Chapter Forty-Nine #3
Her breath shakes once, but she doesn’t look away.
“Make love to me, Ronyn,” she says again, softer now, but no less certain. Then, for the first time, she lets the edge fall away completely. “Please.”
The word settles between them.
Please.
Ronyn doesn’t move immediately.
He studies her—really studies her—like he’s making sure this isn’t another form of armor, another way for her to stay in control by calling the terms before anything can shift beneath her.
Jax holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back.
There’s nothing performative in her now. No sharp edge to hide behind. Just a quiet, unwavering certainty that feels more exposed than anything she’s shown him before. A softness to her voice that sounds foreign and entirely true.
That’s what decides it.
His hand lifts slowly, fingers brushing along her jaw, giving her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
His thumb traces the dip beneath her eye, catching the last traces of tears there, his touch light, careful, as if he understands exactly how fragile this moment is.
“All right,” he says quietly, though there’s no hesitation. Just a promise to meet her where she is.
Jax exhales, something in her loosening further at the steadiness of it, at the way he doesn’t rush her, doesn’t take more than she offers.
Her hand comes up, slower this time, less certain than before, her fingers brushing the front of his shirt without gripping, without claiming.
Testing.
He doesn’t take over.
Doesn’t guide.
Just lets her find him.
Her palm settles against his chest, feeling the solid, steady rhythm beneath it. It grounds her in a way she doesn’t expect—a real and present thing beneath her hand that doesn’t shift or disappear.
Her breath catches slightly.
Ronyn watches her for a moment longer, then leans in, closing the space between them with care rather than urgency, his forehead brushing hers first, pausing there as if to give her one last chance to stop this.
Jax doesn’t.
Her eyes close, old pain releasing with the gentle flutter.
And when his mouth finds hers, it’s slow. Deliberate. Nothing like the way she’s known before. There’s no taking in it. No claim. Just… presence.
She stills at first, instinct tightening through her, waiting for the moment it changes, the moment it becomes something she has to manage or control or survive.
It doesn’t.
It never does with him.
But she’s never admitted it until now.
Maybe she’s never seen it until now.
His hand comes back to her hair, fingers threading through the raven-black strands again, grounding, steady, the same rhythm he used before, like he’s reminding her that nothing here has shifted into something else.
That this is still… that.
Still choice.
Still safe.
Safe.
Her breath leaves her slowly as something in her begins to unwind, the tension easing not because she forces it to, but because there is nothing here demanding she hold it.
Her hand shifts against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric now. Holding on.
Ronyn deepens the kiss just enough to meet her there, following rather than leading, letting her set the pace even as he guides the movement gently, never pushing past what she gives.
Jax responds before she fully understands that she is, her body leaning into his, her other hand finding him, anchoring herself in the reality of him, in the warmth, the steadiness, the way he doesn’t waver.
This is different.
So different it almost feels like relief.
His hand slides from her hair to the back of her neck, holding her there gently, his touch constant and sure.
She exhales against his mouth, the sound softer now, less strained, her body no longer braced for impact, no longer preparing for something to be taken from her. Instead, she lets herself feel it.
The warmth. The closeness. The way his attention stays on her, fully present, fully engaged in a way she has never experienced without consequence attached to it.
Her fingers tighten slightly in his shirt as another shift moves through her, deeper this time, more certain.
She leans into him.
Choosing, no longer testing.
Ronyn feels it.
He adjusts to it without breaking the rhythm, his hand returning briefly to her hair, smoothing through it again, that same gentle repetition, like an anchor he knows she needs.
Jax’s breath stutters again, but this time she doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t shut it down. Doesn’t resist. She lets it happen. Wants it to happen. Lets the sensation build slowly instead of bracing against it. Lets the unfamiliar softness move through her without making it easier to manage.
For the first time, she is not thinking about what comes next.
She is not preparing.
Not defending.
Not calculating the cost.
She is simply… here.
With him.
And that is new enough to feel like stepping into something unsteady and solid at the same time.
Her forehead rests briefly against his as she pulls back just enough to breathe, her eyes opening slowly to meet his again.
There’s something different in her body now.
Still Jax.
Still sharp.
But not closed.
Not entirely.
Her hand lifts, brushing lightly along his stubbled jaw this time, mirroring the way he touched her before, the motion tentative but intentional.
Learning.
Trying.
And when she leans in again, it’s not because she’s taking control.
It’s because she wants to.
