Chapter 12
More Than Your Fear
Summer
Iwake to warmth. Heavy, suffocating warmth.
Jacob’s arms are tangled around me, one draped across my waist, the other cradling the back of my head.
His chest rises against my spine, steady, calm, while my own heart pounds like it doesn’t know which direction it’s supposed to take.
For a moment I don’t move. I just stare at the shadows crawling along the ceiling, trying to piece together last night.
The fight. The screaming. The way my walls finally cracked wide open.
The tears.
The kiss.
The way he carried me in here, set me down in his bed. The way I didn’t run. Didn’t panic. I clung to him instead, like I belonged here.
And then—God—his hands. The things he did to me. The things I let him do. The way he made me break apart in his arms, the way he made me look at him while it happened.
I should hate myself for letting it happen.
But all I can feel now is the echo of it still humming in my body, leaving me raw, restless, and too aware of every place he touches me, even in his sleep.
His breath brushes the back of my neck, possessive, as if even unconscious he can’t stop claiming me.
I swallow hard, my chest tightening. Last night was supposed to be a line I swore I’d never cross.
I told Constance and Adelaide that I would keep my head down.
That I would see out the next six months.
And yet here I am—tangled in his sheets, tangled in him, wondering when I stopped fighting and started falling.
I think of Benny, of how I thought he could be my freedom. Of his kindness and his gentle words. Then I wonder whether he could have ever made me feel how Jacob did last night. Was it the possessiveness in Jacob, his brutality and his demanding words that made me feel so alive?
Part of me feels guilty—embarrassed that I let this happen. That I didn’t put up a fight and tell Jacob no. But it happened, and the worst thing is, I don’t regret it one bit.
The floorboards creak when I step into the hall. But I don’t feel like I need to hide today.
The bathroom mirror catches me off-guard.
I look older. Like something inside me hardened overnight.
My skin is still flushed, marked faintly with fingerprints that don’t quite bruise, but don’t disappear either.
My lips—redder than I remember. My neck—kissed raw.
And my eyes… there’s something alive in them. Something dangerous.
I brush my hair back, take a breath and make a promise to myself.
Today, I’ll play it differently. Today, I won’t shrink.
Because if this thing between us is turning into something else, I want to be ready.
I want to keep my guard up and still be able to walk away when the time is right.
If he decides to dress this in flowers, then I’ll wear a dress made of thorns.
Let him see the woman I really am and not the cowardly little girl who backs away from him in fear.
I make my way through to the kitchen to make coffee, the way he likes it. Bitter. Strong. No sugar. A peace offering. A thank you for giving without taking.
When he finally appears, shirtless, hair damp from the shower, the doorway becomes a frame built just for him. He doesn’t step in right away. He stands there, watching me, gaze slow and assessing, like he’s stripping me bare without lifting a finger.
“Morning,” I manage, pushing the mug toward him like it’s some kind of shield. Like I didn’t fall asleep in his bed, tangled in his arms. Like my thighs aren’t still trembling with the aftershocks of what he dragged out of me.
He takes it without breaking eye contact, fingers brushing mine. Silent. Heavy. The kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s full, thick, stretching tight between us until I want to squirm.
Then, finally, his voice. “We’re going out tonight.”
Not a question. Not a suggestion. A command, as sure and cold as the badge he wears.
I blink at him. “Out?”
“Dinner.” His tone makes the word sound foreign in his mouth, like he doesn’t even like the taste of it. “Somewhere decent. Wear something nice.”
My grip tightens around my own mug, porcelain pressing deep into my palms. Dinner.
This is different. He doesn’t do dates. He doesn’t do gestures.
He does control. He does possession. He does violence stitched into tenderness so tight you can’t tell which is which until it’s too late.
But this—this is something else. And it terrifies me more than his temper.
Because if he starts being nice—if he starts playing the part of the man he could have been instead of the one he is—I might never want to leave.
Right now, it’s lust. It’s hunger wrapped in hate, and I still believe I’ll leave when the chance comes. But if he’s really trying—if he starts giving me the things I once dreamed about—then it won’t just be dangerous. It’ll be ruin.
