Chapter 6
Cold Baptism
Jacob
The truck growls beneath us the whole way home, engine snarling through every bend like it feels what I feel. Rage. Humiliation. Something worse.
My hands clamp the wheel tight enough to snap bone. Every time she shifts beside me, I feel it—the heat of her disobedience, the ghost of her weight on another man’s lap. The image won’t leave me. The way she looked at him. The way he looked at her.
Her silence only stokes it. She knows not to speak. Not after that. Not after the way she made me look.
She’s pressed up against the passenger door like she’s trying to crawl out of her skin. She should be afraid. She should be shaking. Because I’m not done. Not even close.
The house looms ahead—tall, black, soulless. Empty windows staring back, porch light flickering like it’s choking on its last breath. I never fix it. I want it to die. Let the darkness welcome her home.
I kill the engine. Step out. Slam the door so hard it rocks the truck. I’m already moving before she reaches for the handle. Rip her door open, grab her arm—right where she bruises easiest—and drag her out.
She stumbles, but she doesn’t fall. She clings to her pride like it’ll protect her. It won’t. She’s not a woman right now—she’s a weight. A burden. Something I have to re-break just to remind her how to behave.
The porch groans under my boots. Mud smears across the boards. I don’t care. She’ll clean it later, on her knees. The door slams behind us. The whole house vibrates. She flinches. Barely. But I see it. I feel it. I turn. Lock the door. Click. Trap set.
“You think that was smart?” My voice is ice. Brutal and low. “Grinding on some nobody with a second-hand guitar?”
She doesn’t answer.
I take a step. “Answer me.”
“I danced,” she whispers.
Wrong answer.
“You disobeyed.”
Another step. Close enough to feel the tension in her chest. I tower over her and watch her shrink under me. Good girl.
But not good enough.
Every inch of me wants to shove her into the wall. Watch her gasp. Force the apology from her mouth. But I don’t. Not yet. Pain’s a waste if she doesn’t learn.
“You think people didn’t notice?” I grind out. “Think I didn’t see the way he looked at you? Like you were a prize? A fucking freebie?”
Her jaw tightens. A flicker of defiance—pathetic.
“He asked me to dance. That’s it.”
“And. You. Said. Yes.” I don’t need to raise my voice. I’m not the storm. I’m the eye of it. Stillness. Silence. Certainty.
She doesn’t get it. Every second on that floor unravelled what I’ve spent years wrapping tight. Every sway of her hips told the whole damn town she’s not taken. Not claimed. Not mine. But she’s wrong.
I slam my badge on the table. It lands with an echo.
Let it mock me. Let it remind her. I run a hand through my hair and start to pace.
She doesn’t move, still clinging to her bag like it holds salvation. It doesn’t. It never will. There is no fucking salvation for her. Not from me. Never.
“You’ve got no fucking clue what I’m keeping you safe from,” I mutter, voice splintering at the edges.
She lifts her eyes. Brave. Stupid.
“Moore’s men,” she snaps. “Men who want to come and kidnap me, right? Because right now, it looks a hell of a lot like that’s what you’re doing!
Yes, some little fuckboys took a photo of me.
They’re nothing compared to you. Let them fucking take me—it would be better than spending every day with you! ”
The air fractures. Cracks down the centre like glass under pressure.
For a second, I forget how to breathe. That’s her gift.
Summer doesn’t know when to be quiet. I step even closer.
Close enough to make her lean back. But not close enough to give her what she wants.
She wants proof. Wants pain. Wants to say I told you so when I finally snap. But I don’t.
And I want her afraid. Not just of me. Of herself. Of the part of her that’s starting to crave me. The part that wants to be bent. Owned. Made into something no one else can have.
I stare. Long. Hard. Until her breath catches, like she knows she’s losing something she never understood to begin with.
And then I walk away. Not because I’m done, but because my control is crumbling. I can’t lose control.
Not yet.
I sit in the kitchen long after the door slams upstairs. My elbows are on the table, my fists pressed against my mouth. The only light in the room is from the stove clock.
1:12 a.m.
The hour where the town sleeps and men like me fester, rot in our own silence. I should be out cold. Buried beneath the weight of another day. But all I see is her—on his lap. Her head tucked near his shoulder. Her hair loose. That fucking smile. Flickering.
Soft. Stupid. His. Not mine.
I gave her everything. Ripped her out of that house. Gave her a roof. A future. I could’ve left her to rot like the rest of them.
