Oh god. It can’t be.
His cocky smirk is gone, replaced by a sneer. His blue eyes are lighter than his cousin’s, his light brown hair darker and longer than Mark’s. But the tattoos lacing his forearms, the arrogance gleaming in his eyes—it’s the same.
“Not Mark,” I croak, brows furrowing as I try to recall. It was months ago. A night of dancing. A back alley. Silas knocking Mark out. Tempest trying to leave with…
“Jameson?”
“Might’ve overdone it with the chloroform,” he says with a shrug. “Heat of the moment and all that. Your mother didn’t seem worried.”
Accusation flares through my gaze as the effects of the drug continue to ebb.
“I had no idea you’d lose your mind and capture me as well,” Mother snaps. Her glare is sharp, lips curled in disgust as she flexes her bound wrists. “I thought you were going to teach your future wife a lesson.”
“Wife?” I hiss, but Jameson only tilts his head, his icy blue gaze dragging over my body—so disturbingly similar to Jonathan that my stomach churns.
“You’re Father Michael’s son.”
“Finally connecting the pieces?” Jameson grins. “That’s okay, Evie. No one expects you to be smart.”
Once, I let people like him shape me, to mold and use me… but that’s not quite right, is it? I was never asked. They took my identity, who I am in my truest, rawest form. And once I’d been reduced to a shell—hollowed and vacant—they made me believe it was for my own good.
If it had happened quickly, maybe I could’ve fought back. Maybe I would’ve remembered who I was before. But how could I when I never had the chance to become her?
“I’ll never marry you,” I spit, ignoring the tears coating my cheeks.
“Too late,” Jameson says, withdrawing a sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolds it slowly, holding the fine print up to my face. “Already done. It has your signature and everything.”
A dull ringing grows in my ears as I stare at the forged signature, signed and sealed by Father Michael and Roy.
“You can’t do this,” I whisper, even as he tucks the marriage license away. But the words feel frail even to my own ears. It’s already done. My life, my independence… gone.
“Enough with the dramatics, Evie,” Mother chides. “Father Michael told me about the bikers you’ve been spending time with?—”
“Yes,” Jameson’s harsh voice cuts through, his attention locked on me despite my mother’s outburst. There’s a shift in his eyes, a clearing of all emotion that sends dread sliding down my spine. “And he told me about you letting the filth out of prison too. Another reason why you’ll earn redemption before I allow you to be seen at my side.”
Fear grips me like a vise, locking my muscles. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it feels like they might bruise from the inside out.
“Of course she will,” Mother says, oblivious to the danger we’re both in. But I feel it—feel the sick change in the air. I’ve had enough horrible men look at me the way Jameson is looking at me now. Like I’m not a person, but an object he’s already decided to break.
“That’s the entire point of this. Jonathan said you agreed to take her off our hands.”
My breath hitches, eyes going wide. “You’re the man he wanted me to meet for lunch?”
Jameson grins, his expression cracking the calm façade he’s been wearing.
“Surprise. After your second unexcused absence, Mommy Dearest told me where to find you. Imagine my shock when I found out about your meeting with the dean. Or should I say… Daddy?”
My chest heaves, each breath of anger expelling more of the poison clouding my system. A flicker of strength stirs in my limbs, and I grip it tightly, trying to hold on as fear threatens to unravel me. But I need more time for it to wear off. So, I lift my chin and dare to meet Jameson’s eyes.
“My family decided I’m a disappointment and wanted me punished. I understand them,” I say, jerking my head toward mymother. “But you. What’s your excuse? You’re, what? Angry Tempest never called you back?”
The back of his hand whips across my face, splitting my lip. Blood floods my mouth as Jameson flexes his hand, then wipes the smear of red from his knuckles, like the sight of my blood disgusts him.
“You know damn well this has nothing to do with that bitch and everything to do with Mark.”
“Mark?” I ask, feigning confusion, because of course I know this is about his cousin. About the bullet that shattered his skull. But Silas and the Seven handled it. Jameson doesn’t have proof. He can’t. Or Silas never would’ve walked out of that cell.
“Oh, you mean the guy I danced with twice? He was your cousin, right?” I try for casual, but I can’t stop the cruel undercurrent lacing my words.
