Page 36 of Jayson
I lean in, slow. Controlled. Dangerous.
“That depends,” I say. “Would you fight me?”
She doesn’t answer.
And that silence? It’s the loudest yes I’ve ever heard.
I rise slowly, needing space—needing air—and take a fewmeasured steps away from her. She doesn’t move. Just watches me, gaze sweeping over my face like she’s trying to read the cracks beneath the surface. Like if she stares long enough, she’ll figure out where my mind’s gone.
I lean my shoulder against the stone wall, arms crossed. “You always this mouthy with men who hold your freedom in one hand and your ankle in the other?"
She smirks, sharp as broken glass. “Only the ones who like to pretend they’re the warden and not the prisoner.”
That one lands right in the ribs, too close to home. I laugh—just once, low and dark.
“Careful,” I murmur, eyes narrowing. “Keep talking like that and I might start to think you enjoy being locked up.”
“Maybe I do.” She tilts her head. “Better the monster you know, right?”
God, she’s infuriating. Brilliant. Stubborn. And so fucking close to dangerous it makes my blood move differently in my veins.
I take a slow step forward. Not enough to touch her, but just enough for her to feel the tension shift.
“Sounds like you know a thing or two about monsters,” I say.
“I’ve known my share.”
She’s known her share of monsters.
The words land like a blast of cold, icy air. Not because I think she’s lying—but because I know she isn’t.
It’s in the way she ran—on a busted ankle, with no shoes, into a dark forest thick with everything that could kill her—and still thought it was better than being near me.
She’s seen monsters.
And still, she sits there, watching me like she hasn’t decided which kind I am yet.
And that—that’s the part that fucks with my head.
Because I know I’m so much worse. Killer. Cleaner. I could be her worst nightmare come to life.
I’ve been a weapon for men more monstrous than me. I’ve made peace with blood and silence and doing the things no one else will. I know exactly what I am.
But when she says it—“I’ve known my share of monsters”—I hear the accusation hanging in the air like a loaded gun:Are you one of them, Jayson?
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure I want the answer to be yes.
Because when she looks at me—really sees me—it’s not fear I see in her eyes. It’s not even hatred. It’scuriosity. Like she’s already decided I’m not the worst villain in her story… yet. As though she’s still holding out hope there’s more under the surface. And that scares me more than her running ever did.
Because the truth is…if she ever calls me a monster to my face, I think I’ll believe her. And far worse—I think I’ll want to prove her wrong.
I take another step closer. She doesn’t flinch. She’s not afraid of me; she just keeps watching me with those steady, flame-fed eyes like she knows exactly how this ends—and isn’t sure she minds.
“You keep testing my patience,” I say, voice low and hot, “and one day you’re going to push too far.”
“It would be interesting to see what ‘too far’ looks like on you.”
I stare at her. She stares back. And for a second—just one—we’re not captor and captive. Not enemies. Just two people wound too tightly, orbiting the same sharp gravity, waiting for one of us to snap first.
