Chapter 56
Fifty-Six
THEN | SISK
When we reach my building, he waits while I dig my keys from my coat pocket. His eyes sweep the street.
“You live here alone?” he asks as the door clicks open. “Must be a really nice scholarship.”
“The top three get housing,” I say stiffly.
He carries me up the short staircase and inside, kicking the door shut behind us.
The apartment is small but bright, with clean white walls and new floors that don’t creak, a couch that doesn’t sag in the middle, and a kitchen that actually has enough counter space to cook on.
The windows actually seal when you shut them—no draft curling under the frame.
No peeling paint, no water stains spread across the ceiling, and the faucet runs clear on the first turn. It’s a life I thought I wanted.
I don’t keep my shoes by the bed anymore. I don’t check the lock three times before turning off the lights. At least—I try not to.
Jax takes it in without saying anything. His eyes move around the room then he sets me down carefully on the couch.
“Thanks,” I mutter, more out of habit than gratitude.
He doesn’t acknowledge it.
A part of me feels terrible that I get to live here while Millie and my parents are still there. Still breathing in dust and fumes and whatever else Tar City leaks into your lungs. Another part of me knows how little this polished life actually matters.
I used to dream about this. Now I know how empty material comfort can feel.
I tell myself I should feel proud, that I earned this, worked for it, and still do—every blister, every rehearsal, every audition.
And yet—is it pathetic that I would run back to that shithole if the guy standing in front of me asked me to? Even after everything he’s done.
One look, that’s all it took. And I ran straight back to the wolf. Stupid rabbit.
He doesn’t ask me to come back. Doesn’t even look like he expects it.
He’s wearing a black shirt, stretched tight across shoulders that are somehow broader than I remember.
The sleeves are pushed up, showing forearms corded with new muscle.
His jeans are frayed at the knee but still look expensive.
He moves with a confidence that wasn’t there before, carries himself differently now. All grown up.
It’s infuriating. How can he do this to me just by standing there? He’s darker, sexier. A version of the boy I knew but forged in fire. My body is responding to him and I hate it. I hate that a part of me wants to know what he went through to become this man.
Jax walks straight to the small bar cart by the window and grabs the gifted scotch bottle. I think he’s pouring for himself, but then he opens the freezer, takes out ice, grabs a glass, and hands it to me. “Drink,” he tells me, his voice low.
I shrug out of my coat, tossing it onto the chair beside me. “No.”
“Drink.”
“I’m fine.” I lean my head back against the couch, trying to look casual, like my pulse isn’t going completely feral.
“You’re not,” he says calmly, handing me the glass anyway. “Your legs are shaking.”
“They’re not.”
“They are.”
I glare at him. “What are you now? Decided to take your dad’s path after all?”
He ignores that, completely unfazed. He kneels in front of me and without asking he lifts my ankle gently. My dress rides higher but I pretend I don’t notice.
His hand wraps around my calf to steady me. I hate the way my breath catches, the way my skin instantly heats under his touch.
“Glass is out,” I tell him, but I don’t pull my foot back.
His thumb moves along my arch, slow and careful. I take a sip of the drink, determined not to let out a moan and embarrass myself. He’s not being sexual, just helpful. “You don’t have to do this,” I try to protest, my voice a little too breathy.
His fingers work into the tight muscles of my ankle, digging into the knots and tension from months of training, hours on pointe. Everything I’ve been carrying sits there, and I think he somehow knows it.
He looks up at me, and for a split second, something moves behind his eyes—a flicker of red gone so fast I shake my head, sure I imagined it.
How does he still do this? Almost a year apart. An entire city between us. A new life I built piece by piece just to survive without him, and one look still rearranges something fundamental inside me.
His hands close around my ankle again, firmer this time. He turns my foot slightly, inspecting the swelling, thumb pressing along the tendon like he already knows exactly where it hurts.
I hate that I let him.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He hums dismissively and without warning, he lifts my foot. My stomach caves and before I can protest he brings it to his mouth.
“Jax—”
His lips press just below my heel and my pulse spikes.
“What are—” I start, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
He doesn’t answer. His tongue moves lightly over the cut.
It should feel wrong. It should feel humiliating.
