Chapter 11
Where She Belongs
Jacob
The sun glares down like an interrogation lamp when I pull into the drive.
The sky’s too bright, too clean—blue stretched thin; clouds bleached white as pressed linen. That kind of light that doesn’t soothe, only exposes. Strips things bare. Like the land itself is watching, waiting for war.
The engine dies under my palm, and the silence it leaves behind is still.
The porch is empty. The lights are off. She’s still not home.
The notification rang from my cell at 10:24am. There’s been no movement since.
She’s with those sluts. The devious little witches who prance around town like they own the place, with a different man on their arm every week.
I’d checked the CCTV that leads from the road to see where she was going. Part of me hoped she was going to see the rockstar, so I’d have an excuse to put a bullet in his head, but instead, she’d headed down Almere Road, then down the back road towards Constance Bishops home.
I’d had Carter pass to check it out as soon as I knew that’s where she was headed. He was working the area and was minutes away. He confirmed he’d seen her through the window, so I knew she’d made it there. I knew she was safe.
I sit in the driver’s seat a while longer. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I just breathe through clenched teeth and catalog every fucking detail like I’m working a scene—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A crime.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Where the fuck is she?
I scan the road through the window for the fifth time—then the tenth. Still no movement. No gravel crunch. No silhouette.
I see myself barrelling out to Constance’s house, wrenching the door open and hauling Summer back by whatever I can grab—anger like a weight in my chest, every muscle ready to move. But that’s not what I’ll do. That’s not the play that wins.
I undo the seatbelt and climb out of the truck, boots hitting gravel as if I’m trying to chase my own impatience down the driveway. The place feels hollow without her, like a room after a laugh has been sucked out of it.
For a heartbeat panic claws at me and makes the bones under my skin ache.
The image of her leaving flashes through and for a second I feel the animal part of me rise, the part that would take and punish and drag her home if I had to.
Then it settles into something colder and calmer—a heat that doesn’t roar but burns steady.
If she leaves, I’ll find her. If she comes back on her own, I’ll be waiting.
Either way, I’ll make sure she knows there was never anywhere else to go.
Inside, there’s no note, no sign she’s trying to vanish.
Her things are where they always are: a pair of jeans slung over the chair, her bag dumped by the bed, a book left face-down as if someone meant to come back and didn’t.
That silence isn’t relief so much as proof—proof that she didn’t walk away, proof that she’ll come back to this life whether she wants to or not.
Relief eases into me; I scrub my damp palms on my jeans and lean back against the wall, forcing a slow, steady breath.
I head downstairs and sink into the leather chair near the window.
It groans under my weight. I take the pistol from my belt and set it on the armrest. Not because I plan to use it—but because I need something to tether me.
Something to remind me there are still lines that haven’t been crossed. Yet.
Does she not grasp the risk she’s taking, walking out of here without me?
One of Jackson’s men could’ve snatched her off the road before she even made it past the mailbox.
But no—of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t know the whole story.
Doesn’t understand what would’ve happened to her if I hadn’t claimed her first.
The thought nearly breaks me. She has no idea. Doesn’t know what those men are, what they do, or what would have become of her name—carved into a ledger in some basement, price-tag hanging off it like a cruel bow.
She thinks I took her to own her. Part of that’s true. But the real reason I brought her here was simpler, uglier: to stop them from tearing her apart.
I shoot up from the chair, dragging my jacket off the hook with a snarl. If she’s not home in five minutes, I’ll make my way to Constance’s. I’ll burn her fucking house down and drag Summer home, kicking and screaming if that’s what it takes to get her back.
But then—
I hear it. Shoes on gravel. Hesitant. Light. Steps that know they’ve gone too far.
My heart stops with a mixture of relief and fury.
I back away from the door like a predator letting the prey walk in on its own. I sit back in my chair and grasp my gun, let her see it in my hand, let her see the depravity behind my eyes.
The knob turns. The door creaks open. And there she is. Hair wild. Eyes too wide. Breath shallow. Her hand trembles where it grips the strap of that pathetic little purse she used to carry her books in.
