Page 124 of Jayson
So I give it to him.
When he moves inside me, it’s not just a body seeking pleasure—it’s a man trying to anchor himself to something real. To someone real. To me. And I take him. All of him. No masks. No armor. Just sweat and skin and the kind of connection that makes the rest of the world feel fake.
When I moan his name, it isn’t want. It’s surrender. It’s trust.
He buries his face in my neck and groans like I’ve broken something inside him that was meant to stay locked away. But it’s out now. And I’ll never let it go.
His rhythm stays slow, deliberate. His hands roam—over my thighs, my ribs, the curve of my back like he’s claiming the very idea of me.
Outside, the wind howls. The world is still spinning, still threatening to burn us down. But in here, with him inside me, around me, whispering truths he doesn’t know how to say?
I feel untouchable. I feel seen. I feel loved.
When we fall apart, we do it together—every wall crumbling, every scar exposed. And when the shaking stops, we’re not ruined. We’re free.
He stays wrapped around me afterward. Breath warm on my neck. Heartbeat strong and steady against my spine.
“Sleep now, Little Chaos,” he whispers, lips brushing my shoulder.
I smile, barely. “Little Chaos,” I echo, already sinking.
And just before the dark takes me, I think: even if everything else crumbles—even if we don’t survive what’s coming—tonight, I’m his. And maybe—just maybe—he’s mine too.
48
JAYSON
The faucet runs slow, the water lukewarm and steady as it trickles into the porcelain basin. My palms press against the cool edge of the vanity, head bowed, spine bowed further. I splash my face once. Twice. Then just let the water drip from my chin like it might wash something more permanent away.
The man in the mirror looks older than I remember.
Lines carved into his brow. A shadow under his eyes that sleep can’t fix. The kind of wear that doesn’t come from age, but from what time did to him.
I run a finger across the edge of my jaw, over the scar near my temple, then press into the frown lines deepening between my brows.
I used to feel nothing. For a decade, I operated like a machine. Orders. Blood. Silence. Rinse. Repeat. It wasn’t personal—it was survival. But now? Now, there’s an ache. Now, things matter. Becauseshematters.
Keira.
And the thought of losing her—of her choosing to leave, orof this world taking her away like it takes everything else good—does something to my insides I don’t know how to name.
I stare at my own reflection for longer than is reasonable. My gaze locked with the version of myself that she sees. I wonder if she sees the same man I do. Or if, somehow, she’s seeing someone better. Someone salvageable.
The phone buzzes on the vanity beside me, breaking the trance. I glance down.
Kanyan
Round Table. Coffee’s on.
Of course he’s awake. Kanyan De Scarzi runs on two hours of sleep and pure force of will—like rest is a weakness and exhaustion should be grateful just to exist in his shadow.
I dry my face, grab a plain black T-shirt, pull on jeans, and slip my boots on by the door. The house is still. Mostly dark, save for the soft glow of a hallway light. The Moreno estate is old but not cold—modern in all the right ways, but with that echo of legacy in the walls. Expensive wood. Clean lines. Heavy silence.
I pass the library. The doors are closed. The scent of old paper and expensive ink wafts through the crack.
I don’t stop.
Down the stairs, across the wide marble-floored hallway. Outside, the chill is soft, barely biting. A storm passed last night. You can smell it in the leaves.
