Chapter 5
The Devil in Uniform
Jacob
They think I’m smiling.
That’s the part that always gets me—how fucking easy it is.
A tilt of the mouth. A nod. A badge pressed to my chest like a holy relic. People will believe anything if the devil’s wearing a uniform. I could blow a man’s brains out in this bar and half of them would call it justice. The other half would thank me for keeping the peace.
But I’m not thinking about them. I’m thinking about her.
Summer.
Out there, with another man like she’s forgotten the name I carved into her life. The woman I dragged from the dark and put under my roof. The woman I told myself I would keep.
The woman I have been in love with for two years and have taken into my home to protect from the monsters that lurk in the dark. But she’s dancing with that fucker for all to see.
That singing stray with hands too familiar and eyes that don’t understand what it means to touch something sacred.
And she’s smiling. Not the smile she gives me. Not the one she wears when she thanks me through her teeth for the silk I buy or the food I put on the table. This one’s real. Soft. Lit from inside.
Unforgivable.
“She’s got moves,” some idiot mutters nearby. “Didn’t think the sheriff would let her off the leash.”
My head turns slow. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m the kind of man who loses control. Yet.
I find the voice. Lock eyes. Some oil-rig rat with beer on his breath and death behind his teeth.
“You want to repeat yourself?” I say, calm as a storm gathering under skin.
He chuckles. Weak. Backpedals. Good.
I’m not in the mood to bury another one behind the diner.
Haywood says something beside me—laughing about blood on a porch turning out to be barbecue sauce. I nod. Smile. Pretend I give a shit.
I don’t.
I’m too busy watching her. Still swaying. Still glowing. Still fucking mine.
Still completely unaware of the dangers lurking around every corner—the sacrifices I’ve made to keep her from them. Her laughter hits me like a knife between the ribs. Light. Free. Something I didn’t give her permission to feel. And that boy—
He touches her waist. My hand twitches, the urge to pull out my gun and shoot the fucker burns through me like lava.
If she were smart, she’d be crying right now. Begging me to make it stop. Begging me to get him to take his hands off her. But she doesn’t—
She’s gotten stupid. Or brave. Or both.
From the first second, she was mine. Not a passing obsession—an inevitability carved into me.
I’ve memorized every shiver, every tear, every defiance.
She’s always belonged to me, even when she thought she was running.
She still looks at me like I’m the danger.
Maybe I am. But I’m also the only thing standing between her and the monsters who wanted her.
Who planned her destruction. And if she knew what they had planned, what I had really saved her from, she would never lead a normal life again.
Every road she takes will always lead back to me. Every breath she takes is already inside my hands. She can fight, she can hate, but she’ll never escape. I won’t let her. Not now. Not ever.
I haven’t owned her in the bedroom yet. I was never going to be the man to tie her down and take her against her will.
Hell, that’s the men I’m saving her from.
But right now, the idea of her in chains, taking every inch of my cock and staring into my eyes sounds like heaven.
Maybe that’s what she needs. Maybe then she’ll stop eyeing bar rats and thinking it’s alright to let them put their hands on her.
I’m a fucking monster. But a rapist?
No.
It takes every ounce of strength I have to walk back to the table and sit, to hide the storm clawing at my insides and let the room think I’m calm.
“I’m waiting for you baby,” I mutter under my breath.
The song ends and he finally takes his greasy fucking hands off her.
I want to stomp on his fucking throat—but I won’t. I’ll play the long game. I’ll find out everything there is to know about that son of a bitch.
She heads back over. Eyes down at the ground. She knows. She fucking knows. She has the audacity to sit there like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just look at another man like he could save her. Like he could take her home and fuck her into forgetting I ever existed.
I saw it—that flicker. That spark she thought she could hide. She wanted him to look at her, to see her. To know she was interested. And now she sits there, all wide eyes and trembling lips, pretending she’s innocent?
No.
“Had fun with your boyfriend?” The words come out smooth, almost playful, but they taste like rust on my tongue.
What I really want to do is drag her out by the hair and make her confess how far she would’ve let him go if I wasn’t here.
She chokes on her drink, stammers, shakes her head. I see the flicker in her eyes—the lie. She hated herself for enjoying it. Good. She should.
“It was just a dance,” she blurts, too fast, too brittle.
My jaw ticks. That familiar muscle jumping—the one she knows too well. The one that always comes before I become the monster. And fuck, I want to hurt her. I want to carve the memory of him out of her skin.
“And you think some greasy wannabe has the right to paw at my girl? To touch you? To look at you like dessert laid out for the taking?”
Her fingers clamp the glass until it squeaks. A weak attempt at defiance. For a second I hope she throws it at me, just so I’ll have the excuse to put her in cuffs, take her home and fuck any other man out of her brain. She looks at me with disgust in her eyes. As though she can read my mind.
“Not everyone wants to swoop in and kidnap me, Jacob. Not everyone is as fucked up as you.”
My laugh scrapes out, jagged enough to cut.
I reach under the table and clamp my hand around her thigh.
She flinches—barely a twitch— but it's not enough.
Not nearly enough to satisfy the storm inside me.
I squeeze harder, my fingers digging in with brutal intent—until I know she'll bruise. But she still doesn’t make a sound.
She keeps her eyes forward, drink in hand, playing the part of the obedient good girl. But I know it hurts. I know.
I wonder—how much pressure would it take to make her scream?
Not just a gasp, not a flinch, but a real, visceral scream.
Would she still suppress it if I dragged her into the next room and claimed her for every second she dared to stare at another man like that?
It's the fire in her, that silent, stubborn refusal to show pain.