“How will you make love to me, Ronyn?” she purrs seductively, the words tasting foreign as they slip past her lips.
She presses a kiss to his mouth, gently nipping at his lower lip.
He smiles against her mouth, a glimpse of his humor peeking through the seriousness of the moment.
“Are you really going to let me choose, Jaxxy?” he asks, an edge of cheek finding its way into his tone.
She huffs a laugh, a smile breaking free on her lips, too. “I deserved that,” she admits, red blooming in her cheeks.
His lop-sided smirk tilts his lips. “It hurt me, Jax,” he says, averting his gaze like he can barely stand the words.
Her chest tightens.
Because this whole time, she has not once considered how he feels. Not once considered the wounds he hides beneath his armor. So consumed by her own pain that his didn’t even register.
She swallows thickly.
“I am sorry, Ronyn.”
She looks up at him, eyes boring into his like she can find absolution there.
He doesn’t move, only remains hovering above her, lips swollen and flushed.
And she knows he deserves more.
“It was never about you. I hid my pain behind control and when you threatened that, I turned on you. I made you feel inferior because it’s what I needed. But it hurt you in the process, and for that… I am truly sorry,” she says, emotion snagging in her throat.
I am truly sorry.
The words hang in the air, strange and true and honest.
Ronyn is no longer smirking. All cheek swallowed by the moment.
“I accept your apology, Jaxxy. But I will not tolerate the same again. We all have wounds, and I choose who I let see mine,” he admits, and the words sound like confession.
Truth beyond his facade.
“How do you choose who sees the wounds and who sees the performance?” she asks, and she means it, her voice sincere and soft.
Because Ronyn may be performing sometimes, but gods… so is she.
And she fucking knows it.
Her mirror stares back at her—confronting, hurt, and obvious.
“I’ll show anyone who doesn’t weaponize them and turn the blade on me,” he says, and the truth cuts like one.
“That’s what I did,” she realizes. “And I’m sorry for it.”
Somehow, the words don’t taste bitter on the way out. Maybe because they’re true, or because they’re being said to him.
His fingers brush over her cheek, tender and delicate. “I know,” he acknowledges.
No one has touched her like this. Not since Maldrak. Mal. The man she thought she loved.
She swallows down the memories. Memories of his hands caressing her hip, tracing each dip and curve of her body, whispering promises of a future he knew would never exist.
“Make love to me,” she whispers.
Ronyn nods, his gaze snagging on hers, and she knows he can see the ghosts there.
He touches her again, bringing her back to the moment like a river bank in a current that wants to take her under.
“Tell me how you would like me to touch you,” Ronyn breathes, gaze snagging on the curve of her lips, his shaggy hair falling forward over his brow.
There’s something about seeing him like this—honest—that sends warmth to her core. A spark igniting in the cold.
Two people, finally, seeing each other stripped bare.
“I— I don’t think I can look at you, Ronyn. I just want to… feel,” she admits, and she hates how weak it sounds.
He smiles that lop-sided grin. “I can do that,” he promises, and his hand runs through the length of her hair. “Would you like me to undress you?”
She nods, averting her gaze.
Ronyn doesn’t make a thing of it.
No pause. No reverence that would make her overthink it.
“All right,” he says simply.
His fingers slip back into her hair as he shifts closer, the familiar motion grounding her before anything else can. It steadies her enough that she doesn’t bolt when his other hand moves.
Slow.
Deliberate.
But not hesitant. Not for a single heartbeat.
Jax exhales, tension flaring instinctively through her body as fabric loosens beneath his hands.
There it is. That moment where she usually shuts it down. Makes a joke. Takes control. Turns it into something sharp and easy.
Ronyn’s hand drags lightly through her hair again. Same rhythm. Same touch. Unchanged. And that—that keeps her here.
“Still with me?” he murmurs, quiet, not pushing.
Jax huffs a breath. “Don’t ruin it by asking.”
His mouth curves faintly against her shoulder. “Good to know.”
Jax’s body reacts before her mind can catch up, tension shifting instead of locking, her breath deepening instead of stalling.
She’s had sex. A lot of sex. But make love? Never.
Her hand finds him again.
This time not to control.
To keep him there.
“Jaxxy,” he murmurs, softer now, realness slipping through.
She doesn’t let him finish.
“Don’t talk,” she says, quieter. “Just… keep going.”
A pause.
“Please,” she adds, rushing the word.