Page 35 of Twisted Devotion
Jackson sucks in a soft breath, and his hand reaches for where mine is resting on the counter. This time, I don’t pull away when he takes it in his. It’s better to have something—even if it’s Jackson Hawthorne—anchoring me to reality as I recollect the worst night of my life.
“Claire was killed trying to protect her family. Shot twice in the back of the head while her husband bled out in front of her from stab wounds inflicted by one of the hit men that invaded the house after the first round of gunfire.”
“Where were you while this was happening?” he asks.
I shift my gaze to the pot on the stove, watching the bubbles simmer as I continue my story. “Asleep in my room upstairs. The gunshots didn’t wake me—they must’ve used silencers. It was the shouting and commotion downstairs that did, but I was too scared to move. Until Claire started screaming. I slipped out of my room and found my foster sister already dead in the hallway, a bullet between her eyes. By that point, my heart was beating so hard my chest hurt, but I kept moving, knowing the only family I had—or what was left of it by then—was in danger. My foster brother’s bedroom was in the basement, so I made it my mission to get to him. I knew once we were together, we could get help.”
“You were close,” he observes, his thumb moving over the back of my hand in small circles.
I shift my attention to his hand on mine. “We were. When I made it to his room and he wasn’t there . . .” I swallow hard, remembering that moment of utter horror as if it were yesterday. “I’d never felt fear like that in all my years in the system. I didn’t know at the time, but he had gone out with friends that night and ended up crashing on one of their couches.”
Something like relief passes over Jackson’s face. “What happened then?”
“I went back upstairs. By the time I managed to sneak into the room, I could see that Mark was going to die if he didn’t get help soon. I couldn’t remember where I’d left my phone and I didn’t want to risk looking for it. The man who stabbed Mark stood over him, laughing. I wanted to cry and vomit, but I had to keep it together so I wasn’t caught. I had to get out of the house and get help. First, I needed to make it past the man in the living room who was taunting Mark as he bled out, and the three other men upstairs doing what sounded like raiding the rooms for anything of value. I figured it out fairly quickly that Mark must’ve owed them money. His wife and his foster daughter were dead because he pissed off the wrong people.”
“That’s awful,” Jax says, squeezing my hand. “I can’t imagine what must’ve been going through your head.”
“Everything seemed to be happening both too fast and too slow. Nothing made sense. I can’t tell you why I survived that night. I don’t remember much of what happened after I decided I needed to get out of the house. I must’ve been injured somewhere between the kitchen and getting outside, because I was bleeding from several wounds. Tristan told me that when I finally regained consciousness—three days after the attack—in one of the suites at the Westbrook, with him and Seth by my side. Tristan had been in the area and came across me. He said I was bleeding to death on someone’s front lawn. He shifted me back to his home and tried to heal me, but nothing worked. Seth was the one who suggested turning me. It was a last resort. They didn’t even know if it was going to work.”
“But it did,” Jackson realizes, his eyes locked on mine.
“Yeah,” I say simply.
His brows tug closer. “What happened to your foster brother? And the men who killed your family?” Anger deepens his voice at the end, and I cringe inwardly.
I blow out a shaky breath. “Seth told me that Kyle was relocated to a new family and aged out of the system shortly after. The men responsible for the massacre were sentenced to life in prison.” I shrug. “I didn’t follow the trial or anything, but Seth let me know once it was over, and I could finally breathe again.”
“That’s . . .” he starts, and the rage in his eyes makes me hold my breath.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was about to go off on how much he’d make those men pay.
I’ve been there. I’ve felt that rage. Sometimes, I still do.
Jackson closes his eyes for a moment, squeezing my hand again. When he looks at me again, his gaze is soft. “I’m really sorry that happened.”
I glance down at our hands and smile softly, leaning into him a little. “Thanks, Jax.”
There’s a beat of silence between us, and then he asks, “Can I . . . hug you?”
An unexpected laugh escapes me, and I lift my eyes to his. “I’d like that.”
Without hesitation, Jackson wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on the top of my head, and holds me close to him. I cling to him, inhaling the scent that is uniquely him, and—in this moment—terrifyingly comforting. I should step away, pull back, but instead, I close my eyes and listen to the steady beat of his heart.
12
After last night’s conversation with Jackson, I’ve never been so happy to have a day off. After letting him inside that dark part of my life, I feel weird about facing him. I’m sure he’s seen and heard far worse, but I need some space to breathe and figure out why the hell I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me. It was as if . . . as if he was ready to hunt down the men who took everything from me and make them pay for what they did. Some days, I have to fight the urge to do just that.
Getting into the prison where the men are incarcerated would be challenging, but I helped take down an entire organization. I’d figure it out. I shiver at the thought and wrap my arms around myself. I can still feel Jackson’s arms encasing me, can still recall how protected and safe I felt, which is a little funny considering I’m here to protect him.
I stretch my legs out and yawn, rolling over to look out the window as the sun rises. Jackson is working from home today, which means his security is covered. He has the added layer of protection considering no fae who might want him dead knows what the inside of this house looks like. With that being the case, they can’t shift here, and they’d never get past the guards on feet.
My phone dings on the table next to my bed, and I sigh as I reach for it and see a message from Allison.
I have the day off and Monica is working, so I’m free. Want to meet for coffee?
I press my lips together, scanning her message. I really don’t want to get out of bed on my only day off this week, but I haven’t seen Allison in a while.
Sure. Meet you downtown in an hour.
