I didn't stop him. I didn't want to. The ache in me needed him like oxygen. Despite everything—the lies, the danger, the uncertainty of who to trust—my body recognized something in his. Something essential.
We made love again, slower this time. His touch was gentle, fingertips mapping my skin as if committing every curve to memory. Where our first time had been frantic and raw, this was something else entirely, something pure and real. Something that eased me.
"Look at me," he whispered, and I did, finding myself reflected in his eyes. My heart hammered against my ribs, terrified by how much I felt, how much I wanted to trust him.
I'd come to him before seeking oblivion, wanting to lose myself in something harsh enough to match the storm inside me. But this tenderness—the way he cradled my face, the gentle press of his lips against my temple, my throat, the hollow between my collarbones—it reached places inside me I'd thought unreachable.
"I can't get enough of you," he murmured against my skin. "God knows I've tried to fight it."
His hands interlaced with mine, pressing them into the mattress as he moved above me. The sweetness of it made my chest ache, this careful claiming soothing something ragged within me. I hadn't known I needed this gentleness until he gave it to me. It terrified me how right it felt to be with him, how my body sang beneath his touch despite all the warnings screaming in my head.
"I feel the same," I whispered, surprising myself with the truth of it. "I shouldn't, but I do."
"Who knows what it means or if it's right," he said, pressing his lips to my neck. "We should just accept it. Whether it makes sense or not."
I gasped as he buried himself deeper inside me, his teeth grazing my neck before he kissed my shoulder.
"What about your leg?" I said breathlessly.
"Painkillers are working great, princess."
I couldn't help the quiver the nickname sent through me, as he eased out slowly before driving back in fully. He claimed my lips, swallowing my soft gasps and making sweet, steady love to me until I came undone.
My body trembled with the sweet release clouding my mind as I clung to him like he was my only lifeline.
This time, he didn't pull out. He sunk in as deep as he could, groaning, his body going rigid with his climax.
He collapsed beside me, pulling me close and nuzzling my neck.
I traced the edges of the burn scars visible on his shoulder with my fingertip. How could I feel so safe with someone who worked for such deadly people? How could I want someone who might know more than he was telling me?
"Do you know what happened to my father?" I asked in the stillness, my heart pounding with dread and desperate hope.
He didn't answer right away as he pulled back to gaze at me. And that silence told me more than words ever could.
The weight of his hesitation pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe. I watched his face in the dim light from the moon outside, the way his eyes darkened, how his jaw tightened. He knew something. My stomach knotted with fear, but I couldn't stop myself from asking—even as part of me wanted to just curl against him and pretend I didn't need to know.
"Jackson," I whispered, my finger stilling on his scar. "Please."
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. The sheet slipped to his waist, revealing the scar that looked suspiciously like a bullet wound on his torso—evidence of a life I could barely comprehend. Even now, with doubt creeping in, I wanted to press my lips to each mark, to somehow ease the pain they represented.
"What exactly are you asking me, Elena?" His voice was careful, measured.
I swallowed hard. "Did they kill him? Grayson and Meredith? Did they kill Anthony Cassaro? I need the truth. I know you know something."
The question hung between us, dangerous and fragile. Part of me wanted him to lie, to tell me I was wrong, that my half-siblings weren't murderers. That I hadn't been sleeping with a man who protected killers. That I could keep wanting him without betraying my moral code.
As if I could talk now. I'd joined that bandwagon too.
He exhaled slowly, the sound more resignation than breath. "I'm not supposed to talk about it," he said, glancing away to avoid my gaze.
The mattress seemed to grow colder beneath me despite our shared warmth. I reached for his hand, my fingers curling around his. The calluses on his palm were rough against my skin, reminding me of the violence those hands were capable of.
"Please," I whispered. "I need to know."
His jaw flexed, muscles tightening beneath stubbled skin. For a moment, I thought he'd shut down completely, retreat behind that impenetrable wall he wore so well. But then he looked at me, and something in him softened. The moonlight filtering through the blinds caught the edges of his face, highlighting the conflict in his eyes.
"From what I understand..." he began, each word measured carefully, "your father wasn't a good man."
