CHAPTER 31 #2
After putting the kitchen to rights, I poured myself a cup of coffee and quietly made my way back upstairs to check on Anna. I gently pushed open the bedroom door, hoping to find her still peacefully asleep.
Instead, my heart clenched painfully in my chest.
Anna's slender body twitched and trembled beneath the tangled sheets, her face contorted in anguish. Small whimpers escaped her lips, and even from the doorway, I could see the sweat dampening her hair and the way her hands clutched the blankets, as if trying to hold onto something.
My stomach knotted with dread, knowing the horrors that must be plaguing her dreams. I set my coffee down and crossed to the bed, slipping in behind her. Carefully, I gathered her shaking form against my chest, trying not to jostle her injured face, and wrapped my arms securely around her.
"Shh…" I soothed, my lips brushing her damp hair. "Wake up, Anna. It's just a nightmare. You're safe now."
Her body went rigid against mine for a moment fueled with a flash of panic, terror, the instinct to fight, but I held her a little tighter, letting her feel the solid reality of my presence.
"It's me," I murmured against her hair. "It's Jaxon. You're in bed at Connor's. You're safe."
Gradually, awareness returned. I felt her body relax as recognition filtered through the fear. She stirred in my arms, turning toward me, her voice hoarse and heavy with sleep.
"Jax?"
"I'm here. Everything's okay," I reassured her, pulling her closer. I tenderly brushed the hair back from her face, my heart aching at the haunted look in her eyes and the tracks of dried tears on her pale cheeks.
A surge of protective rage hit me. I wanted to kill them both for doing this to her. But violence wouldn't help her heal. It wouldn't chase away the shadows clinging to her or erase the trauma she'd endured.
So instead, I just held her, stroking her hair and murmuring soft reassurances until the tension slowly ebbed from her muscles.
The room was quiet, the silence broken only by our soft breathing and the distant chirping of birds outside the window. Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow across the bed.
Finally, Anna spoke, her voice still raspy from sleep and the previous night's tears. "What time is it?"
My hand continued its soothing circles on her back, the rhythm automatic and comforting for both of us. "It's after noon now," I replied softly.
I searched her face, taking in the pallor of her skin, the way she winced slightly when she moved. The bruising had darkened overnight, spreading across her cheekbone in shades of deep purple and black, making my stomach twist with guilt and rage.
"Do you need anything?" I asked, starting to shift, preparing to get up and attend to whatever she needed. Water, pain medication, food, anything.
But Anna stopped me with a gentle hand pressed to my chest, her palm warm through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. "No… but I want to get out of bed. Just lying here is making me sore."
She shifted to sit up, and the sheets slipped away from her body.
I watched as a flicker of realization crossed her face, her eyes widening slightly at the memory of her state of undress.
A warm blush spread up her neck, flooding her pale cheeks with color, stark against her otherwise fragile, vulnerable appearance.
The sight of her sudden embarrassment, after the horrors we had shared, tightened something in my chest. After everything, she's worried about being naked.
I had carried her straight to bed from the shower in her distress last night, not even thinking about clothes, just getting her somewhere safe and warm where she could rest.
She glanced up at me shyly, embarrassment warring with vulnerability in her eyes, and something in my chest tightened at how fragile she seemed in that moment.
I merely raised an eyebrow, keeping my expression gentle and filled with understanding. "I'll meet you downstairs," I murmured, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to her forehead before slipping out of the room.
I gave her space, recognizing her need to feel in control of something again.
As the door clicked shut behind me, I stood in the hallway for a moment, pressing my palms against my eyes and taking a deep breath. Everything felt heavy—my body, my thoughts, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders.
She's alive. She's here. That's what matters.
In the kitchen, I busied myself with making something for Anna to eat.
Her throat had to be sore. From crying, from stress, from everything.
I found a can of chicken noodle soup in the pantry, comfort food, easy to swallow, and heated it in the microwave while the coffee machine gurgled through a fresh pot.
My mind drifted to what she must be seeing in the mirror right now: the bruises, the rope burns, the injection site. All the visible evidence of what had been done to her.
I worried that she would blame herself, wonder if she could have prevented it, or question if she could ever feel safe anywhere again.
I knew those thoughts because I was having them too. Different variations, same core fear.
The microwave beeped, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. I carefully removed the steaming bowl and set it on the table just as I heard her soft footsteps on the stairs.