She steps over the threshold like she’s entering a cell. And maybe she is. She freezes when she sees me. I don’t speak. Not yet. Because she has no idea how close she just came to being stolen from me—how close I came to slaughtering innocent civillians just to keep her alive.
I stay seated. One arm slung along the chair. The other beside the gun. Not touching. Just there. Let her look at it. Let her understand.
“Nice of you to come home,” I say finally— quiet. Deadly.
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes flick to the gun, then to me, like she’s deciding which one is more dangerous.
“You forget to tell me where you were going, sweetheart?”
Her voice cracks. “No.”
That’s all she says. Just one word.
I rise, slow.
Her spine straightens automatically. Pupils blow wide.
She's terrified. Good. That means there’s still a part of her that remembers who makes the rules in this house.
I step toward her and stop in front of her.
Close enough that I can smell something floral on her skin.
Not me. Not my shampoo. Something new. Something foreign.
“You wearing someone else’s perfume?” I ask.
She shakes her head but doesn’t speak. The silence is confirmation that she knows she’s done wrong. I lean in, drag the scent from her neck with a breath. And that’s when I see it—guilt. Not shame. Not regret. Guilt.
For going. For lying. I reach out and cup her jaw—not hard. But firm enough that she knows I could hurt her, if I wanted.
“I’ll ask again. Are you wearing someone else’s perfume?” My voice is calm.
My thumb presses harder into her cheek. She winces. But she doesn’t pull away.
“No, I’m not.”
I release her jaw slowly. I don’t have to raise a fist when I can watch her unravel with just a question.
“Then tell me, sweetheart. Why do you smell like a hooker’s purse? You making an effort for someone?”
“I went to see my friends. I hugged them—it must have… rubbed off. I just needed to clear my head.”
“They’re sheltering you, right?” I whisper, voice tightening like a noose. “Siding with you. Feeding your lies. Fanning your filthy little fantasies. Planning on letting lover boy hook up with you there? Even after how you practically begged for me last night.”
Her body shudders.
“He still on your mind, Summer?” I murmur, each word a razor. “Do you lie in bed, tracing your fingers down your belly, thinking of him?”
“It’s nothing to do with him,” she spits—too fast, too brittle.
I hold my stance; she stumbles back until her spine slams into the wall.
“You’re shaking.” I trail the tip of my finger along her sternum, slow enough to feel her panic bloom. “Is it fear?” My fingertip drops lower. “Or are you secretly turned on—watching me turn predator?”
She freezes solid. Yet, I glimpse it beneath her shame—the hot surge of something she’ll never freely admit. Want. Desire.
“You think he could handle your appetite for pain? I mean, why else do you do this sort of shit, Summer? You love to feel dominated, don’t you?
You crave it, don’t you?” My hand snaps up, fingers clamping her jaw—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind her whose puppet she is.
“And right now, you’re fucking starving for it. ”
“I’m confused,” she whispers, voice shredded.
I hum against her neck, a promise of worse to come.
“I went to see them because I was scared,” she says, voice trembling.
“Scared after last night. Scared because of how much you fuck with my head—and how much I liked it. Do you get that, Jacob? I liked it. I wanted you. And that terrified me.” She shakes her head, eyes burning into mine.
“You’re a monster. And I had to get out.
I had to see Constance. I had to see Adelaide.
I had to remember there’s a world outside of you. ”
The room goes quiet. My pulse roars in my ears. Every word digs into me, twisting—shame, pride, fury, want—until I don’t know which one will win.
Monster. She thinks she’s insulting me. She doesn’t see it—doesn’t see that she’s already giving herself away.
She craves it. Craves me. And the fact she had to run to her little friends just to breathe after admitting it?
That tells me everything and makes my cock stand to attention in my slacks. She’s breaking.
I step closer. Let her see the monster. Let her look him in the eye.
“You think I don’t know what I am? I know exactly what I am.”
She flinches but doesn’t move, lips parted, chest heaving like she’s drowning on air.
“You can call me a monster all you want, Summer. Doesn’t change the truth.
” My hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“The truth is, it doesn’t matter where or when you try to run.
I will always find you. But you know that don’t you.
You’ve started to enjoy being the little mouse, running away from the predator. ”