Page 121 of Jayson
And that’s when I notice we’re not alone.
A man stands a few feet back, bloodied, panting, one arm pressed to his ribs where a wound bleeds slow and deep.
His eyes are locked on me. And there’s something dangerous in them. It’s not pity; it’s fury. It’s not directed at me, but for me.
His gaze roams my face, the bruises, the panic, the wildness in my eyes. He sees the pieces. The past clinging to my skin like trauma.
Something in his jaw ticks. His mouth opens slightly like he might ask—but he doesn’t. Because he knows. He doesn’t knowdetails.But he knows pain. And whatever he sees in me right now is enough.
It makes his hand curl tighter around the gun at his side. Makes his stance shift—like if my tormentor walked in this very second, he would put a bullet in his heart without blinking.
Jayson feels it too. The weight of what I’m not saying.
He presses his lips to my temple.
“You’re safe with me,” he whispers. “You’re safe with me. With us.”
I nod. But the tears keep falling. My nails dig into his back. I can’t stop. I’m not sure I’ll ever stop.
But I’m out. I’m seen. And for the first time in my life… I’m not alone.
They say trauma is a loop.Today it’s a carousel I can’t step off.
Because I’m so damn angry. It’s not a loud kind of angry. It’s not the screaming, throwing-things-at-the-wall kind. It’s quiet. Thick. Like tar in my chest.
I’m angry that Jayson’s hands are cut and bruised—and I secretly love those bruises. Because they mean he’s alive. Because every split knuckle and torn tendon says he chose to fight for me. Chose me over caution. Over mercy. Over reason.
I’m angry that men I never met bled out on antique hardwood just because I exist. Because someone put a price on me. Because some twisted person in this world decided I was a threat to his secrets.
I’m angry that I still can’t remember exactly what happened in my past. I have whole years that are a blur. Only the sound. The thud of footsteps. The lock clicking. The silence that came after, like the air itself held its breath for what would follow.
I’m angry that guilt tastes like rust and it sticks to the back of my throat no matter how much tea Lula gently presses into my palms. Her hands are warm. Her eyes too kind. But even honeyed chamomile can’t scrub away the blood I didn’t spill but somehow still taste.
Mostly I’m angry that I’m starting to understand why Jayson never flinches when violence introduces itself. Because after last night, part of me doesn’t flinch either.
Kanyan didn’t leave us there in the wreckage of the fire.
Still bleeding, bandaged, stiff, he stood like a man who’dnever learned how to fall. And when he looked at Jayson, something passed between them—wordless, heavy, familial.
Then his eyes shifted to me. And stayed there. Long enough that I had to look away.
“I want you both at my house,” he said, voice gravel and command. “Lula wants to meet you.”
Jayson started to argue. I could see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his shoulders squared, ready to deflect. But Kanyan didn’t let him.
“She’s not okay, Jay,” he said. “And you’re not either. Maddox will keep trying to get to Keira, and I’m not risking your safety again.”
He looked at me when he said it. Not like I was broken. Like I was worthy of protection. And maybe that’s what made me say yes. That’s what made me tug at Jayson’s shirt and tell him that it was okay-that we could lean into his boss and take the help he was offering.
Kanyan keeps a beautiful home with his wife, Lula. It smells like cinnamon and old books. There are blankets on every couch. The fire never goes out. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t ask questions, only offers a soft place to lay your head. It’s warm and soft and feels like home.
There’s a scar above Kanyan’s left eyebrow that splits when he smiles. I caught him watching me again, as I sat curled on the armchair with a blanket draped over my knees and one of Lula’s cups clutched in both hands like a shield.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t pity me either. He just watched. Like he was trying to figure out how many monsters still lived under my skin—and how many he’d have to kill to make room for peace. I’m glad that Jayson works with a man who has a moral compass and would do everything in his power to protect those close to him.
It’s quiet here. Built like a fortress, it’s safer than anywhereI’ve ever been. And somehow… that terrifies me more than the gunfire.
Because for the first time in my life, the world’s not actively trying to eat me alive. And I don’t know who I am when I’m not running.
