CHAPTER 8
Anna
The morning after the cookout, I decided to clean the kitchen for Connor.
Jaxon had made good on his promise to help him tidy up after everyone left, but there was still plenty to do.
I let Chester outside through the back door, leaving it open so he could come back in when he was ready, then opened windows throughout the house, letting the cool summer air and a light breeze freshen the stuffy rooms.
The guys had tackled about half the dishes before calling it a night, so I started by emptying the dishwasher and refilling it with the grimy plates and glasses scattered around the kitchen.
I handwashed whatever wouldn't fit, sleeves rolled up as I scrubbed away caked-on food.
Outside by the fire pit, I dumped the coolers of melted ice water and pulled out the unused drinks, stacking them into another cooler to bring inside and dry off later.
As I headed back toward the kitchen with the heavy cooler in hand, Chester, gleefully sprinting around the yard, suddenly darted toward me, tail wagging wildly. My attention was fixed on him, so I didn't notice the tall figure stepping through the sliding door.
Before I knew it, I collided headfirst with Jaxon's broad chest.
The cooler crashed to the ground with a loud thud, cans rolling everywhere.
Fear gripped me as Jaxon's strong hands shot out, grabbing my upper arms to steady me before I could stumble backward down the steps.
But his touch sent alarm bells blaring in my mind, triggering an instinctive fight-or-flight response.
No. Not again.
My heart raced. My palms slicked with sweat. Panic overrode reason, and I struggled, my knee connecting hard with Jaxon's thigh.
He grunted in pain, reflexes kicking in as he pulled me into the kitchen and pressed my back against the door, using his weight to contain my flailing.
I registered the worn fabric of his navy T-shirt, the solid heat of his body, the way his chest rose and fell with exertion—but none of it mattered.
Because I wasn't there anymore.
The harsh buzz of fluorescent lights filled the air as Daniel's fingers clamped around my upper arms. His grip was vise-like, crushing, sending pain radiating down to my wrists.
The harder I tried to wriggle free, the more he pinned me against the rough living room wall—the wood cool against my back but searing against my mind.
"Where do you think you're going?" he growled, hot breath hitting my face in harsh bursts. The words were familiar, a rhetorical accusation demanding obedience, not an answer. Daniel's eyes, once warm and inviting, now bore into mine with a darkness that seemed endless.
My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out the TV. The stench of whiskey clung to his breath, mingling with sweat—a scent I'd come to associate with danger, with his sudden shifts from charm to fury.
He squeezed tighter, bruising my arms, my knees beginning to buckle. "Don't even think about leaving," he snarled, voice low and threatening. "You know what happens when you try."
But I hadn't tried to leave, just reached for something in my purse. In his mind, any movement away from him was defiance, betrayal—and he wouldn't tolerate that. He pressed harder, chest to chest, the weight of his anger holding me captive.
The pain was sharp, like needles, his fingers digging into my skin. It was the kind of pain that demanded submission, and I knew from experience that resistance only made things worse.
"Anna, stop!"
The deep voice cut through my panic like a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink. The scent hit me first—clean soap, woodsy cedar, and faint coffee. Not sweat and whiskey. I blinked, disoriented, as the fluorescent lights faded and the kitchen came back into focus.
Jaxon. Not Daniel.
He loosened his grip, his calloused hands sliding up to cradle my flushed face, forcing me to meet his gaze.
Those blue eyes, worry etched in the creases at the corners, locked onto mine with an intensity that was nothing like Daniel's dark stare.
He kept close, using his weight to steady me in case I bolted again.
"Look at me," he said, his voice gentler now, coaxing me out of the fog. He held my frantic eyes with his, making sure I saw him—really saw him. Not the ghost from my past.
When realization finally dawned, a soft whimper escaped my lips, and my body sagged as the fight drained from me.
Jaxon eased his hold, stepping back carefully to give me space as I leaned against the door, breath shallow and uneven.
The navy fabric of his shirt was wrinkled where I'd grabbed it, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his tanned forearms.
"I'm sorry," I sighed, avoiding his gaze by staring up at the ceiling, cheeks flushed with residual adrenaline and embarrassment.
Jaxon grunted, running a hand through his tousled dark hair in frustration. It had already grown longer than when I first arrived, falling over his ears in a way that softened him.
"Anna, you've got to stop doing this," he said gruffly, meeting my eyes again.
His blunt words hit like a slap. Did he think I was reacting like this on purpose? Like it was some kind of manipulative game?
"Excuse me?" I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm as my defenses rose. "Do you seriously think I'm doing this on purpose?" I scoffed in disbelief, stepping away from the door to put more distance between us. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in.
"No, but you're not going to get over your past if you keep retreating into it every time something scares you," Jaxon said matter-of-factly, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The muscles in his forearms flexed with the movement, his shirt stretching around them, a reminder of the physical power he'd just used to restrain me.
My body tensed at his presumptuous words. "Wow, thanks for the advice, mister therapist," I shot back, my tone seething with biting irony. "I had no idea you had such helpful tips on trauma recovery."
Jaxon glared at me, his silence heavy and tense as the air thickened between us.
A muscle ticked in his jaw, something I'd noticed he did when he was angry but trying to control it.
With his jaw clenched tightly, he turned and headed out the sliding door into the backyard.
I flinched instinctively, moving to the opposite side of the kitchen.
My attempt to create physical and emotional space painfully obvious.
At the top of the steps, he picked up the fallen cooler, collecting the scattered drinks that had spilled onto the cobblestone with a series of metallic clanks.
I watched him from behind the safety of the kitchen table, my fingers gripping the back of a chair so tightly that my knuckles turned white.
He was wearing faded jeans that had seen better days, worn through at the knees, and his work boots were caked with dried mud.
His muscles were visibly taut, especially across his broad shoulders where the navy T-shirt pulled tight, and his expression remained dark and stormy as he worked.
"What are you doing?" I asked cautiously, my voice just loud enough to carry outside.
Jaxon paused, turning his head slightly to glance at me over his shoulder.
The morning sun caught the side of his face, highlighting the stubble along his jaw that he hadn't bothered to shave.
"I'm finishing what I came here to do," he replied, his tone sharp as a whip crack.
He turned back to his task, his movements stiff and jerky with barely contained anger.
I exhaled softly. It was best to leave him alone for now and let the dust settle. I moved back inside, away from the palpable tension.
In the den, I surveyed the aftermath of the night before. A few things were out of place, coasters scattered across the coffee table, half-empty glasses left forgotten on the end tables. I started collecting the stray dishes, cradling them carefully in my arms, then headed back toward the kitchen.
As I entered, I saw Jaxon climbing the porch stairs and approaching the door, his face still set in a hard, unreadable expression.
The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased at all.
I placed the collected glasses in the sink just as he walked in, setting the heavy cooler on the counter near the fridge and methodically unloading the drinks back into it.
Jaxon glanced at me briefly, his gaze lingering for just a moment before looking away. Up close, I could see the dark circles under his eyes. He probably hadn't slept well. Then he muttered gruffly, "I'm leaving."
The words were as much a warning as they were a truce. He was letting me know I wouldn't have to worry about him lurking around and unsettling me further. With that, he slid the glass door shut firmly behind him, leaving me alone in the tense silence of the kitchen.
I slumped against the counter, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
He wasn't entirely wrong. Some part of me knew I needed to get my shit together and stop letting my past dictate my present.
It wasn't fair to put everyone else on edge because of my trauma.
But how was I supposed to just get over everything that monster had done to me?
It seemed impossible to forget all that pain and violation, even as I desperately hoped to build something new and safe here.
Maybe I should look into therapy.