Page 100 of Jayson
Riley.
“She’s a problem.”
Maddox.
That one. That one doesn’t blur. That one burns.
The pen trembles between my fingers, even though I’m not writing anymore. My journal is open in my lap, the ink still wet from where I pressed too hard. I keep thinking if I just look at the words long enough, they’ll make sense. They’ll slot in. But all I get are flashes. Sounds. Smells. Panic.
I know that name—Maddox—but I don’t know how. I don’t have a face. No context. Just that sick, oily sensation that slithers through my gut when I whisper it out loud.
Maddox.
It feels like saying the name of something that used to own me.
A monster I don’t remember, but my bones haven’t forgotten.
I wrap my arms tighter around my knees, the journal pressed to my chest like a shield. My throat aches from trying not to scream out loud.
And then I hear him.
“Keira…”
His voice makes my whole body go still.
God. He sounds like he’s been looking for me. Like he’s afraid. Like I’m something precious that slipped out of his hands.
He steps inside.
I don’t look up. I can’t. Because if I look at him, I’ll break. And if I break, I’m scared I won’t come back this time.
“I heard you,” I say, barely louder than a whisper. “Talking on the phone.”
Silence.
Then the soft sound of the door closing behind him. A breath caught between us.
“I wasn’t hiding anything from you,” he says.
I laugh. It’s not funny, but it bubbles up anyway—sharp and bitter. “Does that mean you’re going to tell me what that call was about?”
He’s moving toward me now. I can feel it in the air. The heat of him. The pull.
“You said I’m not going anywhere. Does that mean I’m still your prisoner?” I whisper. “Is that what I am to you?”
“No,” he says, rough, full of heat and pain. “Fuck, Keira, no.”
“Then why does it feel like I don’t belong here?” My fingers tighten around the journal. “Why does it feel like I’m a ghost haunting someone else’s life?”
He sinks to his knees in front of me. That breaks something inside me. Because Jayson doesn’t bow to anyone. But he does it now, and he brings forth his plea. Here he is, hands on my thighs, looking up at me like I’m the only goddamn truth he’s ever known.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he says, his voice low and fierce. “You’re a war I’d fight every day. You’re the only thing that makes sense to me anymore.”
Tears sting my eyes, hot and fast.
“But I don’t even know who I am,” I whisper. “I don’t remember that day. I don’t know why I don’t remember Riley leaving. I know I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know who Maddox is or what he did to me—or what I might’ve done to survive it.”
I gasp. Because the truth of it hurts.