It should hurt. It feels… warm. A slow heat spreads from the place he touched, climbing up my leg until I’m sure he can see the blush blooming all over my face.
My fingers curl into the couch cushion, a pathetic attempt to hold on to something.
He moves his tongue around my foot, and I wince as it heats the painful spots—the raw, red skin from a new pointe shoe, the small, angry cuts from a misstep, the hard, unyielding calluses that I’ve always tried to hide.
I should be mortified. Dancer feet are ugly, functional things, not meant for this kind of attention.
But the way he’s worshipping them, his tongue tracing every line and imperfection, makes me feel something else entirely.
He starts sucking each toe, one by one, slowly, his mouth hot and wet.
I can’t think about anything but his tongue on the rest of me.
I notice everything—the veins standing out on his forearms as he holds my leg, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the rough scrape of his beard stubble against my sensitive skin.
His free hand starts caressing my calf, massaging in slow, deep circles that make my muscles melt and my core tighten.
His left knee nudges between my legs, and I’m so lost in sensation I don’t even realize my legs have fallen open for him until he shifts, the angle giving him a perfect view up my dress.
I know he can see it—the white underwear I wore, now damp and translucent, showing him exactly how much he’s affecting me. I down the rest of the drink in one go, the burn of it nothing compared to the fire building inside me, and a soft, helpless moan escapes my lips.
He smirks, his eyes dark and knowing as they flick from my face to my exposed pussy and back again.
“You like how my tongue feels, Sisk?” he growls, the words vibrating against my skin. “Fucking soaked. Can see it right through your panties.”
The kid I knew is definitely gone. This is a man staring me down, and every wall I’ve ever built is turning to dust.
My fingers tangle in my hair, pressing against my own mouth to muffle the sounds trying to escape.
“Want me to stop?” he teases. Instead of waiting for an answer, he lowers his head again, but instead of his tongue, I feel the sharp, teasing pressure of his teeth.
He bites down gently on the delicate bone of my ankle, just enough to make me gasp and my toes curl.
He holds it then releases, his tongue immediately soothing the small mark with a gentle swirl.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs against my skin, the vibration making my whole leg tremble.
His tongue drags up my arch, slow as hell, and my back bows right off the couch. “Scotch,” I choke out, the word ripping out of me.
He looks up. “What?”
“More,” I whisper, my voice shot. “Need more scotch.”
He sets my foot down, walks over to the cart, and comes back with the bottle. He doesn’t hand it to me, he twists the cap off and stands over me.
“Open your mouth,” he orders.
My lips part before my brain even processes the command. He tips the bottle, and the smoky burn fills my mouth. It spills, running down my chin, my neck, and before I can wipe it away, he’s on me. His mouth follows the trail, hot tongue on my cool skin, and then he’s kissing me.
This isn’t a kiss. It’s a goddamn assault.
Months of bullshit, of missing each other, of wanting this so bad it hurts—all of it exploding right there.
His tongue shoves into my mouth, tasting the scotch, tasting me, and I kiss back just as hard, my hands fisting in his hair, yanking him closer.
He’s devouring me, and I’m letting him, because right now, nothing else in the world matters.
He pulls back quickly and reaches for the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head, and my mouth opens in shock.
Tattoos. A sprawling, chaotic tapestry of ink covering his torso, wrapping around his ribs and spilling onto his shoulders.
There’s a chain wrapped over his heart, symbols I don’t recognize, shapes and letters, that look like they’re written in a language I’ve never seen.
His body is all angular edges and hard muscle, his abs even more pronounced than I remember.
The new ink highlights every inch, a map of the last few months, and a reminder that I wasn’t there.
A reminder of how much of a stranger he’s become.
The anger that was simmering under the lust boils over. I shove his chest, hard. “Stop. Get off me.”
He barely moves.
“You can’t just show up after all this time looking like a whole new person,” I spit, my voice shaking with rage. “And expect me to just… fall back in line, like some fucking toy you can pick up whenever you’re bored.”
His smirk vanishes. In a blink, he’s on me, one hand pinning both my wrists above my head against the couch cushions. He leans down, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with an intensity that almost scares me.
“I’m not asking you to fall in line, Sisk,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You are doing that on your own.”
“I hate you,” I snarl.