve dreamed about now pinning me to the wall.
The heat of him seeps through my clothes, and a wildfire erupts inside my core.
And then I kiss him back. Because I’ve missed this.
The way he feels. The way he tastes. My hands twitch at my sides like I want to grab him, pull him closer, keep him from slipping away again, but I don’t dare push him too far. Instead, I let my palms rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his shirt.
His hand stays at my jaw, trembling as his thumb shifts, brushing along my skin in a slow, unconscious caress.
He used to always do that.
A soft stroke just below my lip when he kissed me, a tiny habit that meant you’re mine.
The memory of it cracks my heart open. His breathing is still uneven, almost frantic through his nose, as if he’s in disbelief, or waiting for pain that never comes.
But he doesn’t stop. If anything, he leans into it more, pressing closer, his other hand coming to rest on my hip.
He’s chasing something he doesn’t understand but can’t let go of.
A quiet moan escapes me, and it only seems to make something in him fracture further.
He groans against my mouth, and his kiss deepens.
His tongue parts my lips and swirls against mine, rapidly becoming more.
It’s hungry and claiming. It’s a battle between his conditioning and his heart, and his heart is winning. I’m winning.
Behind us, I hear Micah swear under his breath.
But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except this.
The feel of his messy black hair as my fingers finally dare to thread through it.
The scent of his skin. The way his body molds against mine, leaving no space for doubt or fear.
How everything we were is still here, buried under everything that’s been done to him, fighting its way back to the surface with every shared breath—
And then he rips himself away. His hand drops from my face as he stumbles back a step, then another, chest rising and falling hard as he drags in uneven breaths.
His gaze refuses to meet mine now, locked somewhere near the floor like he’s afraid of what happens if he looks at me again.
His lips are parted, swollen from our kiss, and he looks utterly wrecked.
I’m left against the wall, my own breathing unsteady as the moment crashes over me all at once. My lips feel tender, alive. My entire body is vibrating with the echo of his touch.
He just kissed me. After everything…
He kissed me.
Jude’s entire body is tense with restraint. The tattoos on his forearms seem to stand out more against his flushed skin. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
My mind reels as I stare back at him.
“No, no,” he whispers, turning away from me, running his hands through his hair in a frantic, helpless motion.
“Jude,” I whisper, my fingers coming to rest on my lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of his mouth. “You…” I trail off. Words are abandoning me completely. All I have is the pounding of my heart and the ache in my throat.
When I glance back at Micah, his eyes are wide, his expression a mixture of shock and…pity? Concern?
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
My eyes dart back to Jude, now the farthest he can get from me in the small room, his back nearly touching the opposite wall. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I steady myself, easing away from the wall, my legs feeling unsteady. “Jude?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s clenching his jaw so tight it looks like it could snap. His shoulders are hunched, his posture defensive, like he’s guarding himself from an attack. From me.
I should leave. Give him space. Let him process whatever explosion just happened inside him.
But I can’t.