That's what makes me want to shatter her.
Not because I hate it, but because I crave it.
Because I want to be the one to obliterate it, to strip the fight from her inch by inch.
To own the moment she ceases to pretend she can endure me.
“Summer,” I whisper into her ear, threat dripping from every word. “If you ever dance with another man again, I'll break his fucking legs and make you watch. Never. A. Fucking. Gain.”
Haywood and his wife return to the table, she mutters something to Summer about her dance moves—it makes me want to throw the table. Haywood makes a comment about me letting my hair down. Fucking idiot.
It's my turn for the round. I take a second to gather myself, to let my erection die down.
That fucking girl has no clue the chaos she ignites within me.
No idea how perilous it is to look at me like that, to breathe the same air as me like that, to exist—wrapped in skin too tender for a world this vicious.
She thinks she's playing a game. But she doesn't know the rules.
Doesn't grasp what I'm capable of when I unravel. And baby, I'm unravelling.
I buy the round. They all thank me, as if I give a fuck. I don't know why I didn't just call it a night, take her home, and remind her with punishing clarity who the fuck she belongs to.
The locals won’t shut the fuck up, their chatter drilling into my skull. Haywood’s droning on about his goddamn roof, while his wife spews meaningless crap. I nod at the right moments, a mechanical grin plastered on my face, enough to blend in. But my focus is elsewhere. Her chair stands empty.
A frigid weight lodges in my chest, icy and suffocating. She's gone. Without a word. Without permission.
And he’s gone, too. Benny. That fucking guitar-playing ghost with dirt on his collar and a smirk full of poetry. My vision narrows to a pinprick, pulse pounding in my wrists like war drums.
“She duck out?” Haywood asks, oblivious.
“She’ll be back,” I say, my voice a slick, emotionless veneer, masking the violent images of dragging her back by the hair and slamming the door shut behind us.
Because she will return. She knows the consequences if she doesn’t. She’s not stupid. She’s mine. And I will make damn sure she remembers.
I consider chasing after her immediately, but I need bourbon. Something to steady the tremors in my hands, something to prevent me from igniting this place with the inferno inside. I order the drink and swallow it down, hoping it will calm the storm I feel.
But it’s time to hunt.
My boots thud across the floor. Calm on the outside. Inside, I’m already in motion—fists clenching, teeth itching to snap. Her name drips through my veins like acid.
He thinks he’s got a shot. She thinks she’s free. They’re both wrong.
Braithwaite—greasy moustache slick with sweat, a beer gut that jiggles like mockery—blocks the path to the parking lot. His breath reeks of cheap hops and bad choices.
“You okay with your girl gyratin’ with the pretty-boy busker?” he jeers.
My teeth bare. “You think he’s prettier than me, Braithwaite?”
He laughs, a ragged sound. “Hell no. Just sayin’… if that was my woman—”
I cut him off, voice colder than ice. “Well, she’s not.”
He freezes, cocky grin draining. “Right… just… surprised you didn’t shut it down sooner.”
I lean in close enough for him to smell the threat seeping off me. “Girls like Summer test fences, scratch at gates—but they always come back. Now, if you want to make yourself useful old man, help me find her.”
He says nothing. I see the flicker of something—fear? Maybe understanding. My chest tightens. Part of me thinks I’d rather not find her at all. He heads out of the door to the parking lot. Within seconds I overhear commotion. It’s Braithwate. He’s found her.
I slam my glass down and head outside.
There they are. Summer pressed against Benny, that shadow of flesh and bone. His hands at her waist, hers laced around him. My gut twists; my vision cracks red. Something inside me snaps, not with triumph, but fracture.
She sees me—guilt and fear flashing across her face. Good. I hate that it still hurts me.
I cross the lot in two strides. The air hums with rage and something darker—loss, regret. My hand clamps on her arm, nails biting in. I want her to remember.
“I told you no fucking scenes,” I snarl, dragging her into the shadows beside the truck. My other hand slams her into the wing mirror—hard, but not enough to break. Just enough to sting.
She gasps—breath rattling out of her. Part of me wants to let go, to pull her into me and check that she’s ok. Instead, I press my forehead to hers, voice low and broken. “No embarrassment. You do what you’re told for once in your goddamn life.”
I want her to look at the bruises tomorrow and know I was here.
But part of me wants her to look at me and remember what she almost lost. I want to sink my teeth into her, devour her whole, make her scream until her voice is nothing but a tortured rasp, her legs collapsing beneath her.
Make her earn the privilege of sharing the air I breathe.
But I won't. Not yet. She hasn't begged for that kind of mercy.
"Get in," I command, voice slicing through the tension. “No more of your crocodile tears. I’m done playing.”
Then—"Hey."
That voice, grating, unwelcome. The fucking rockstar wannabe.
One quiet word, but it demands attention. I turn, simmering. He's eerily calm, steady as a predator in a room drenched with gasoline, a lit match in hand.
"I don't think she wants to go with you."
A laugh bursts from my lips, low and mocking. It's so naive, so oblivious to the brutal reality.
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, son."
He stands firm, unfazed. "I know what I saw." His gaze shifts to her. "She’s had enough."
And in that moment, cold and unyielding, I make my decision. With brutal certainty.
I will kill him. Not here, not now—too many prying eyes—but soon. I'll erase him, leaving her to regret every breath she took in his company.
I shove her toward the truck. She stumbles, compliant, her eyes fixed forward.
Because she knows. This is the price of dancing with flames. You get burned.
"Get in," I command once more.
And this time—she obeys.
Because now she understands—there's no escape once I strip away the facade of kindness.