CHAPTER 10 #2
"I also wanted to see how you were after the other day," I said gently. "You seemed… on edge."
His expression darkened, eyes narrowing further. "I wasn't being paranoid," he said, his voice suddenly hard, each word hitting like a stone. "I know what I felt. I know when something's not right. Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean it wasn't there."
I lifted my hands in a quiet, placating gesture, my heart racing. "I didn't mean to imply you were imagining things," I said quickly, my tone soft. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That's all."
He stared at me, unblinking. The silence between us thickened, heavy with everything unsaid.
Then, with a slow exhale, he stepped back from the door, his shoulders sagging like he'd just lost a battle with himself.
"You might as well come in," he muttered. His voice was gruff, but not unkind. There was a tiredness in it. "I'll put on some coffee."
I hesitated only a moment before stepping inside.
My eyes widened as they adjusted to the interior. The cabin's rustic exterior had given me expectations, but none of them prepared me for what I found.
Inside was a spacious, open-concept living area, the walls painted a soothing shade of gray. The furnishings were a blend of modern and industrial—sleek lines, masculine details, and subtle elegance. It was unexpected. It was… beautiful.
A plush charcoal sofa anchored the living room, its clean design contrasting with the rough-hewn beams that crisscrossed the ceiling above.
On the wall hung a large abstract painting.
Swirls of black, gray, and white that added a sophisticated edge.
A dark wood coffee table with metal legs sat in front of the sofa, topped with a leather-bound book, a small succulent in a concrete planter, and a vintage compass.
To the left, a gleaming stainless-steel kitchen stretched out, its countertops a pristine white quartz. The appliances were clearly top-of-the-line. A large island with modern barstools made the space feel both refined and comfortable.
It was open, masculine, carefully curated, and yet it felt lived in. Welcoming. Warm.
My gaze drifted toward the staircase leading to the second floor. The railing was a sleek black metal that caught the soft light streaming in through the windows. Despite the modern finishes and precision in every detail, the space had soul.
Jaxon moved through the kitchen with quiet efficiency, the rich scent of brewing coffee beginning to fill the air.
His movements were practiced, deliberate.
There was something intimate about watching him in this setting, something revealing.
This was a different side of him. A glimpse beneath the armor.
I was suddenly very, very curious. And that was very concerning.
As I wandered deeper into the space, I couldn't help but admire the care in every corner. The soft texture of an area rug beneath my boots. The way the furniture invited conversation. The greenery placed just so—subtle, but intentional.
Jaxon had poured his heart into this place. And I was starting to wonder what it had cost him.
I made my way to the kitchen island, sliding onto one of the sleek barstools with gray upholstered seats. I watched as Jaxon moved with fluid grace, his hands steady as he poured the steaming liquid into two simple black matte ceramic mugs. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air between us.
He placed one of the mugs in front of me before taking a seat on the stool beside me, his own mug cradled between his palms. For a long moment, we sat in silence, the only sound the gentle clink of ceramic against the countertop as we sipped our coffee.
I couldn't help but notice the way Jaxon's fingers curled around the mug, strong and capable, yet holding it with surprising gentleness.
His hands were marked with small scars I felt an irrational urge to trace.
Tension crackled between us, a palpable force that seemed to fill the space. I glanced at Jaxon out of the corner of my eye, taking in the hard line of his jaw. His stubble was back, darker today, and his shoulders seemed to hunch forward, as if bracing for some invisible blow.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, I set my mug down and turned to face him fully. My heart raced in my chest.
"Can I ask you something?" I said, my voice soft but steady.
Jaxon's gaze flicked to mine, his blue eyes guarded and wary. There was a flicker of turmoil in their depths beneath the surface.
"What is it?" His voice was low, a rumble that seemed to vibrate through me.
I took a deep breath, my resolve firm as I broached the sensitive topic.
"The other day, in town," I began, my words measured and careful, "you said you felt like something was wrong. Can you tell me why?"
Jaxon's grip tightened on his mug, the muscles in his jaw working. For a moment, I feared he might retreat into his usual silence. But then, with a heavy sigh, he seemed to relent.
