Page 38 of Jayson
“Jayson.”
I turn halfway. She’s standing now, her fingers wrapped around the bars of the door. Her knuckles white, her voice steady. She pauses, swallows hard. Her eyes meet mine. Wide. Dark. Haunted.
I stare at her, every muscle in my body locked tight.
She shrugs like she regrets saying anything, like she’s trying to roll it back already.
“Thank you,” she adds, softer. “For the shower.”
She’s thanking me for what is the most basic of human necessities. I am her captor - and she is thanking me for what should be her God given right.
I step closer—just enough that the space between us hums again.
She lets go of the bars, hand falling to her side.
I want to reach for her, but I don’t. Because if I touch her, I won’t be able to let go. Instead, I nod once.
“I’ll leave the lights on.”
It’s nothing. But she nods anyway. And as I close the door behind me, I don’t lock it right away.
I stand there, my hand hovering over the key. Listening.Breathing. Breaking, quietly. Then I turn the lock. Because I don’t trust myself if I don’t.
17
JAYSON
If they could bottle truth serum and slap a label on it, they’d name it Kanyan De Scarzi.
Because the man doesn’t need chains, fists, or threats. He just sits there—quiet, inscrutable—and you end up giving him everything. Not because you’re scared. Not even because you want to. But because something about him makes silence unbearable. He stares too long, listens too well, and before you know it, you're bleeding truth at his feet and thanking him for the knife.
He shows up just after noon. He just walks in like he owns the air—and the silence folds itself around him, thick and trembling, like it knows it’s in the presence of something dangerous.
He doesn’t have to say a word. The moment he steps into the room, everything shifts. My pulse. The light. The way the floor feels under my feet. There’s something about his presence—like gravity bends toward him, like the room holds its breath just to see what he’ll do next.
I don’t know how the fuck he found me. I’ve only been here a few days. No one knows about this place—no oneshould. Butclearly, he knows more than I gave him credit for. Too much. And now, he’s here.
His eyes land on me, sharp and unreadable. They cut clean through the mask I’ve been wearing, the calm I’ve been faking. And for a second, I forget how to stand. Forget how to breathe.
I don’t ask how he found me. Because I know men like him have their ways.
He’s impossible to ignore. His size alone makes that clear—broad shoulders framed perfectly in the doorway, a silhouette built to take up space. The suit he wears isn’t just tailored; it’s crafted. A second skin of charcoal black, clinging to every hard line of his frame like it was sewn directly onto muscle and command. Even standing still, he feels like a force—something tectonic. Like if he decided a mountain was in his way, it simply wouldn’t be anymore.
He moves once—just slightly—and light glints off the expensive silver watch at his wrist. A quiet reminder that nothing about this man is accidental. Everything he does is measured. Controlled. Engineered.
His hair is dark, immaculately styled, not a strand out of place. But it’s not the polish that pins people in place. It’s his eyes. Deep and dark, endless in a way that makes one feel seen in a way they never asked to be. They don’t just look at you—they cut through you. Like they’ve already read the truth in your bones and are simply waiting for you to admit it.
Right now, those eyes are on me. Watching. Weighing. Waiting. And worse—he’s patient. Not just a man. He’s a storm in a suit.
“Nice hideout.” His voice is low, even—dangerously polite. “Bit off the grid for my taste, but the walls look solid.”
“Thicker than most,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. “What brings you, boss?”
Kanyan studies the room—the hardwood floors, thetowering ceilings, the antique fireplace that probably costs more than the whole room put together. Then his gaze hooks back to me.
“You’ve been quiet since the Bishop job,” he says. “Too quiet.”
“Tying loose ends.”
