The silence in the dining room is deafening, broken only by the faint sound of Paige’s shallow breaths as she lies crumpled on the floor. Her hair falls in disarray across her face, her cheek already reddened and swelling from Callan’s strike. Her hands tremble as she clutches the ground for support, but her eyes–wide and burning with defiance–linger on Callan as if daring him to try again.
I don’t sit back down. My gun is still in my hand, my blood still cold from the seconds that stretched too long when Callan raised his weapon. But instead of returning to my seat, I step forward until I’m standing next to her. I don’t look at her–don’t acknowledge the small, fragile form huddled at my feet. My voice is sharp, low.
“Get up. Follow me.”
Her head turns slightly, just enough for me to see the flicker of hesitation in her green eyes. She doesn’t move at first, her gaze darting between me and the room full of men. Callan is still standing by the table, his injured hand wrapped in a bloodied napkin, glaring daggers in her direction.
The tension in the room is suffocating, every set of eyes fixed on us, waiting for her next move. Waiting for me to react.
Paige shifts, her movements slow and stiff as she pushes herself up onto her knees. She struggles to her feet, swaying slightly, but doesn’t ask for help. She just stands there, her arms hanging awkwardly at her sides, her chest heaving with uneven breaths.
I turn and walk out without a second glance, my footsteps heavy against the polished floor. For a moment, I don’t hear anything behind me, and I stop, glancing back. She’s frozen in place, hovering near the doorway, her expression wary, uncertain.
raise an eyebrow at her, my tone sharp when I speak. “Come on. I don’t have all night.”
That gets her moving. She steps forward, trailing a few steps behind me as we leave the dining room behind. Her presence feels small, almost insignificant, but I can feel her there–every hesitant movement, every cautious breath.
Her steps falter slightly when I turn down a hallway that doesn’t lead to the room she’s staying in. I don’t slow, but I can feel her confusion, her hesitation growing heavier. She’s afraid, and she’s trying hard to hide it, but she’s not fooling anyone. Least of all me.
We reach the main bathroom on the floor, and I push the door open, holding it for her to step inside. She doesn’t move at first, just stands there, staring at the threshold like it’s a trap. Her fingers twitch at her sides, trembling slightly despite the mask of indifference she’s trying to hold onto.
The sight of it annoys me. I step aside, my voice low and biting. “Inside. Now.”
She steps in cautiously, her movements stiff, her shoulders drawn up tight as if she’s expecting me to lash out at her. I let the door swing shut behind us and cross to the sink, pulling a cloth from the cabinet and dampening it under cold water.
When I turn back to her, she flinches.
It’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s there–a quick, instinctive movement as I raise the cloth toward her face.
I stop in my tracks, my jaw tightening. Anger flares hot and fast in my chest, not at her, but at the fact that she thinks I’d hurt her the way that these other guys do. That she’d flinch me like I’m no different from Callan, from Tobias, from every other bastard who’s put their hands on her today. Classless idiots.
Without thinking, I grab her arm roughly, pulling her closer. She lets out a small gasp, her eyes wide, but I don’t let go. I lift her onto the counter, ignoring the way she stiffens under my
touch.
“I don’t hit women,” I say, my voice low and sharp. “Not unless I need to.”
Her gaze locks onto mme, searching, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just stares, her lips pressed into a tight line, her breath shaky.
I press the damp cloth to her nose, wiping away the blood that’s started to dry there. She flinches again but doesn’t pull away, though her hands curl into fists at her sides.
The room is silent except for the sound of her breathing, ragged and uneven, as I work. My movements are quick, efficient, but her nearness sets my teeth on edge. I don’t know why it bothers me–why the tremble in her hands, the faint redness in her cheeks, the soft hitch in her breath get under my skin the way they do.
When I’m done, I toss the cloth into the sink without a word and turn toward the door. I open it, standing in the hallway as I wait for her to follow.
She hesitates again, glancing at me from where she’s still perched on the counter. For a second, I think she might say something, but she doesn’t. She just slides off the counter, her movements awkward and hesitant, and steps into the hallway.
I don’t look at her as I start walking toward her room. My footsteps echo down the corridor, and I can hear her small, hesitant steps trailing behind me. Her presence feels too close, too real, but I keep moving until we reach her door.
I stop and open it, holding it wide as I wait for her to go inside. She pauses, glancing up at me, her green eyes searching mine. For what, I don’t know.
When she finally steps forward, I grab her arm.
She gasps softly, her head snapping toward me, her eyes wide and startled as I pull her back just enough to lean down, my face inches from hers.
“Next time one of these men tries to touch you,” I say, my voice low and steady, “use your knife. Not your fork.”
1/2
12:26 PM C
Chapter 17: Jaxon
Her breath catches, her lips parting slightly, but she doesn’t speak. Her eyes hold mine, wide and unblinking, her expression caught somewhere between fear and defiance.
I hold her gaze for a moment longer, then let her go. She stumbles back slightly, her steps quick as she retreats into the room.
Before she can say anything, I shut the door behind her and lock it. The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoes in the hallway, sharp and final.
I stand there for a moment, my hand on the doorknob, my chest tight with something I don’t want to name. Then I turn and walk away, my footsteps heavy against the floor.