Still, my lips shape the word before I can stop them. “Okay.”
The hours stretch long.
Jacob doesn’t go into the office. He says he’s “working from home,” which in his language means keeping me in his line of sight.
He moves through the house with the same controlled precision he does everywhere else—answering calls, jotting down notes, holstering his gun every time the phone rings like he’s waiting for trouble to walk straight through the door.
And me? I circle the edges of his world like a ghost. I make coffee. Fold laundry. Try to read a book but end up staring at the same line until the words blur.
My skin hums, restless, from last night. From this morning. From the fact he hasn’t touched me since.
Every time I catch his eyes on me—across the kitchen table, from the couch, through the reflection in the hallway mirror—my chest tightens.
He doesn’t say a word about what happened.
Doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s like he’s daring me to break first, to bring it up, to admit how badly my body remembers his hands.
By mid-afternoon, the silence has grown claws.
“Why are we going out tonight?” I ask, folding the same dish towel for the third time just to keep my hands busy. “Since yesterday you’ve been—” I choke on the word, “different.”
He cocks a brow at me, and something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or warning. Without a word, he pushes his chair back with a slow, scraping drag that makes my skin prickle. Three strides and he’s in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back to see him.
“Different?” he says softly, brow lifting again, voice like silk pulled over barbed wire. “I’m taking you out. Wine. Dinner. I’m making an effort for you.”
The jump I feel between my legs almost makes me collapse onto the floor. I feel crimson flushing up my cheeks, and suddenly realize I’m holding my breath.
“I want every pair of eyes in this town on you,” he says, his voice low, a growl threaded with something colder. “Watching. Remembering you belong to me. Knowing I’m the one who takes you home. After the other night—”
And just like that, he lets go. Turns his back and walks away as though he didn’t just send my pulse into overdrive, as though he hadn’t tightened another knot in the rope he’s wound around me.
I know exactly what he’s talking about. The night with Benny.
The dance. He wants to erase it, to rewrite it.
He wants every person in this town to see me on his arm and believe it was nothing—that he didn’t drag me back to the truck in front of half of them, that I didn’t go quiet and trembling under their stares.
I don’t argue—because after last night, I want him to wine, dine and maybe even fuck me. I can’t deny it. Not after the way I kissed him. Not after the way I came apart under his hands, shaking, undone, forced to look into his eyes while he ripped me open in ways I can’t take back.
But what if he finds out about Tyler? What if he decides he doesn’t want me anymore and throws me onto the street, like prey waiting for Jackson’s men.
The thought sends a chill down my spine, but instead of dwelling on it too long I head upstairs to start getting ready.
I stare at the open wardrobe for too long. He bought most of these clothes. Some still have the tags. Dresses that feel too soft, too tight, too complicit. Like fabric chosen not for me, but for the man who’ll unzip it. I run my fingers over them, one by one.
Then I find it. Silk. Lace. Blood red. He likes red.
I pull out the dress I’ve never dared wear—thin straps, low back, barely-there hem.
A gift he left on my pillow just after he brought me here.
I hang it on the door and study it like it might bite.
There’s a tightness behind my ribs. Fear.
But not the kind that begs to be saved. The kind that wants to be destroyed. Tasted. Marked.
I drape it over the door, letting the fabric sway as I study it, imagining the sound it will make when he tears it from my body.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
Will he be angry when he sees other men looking at me in something so revealing?
Did he ever intend for me to wear it beyond these walls, or was it always meant to be just for him—a private costume for his little captive doll, dressed up for his eyes alone?
Either way, I decide to wear it. Worst-case scenario, he’ll rip it off me right here, and I won’t have to sit there like his prized trophy.
I let the bathwater scald my skin until it blooms pink.
I scrub until I feel like something new might emerge underneath.
I step out of the water, wrapping myself in a soft, white towel and make my way back to my bedroom.
Then, I sit in front of the mirror and let the woman in the glass decide who I’ll be tonight.
Lipstick. Mascara. A flush that isn’t from shame.