"I've learned to trust my instincts," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "When something feels off, it usually is. And that day in town everything felt wrong. Like we were being watched. Like someone was following us." His eyes took on a distant look, as if reliving the moment.
I nodded, my heart aching at the vulnerability in his words. I knew all too well the shadow of fear, the constant vigilance.
"I know what that feels like," I said softly, memories of my own past surfacing. "To always be looking over your shoulder. Waiting for the next attack."
My voice wavered, a tremor I couldn't quite conceal.
Our eyes met, a silent understanding passing between us. In that moment, the walls we'd built seemed to crumble, offering a rare glimpse of shared pain and resilience. It was fleeting, but it was real.
But just as quickly, Jaxon looked away, his expression shuttered once more. The walls snapped back into place.
"It's not something I like to talk about," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion.
I reached out, my hand hovering just above his arm. I paused, thinking better of it, and let my hand fall back to my side.
"I get it," I said, my voice steady but filled with compassion.
"But I need you to know something, Jaxon.
This tension between us, this constant push and pull, it can't go on.
We're both friends with Connor, and like it or not, we're going to be around each other a lot. I think it's time we called a truce."
Jaxon's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion etched into his features.
"A truce?" he echoed, slowly repeating the word like it was foreign.
I nodded, lifting my chin and meeting his gaze head-on.
"Yes, a truce. I'm not asking for us to be best friends. But I am asking for us to be civil. To treat each other with respect and understanding, even when we don't see eye to eye."
The silence that followed felt endless. My heart pounded as I waited for his response. Jaxon's expression was unreadable. His eyes fixed on me with a mix of skepticism and something else I couldn't quite define.
Then, finally, he gave a slight nod.
"Alright," he said, a hint of resignation in his tone. "A truce it is."
Relief washed over me, a weight lifting from my shoulders. I allowed myself a small smile, cautious but genuine.
"Thank you," I said softly, gratitude filling my voice.
Jaxon shrugged, his gaze dropping back to his coffee. His shoulders, however, seemed to relax slightly, as if he'd been holding something too tightly. I noticed the subtle shift and felt encouraged by it. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
We sat for a long while, sipping coffee in a companionable silence. The afternoon light shifted, casting warm golden rays through the windows. I felt a flicker of hope, a whisper of possibility that maybe we could move forward together.
The peaceful moment shattered with a sudden commotion outside—a loud whinny, the sound of hooves, something crashing. My head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm as I glanced at Jaxon.
"Did you hear that?" I asked, my voice tight with concern. My heart hammered in my chest.
Jaxon nodded, his brow furrowed as he set his coffee mug down with a soft clink.
"It sounded like it came from out front," he said, rising from his stool and moving toward the door, his movements swift and purposeful.
I followed close behind, adrenaline pumping as we stepped out onto the porch. The sight that greeted us sent a jolt of fear through my veins, cold dread settling in the pit of my stomach.
Choco was gone. The lead that had tethered him to the tree lay in a coiled heap on the ground. A silent, ominous testament to his absence.
"No," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. "Choco!"
The name fell from my lips like a prayer—a desperate plea. My mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.
I started toward the woods, my focus narrowing to one thought: Find him. But before I could take more than a step, Jaxon's hand shot out, grabbing my arm in a firm, not painful grasp.
"Anna, wait," Jaxon said, his voice low and urgent. His grip held me in place, grounding me. The look in his eyes was intense—a clear, silent warning.
I felt a wave of confusion mixed with fear.
"What do you mean?" I demanded, my voice taut with worry as I tried to pull my arm back. "We need to find Choco!"
The urgency in my voice was palpable.
Jaxon's eyes narrowed as he scanned the area, seemingly ignoring my struggle.
His gaze darted between the trees and the corners of the cabin.
His vigilance was almost tangible, a heightened awareness that made the hair on my neck stand on end.
He nodded toward the pile of firewood stacked against the side of the house.
"That wasn't like that before," he said, indicating several logs that had been knocked over, scattered in a way that looked deliberate. "And it doesn't look accidental. Someone's been here."