Like her mother—too scared to speak. Like her daddy—too selfish and weak to keep her safe. But I didn’t. And she dances for another man like it costs her nothing? No.
That boy doesn’t get to see what I built with my own fucking hands. He doesn’t get to make her feel free. She’s not. She never was.
The floor creaks overhead. Bare feet. Slow. Cautious. She’s trying not to wake the beast.
Too late, sweetheart.
I don’t move when she hits the bottom step. Let her think I’m part of the shadows now. Something half-human, half-curse. She pauses near the tap, thirsty, and I stand, creeping along the darkness. Of course she is. Guilt dries the throat faster than bourbon.
I stand from the dining chair, arms folded. Still. Calm. Like smoke before fire.
“I see everything, you know.”
She freezes. Her spine straightens. And for a second, I swear she considers bolting out the door, like she’s ever had a shot in hell of escaping me. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t turn. So, I twist the knife.
“You think he’d still want you,” I say, voice low and razor-sharp, “if he knew where you came from? If he knew your daddy was being hunted by Jackson Moores’ men? If daddy wasn’t such a fucking pussy, you wouldn’t be here.”
That gets her. A full-body jolt like I struck bone. Good. That’s where it lives—the truth.
“Don’t talk about him like that.”
I push off the table slowly.
“Why not? It’s the truth. He was a coward. Weak. Cared more about his job than his fucking daughter.”
I let it sit. Let it rot in the space between us.
“One word. One smile. That’s all it took to make you mine.” I lean in just enough. “You should be grateful.”
Her voice comes soft, but there’s a splinter in it now. A crack beneath the quiet.
“I’m not.”
I smile. “No?”
“I’m not fucking grateful,” she says, louder now. “You didn’t save me. You took me from one shitty situation and put me in another.”
There it is. That flicker of resistance. That little ember she keeps thinking might grow wings. That dangerous lie she keeps telling herself—that she had a choice.
“Oh, I see.” I tilt my head. Mocking. “You think the rockstar would do better? You think he’d still play white knight when he finds out what you really are? A pawn in a very fucking dangerous game?”
She snaps.
“I’m not a pawn!” she shouts. “If you wanted to help him, you could’ve—without taking me! I hate you… I always have… and God help me, I always will.”
I lose it. One breath—just one—and I’m across the kitchen. My hand slams against the wall beside her head. The plaster groans, fracturing. The sound echoes like a gunshot.
She flinches.
I cage her against the wall with the full weight of me. Heat. Muscle. Fury. She trembles.
But she doesn’t look away. And that—that’s what twists the blade.
“You think I wanted this?” I growl, low and lethal. “Think I planned for my life to revolve around protecting you?”
Her jaw clenches. Unmoving. Defiant.
I reach up and brush my knuckles along her face. Soft. Possessive. A velvet noose.
“I took you because I had to,” I whisper, voice coiled and quiet. “Because every time I saw you walking around town like a lamb with her throat bared—I knew someone was going to take you. And I wasn’t gonna let it be them.”
Her throat bobs. I see it—the fight behind her eyes—but her body stays still.
My eyes drag to her mouth. Those lips—soft, full, begging for trouble. I wonder what she’d do if I kissed her, if I took that bottom lip between my teeth and sucked until she squealed.
She’s looking at my mouth, too. Her breathing quick and shallow. She knows what I’m thinking, and she’s waiting to see if I’ll act on it.
“You don’t get to shame me for keeping you safe,” I snarl, voice rougher now. “You don’t get to grind against another man and come home expecting kindness.”
She stares up to meet my gaze. Wide eyes glassy, but not afraid. Not enough. I lean in. My lips almost brush her temple, close enough to taste the defiance clinging to her skin.
“Next time you want to act like a whore,” I murmur, every syllable sliding like a blade, “remember who owns you.”
She flinches, shoulders twitching. I step back. Leave her trembling, breath catching like a stalled engine. Because punishment’s coming.
She rushes past me, darting for the stairs.
I could chase her. I could claim her right now. I could bury myself so deep into her that she doesn’t know where I end and she begins. But I’ll let her be scared. Let her sleep with one eye open.
Let the pain come from inside her own head.
I sit in the old leather chair, bourbon in one hand, the weight of rage festering in the other. The bottle’s nearly empty. I don’t remember drinking most of it. All I remember is him. That smug grin. That fucking lazy drawl.
I could gut him, burn the flesh off his bones, and still not feel clean. The glass creaks in my grip as I stare down at the amber swirl, pretending it’s his blood. Warm. Thick. Pooling between my knuckles while he screams.