Page 129 of Jayson
“I used to walk the tightrope for a traveling circus. People thought I was brave walking that tightrope.” Her smile turns bitter. “But up there? It was the only place I didn’t feel cornered. Up there, no one could reach me. No one could grab me or pull me into a car or sell me to monsters.”
I swallow hard. My mug trembles just slightly in my grip.
“I kept running. Town to town. Rope to rope. Never letting my feet touch the ground long enough for anyone to cage me again.” She exhales slowly, the sound tired and real. “I think that’s why I survived. Because I kept moving. And I had my dancing.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. There’s a lump in my throat the size of a fist. The tea has gone cold, but my heart hasn’t.
“You ever feel like the past is always right behind you?” I ask quietly. “Like it’s just… waiting for you to let your guard down?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Just reaches over and slips her hand over mine. Her palm is warm. Steady. Grounding.
“All the time,” she says. “But I’m not running anymore.”
I look at her, confused. “How?”
Her expression softens in that way people do when they talk about someone who saved their soul.
“Kanyan,” she says simply. Her husband.
The name settles between us like thunder in the distance.
“I met him here in this very city, while I was trying to disappearagain. I didn’t even know his name, but he beat down my demons and he refused to let me run anymore. He fought for me. Not just with fists, but with fury. Like I was something sacred. He doesn’t always say the right things. He’s rough. Quiet. Half the time I think he’s made of stone. But he’d burn the world down if it meant I’d sleep through the night.”
Tears fill my eyes before I realize it.
“He doesn’t let anyone near me unless I say they can be near me. He watches me walk the rope like it’s the most terrifying thing in the world, and he never once tells me to stop. He just… waits. With his arms open. In case I fall.”
I press a hand to my chest. My heart is aching in a way I didn’t expect.
“Keira,” Lula says softly, turning to me fully, “you need to allow yourself to have that, too. Soft things. Safe things. Hands that don’t hurt. A voice that asks, not demands. Someone who sees the cracks and doesn’t try to fill them—just holds them gently.”
I shake my head, blinking hard. “I don’t know how to live like that.”
“You don’t have to know,” she says. “You just have to let it happen.”
She sets her mug down, then opens her arms without a word. I don’t even hesitate—I lean into her, and she wraps herself around me like a shield made of grace.
We sit like that for a long time. Wrapped in silence. Wrapped in truth.
And as the sky cracks open with more light, as the birds continue their soft chorus, I realize something terrifying and beautiful.
I want what she has. I want to believe I can have it. Not just survival. But peace.
50
JAYSON
Isit with the photo for a long time before I take it to her.
It’s just paper. Glossy. Folded once down the middle, soft at the crease from where Kanyan handed it over this morning like a loaded gun.
Maddox’s face stares up at me. Arrogant. Cold. The kind of face that never earned its power but wore it anyway, like a mask.
I told myself I’d wait. That she wasn’t ready. That pushing her would do more harm than good.
But I can’t shake the feeling that if he’s still out there, he’s still a danger to her, and time isn’t a luxury we have.
I find her on the edge of the bed, curled up under one of Lula’s soft throws. Her hair is braided back, loose strands curling around her face like smoke. She looks… fragile. Not weak. Just cracked in places I can’t reach.
