Page 43 of Jayson
I lower my head, our mouths too close. “Somehow, I don’t think you’re ready to die, Keira.”
Silence hums between us. Her chest rises against mine. Her lips part—to scream, to speak—but nothing comes out.
I nod slowly. “That’s what I thought.”
I help her back to the bench. She doesn’t resist, but she won’t look at me either.
I walk to the door. Hand on the handle, I glance back.
“I’ll give you time to think,” I say. “But not forever. The world’s closing in, Keira. And if you think I’m not trying to save you—then you really haven’t been paying attention.”
She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t throw anything at me either.
And that—that feels dangerously like a maybe.
19
KEIRA
Monsters don’t live under the bed.
They live upstairs. In the corner office. At the head of the dinner table. They smile while pouring you orange juice. Kiss you on the forehead with the same mouth they use to order someone’s death.
I’ve always known my father was a monster. Not in the way people whisper when their dads raise their voices. No. My father didn’t have to yell. He had power. Control. Influence. He didn’t need to shout. Because he could ruin you quietly.
And he did. He ruined everyone who got too close. He taught me early on that survival wasn’t about being good. It was about being useful. Silent. Sharp. You learn fast when love comes with conditions.
I used to think maybe he could change. That if I was perfect enough, careful enough, invisible—he might learn to love something he wouldn’t want to destroy.
But monsters don’t change. They evolve. And daughters like me? We either get eaten alive... or we impose conditions of our own.
Jayson is not the same kind of monster like my dad was. No—this one’s different. Quieter. Colder. A monster who doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
And still, somehow, it feels worse.
Because Jayson doesn’t lie to me. He doesn’t play pretend. He looks me in the eye and tells me the truth— that this is what I need to do in order to survive. It’s not love or commitment or any sort of bond except a contract signed in blood, stolen vows. A piece of paper to keep me breathing, not to bind us in devotion.
And yet… something inside me still cracks. Still aches. Because I used to dream about love.
I used to imagine lace and slow dances and someone choosing me because they wanted to—not because they had to.
But this isn’t a dream. This is survival. And my choices are all casualties. Marry the man who killed my father. Or risk being lowered into the ground beside him.
I tell myself it’s not forever. That the novelty will eventually wear off and I’ll get my freedom. I’ll find a way out. Like my name on that marriage license will just be ink on paper-and eventually, the ink will fade…
But the worst part? I’m starting to wonder if the version of me that walked into this mess is already gone. If I’ve already been gutted and replaced by someone colder. Someone hungrier. Someone who knows what it means to survive a world of monsters…only to walk willingly into the arms of another one.
The memory hasn’t fully let go of me when I hear the door creak open upstairs. I hear the sound of heavy boots before Jayson comes into view.
His footsteps echo down the stairs like a thunderous warning. Each step deliberate. Controlled. But beneath that—there’s tension. Cold fury.
When he reaches the bottom, I’m already sitting upstraighter, because whatever part of me learned how to survive years ago still reacts to a presence like his.
He pauses just outside the bars. And he looks at me. Really looks,like he sees me. Not like I’m a liability, or a girl with too many secrets.
Something’s shifted. Like he senses the fracture I’m trying to hold together with a breath and a too-tight grip on this damn blanket. My throat is thick. Not with tears—I’m not even sure I remember how to cry—but with something heavier. Shame. Rage. Regret. Guilt. That quiet, coiled ache of being seen when you didn’t give anyone permission to look.
Jayson moves closer, until the bars are the only thing separating us. His voice is quiet now, almost cautious.