When Anna entered the kitchen, I took in her appearance with a quick, assessing glance. She'd applied makeup, careful layers of concealer trying to hide the worst of the bruising. And despite the summer heat, she wore sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt that covered her wrists and arms.
My heart ached. She was hiding the marks.
I guided her to sit, my hands gentle on her shoulders, needing to touch her, to feel the solid reality of her presence. "It's just some soup to help soothe your throat," I explained, keeping my voice low and soothing.
I pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head, letting my lips linger a moment as I breathed in her scent, vanilla shampoo and that indefinable something that was just Anna. Then I moved back to the counter to pour myself a cup of coffee, giving her a moment to settle.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice thick and slightly hoarse.
I settled into the chair beside her, close enough that our knees brushed under the table. The contact grounded me, reminded me that we were both here, both alive.
Anna gathered her courage, I could see it in the way she straightened her shoulders, the determined set of her jaw despite the pain it must have caused. "Should we talk about last night?" she asked tentatively, fingers fidgeting with the spoon beside her bowl.
My brow furrowed. Concern spiked through me, wondering if she was having second thoughts, or if she blamed me, or wanted space.
Anna took a steadying breath, gaze dropping to the table before meeting mine again. "I know it was a lot, finding out everything about Nikki…" she began, voice barely above a whisper.
I realized she was worried about me, not herself.
I watched her watch me, bracing herself for the withdrawal and shut-down she'd witnessed after the break-in at my cabin. But this was different. Everything was different now.
I reached out and gently cupped her face, careful to avoid the worst of the bruising. My thumbs lightly stroked her cheekbones, feeling the warmth of her skin, the slight tremor that ran through her at my touch.
"To be honest," I said, my voice steady and sure in a way I hadn't expected, "I feel fine."
Her eyes widened in surprise, and I hurried to explain before she could misunderstand.
"Sure, it was a shock to find out the truth," I continued, holding her gaze. "But it was also closure. For years, I've been haunted by not knowing. By the randomness, the senselessness. But now I know who did it and why."
And they're going to pay for it. Both of them.
"I feel like I can finally move on," I said, the words feeling true as I spoke them. "Not forget—I'll never forget Nikki. But move forward. Stop being stuck in that moment."
I leaned in closer, brushing my lips softly against hers, pouring everything I felt into the gentle contact. "I want to move on," I whispered against her mouth like a sacred vow. "With you."
Anna melted into the kiss, and I felt the tension drain from her body. She breathed in deeply, and I knew she was taking in my scent the same way I'd breathed in hers, finding comfort in the familiar.
She rested her forehead against mine, a sigh of relief and contentment escaping her lips, loosening something tight in my chest.
We didn't need words. The connection between us, the unspoken understanding and commitment, said everything that needed to be said.
As we pulled apart, I saw the small smile tug at her lips despite everything, and it felt like a victory. Proof that those who had hurt her hadn't broken her spirit.
We finished our meal in comfortable silence, the simple act of sharing food and space healing something in both of us. I watched her eat slowly, making sure she finished most of the soup, relieved when color returned to her cheeks.
Afterwards, we made our way to the den, instinctively seeking the comfort and closeness of one another. On the plush sofa, I pulled her against my side, careful of her injuries but needing her close.
Anna tucked herself against me, her head finding that perfect spot on my chest where she fit like she was made to be there. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, my other hand finding hers and lacing our fingers together.
I grabbed the remote and pulled up Netflix, scrolling until I found something mindless and familiar, one of those movies we'd both seen a dozen times and could quote by heart.
As the opening credits rolled, Anna relaxed against me, her breathing even. The flickering images on the screen, the familiar dialogue and music, created a cocoon of normalcy.
I realized this was what healing looked like. Not grand gestures or dramatic moments. Just this. Just being together.
I stroked her arm in a soothing rhythm, pressing a kiss to the top of her head every so often, needing the contact, needing to remind myself she was safe.
The afternoon sun shifted across the room as one movie bled into another. At some point, Anna's breathing deepened, and I realized she'd fallen asleep against me.
I didn't move. Didn't want to risk waking her when she so desperately needed rest.
Instead, I just held her, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, the haunted tension finally gone from her face.
Outside, the ranch hummed with life—Denny and the guys taking care of everything, just as they promised. Horses nickering, barn doors opening and closing, the distant rumble of the tractor.
Life went on. The world kept turning.