Page 46 of Jayson
A crime scene dressed as a mansion.
“I can go in alone,” I say softly, my voice steady even as my stomach twists.
Jayson cuts the engine. He doesn’t move.
“You sure?”
I nod. He looks at me, and for a moment, something flickers in his eyes. Then he leans back, jaw tight again.
“I’ll be nearby.”
Of course he will. He’s not the kind of man who saves you—he just holds the pieces in place until you’re ready to shatter.
I open the door and step out into the fading daylight. My bum leg aches, and a thread of hot fire shoots up my calf, but I keep going, though slower now.
The air here smells different, tainted. And as I hobble toward the house where I once lived—I tell myself the same thing I’ve whispered since I left for college:
He can’t hurt me anymore.
But we both know that’s a lie. Because some monsters don’t need to be alive to keep haunting you.
I makeit to the threshold and stop, casting one last glance over my shoulder.
Jayson hasn’t moved from where he stands, half-shadowed by the truck’s open door, jaw clenched like it’s the only thing holding him together. I lift my hand, slow and uncertain, and wave—a sad little motion that says I’m fine, even if I’m not.Then he gets in the truck and waits. The silence that follows is suffocating.
Inside, the house feels colder somehow. Emptier. I stand in the kitchen, staring blankly at the toaster on the counter like it might have the answers. I should go upstairs and pack my things. I’d prefer to shower, have myself a little pity party, then maybe sleep for a week—but I can’t. The weight of everything I’ve been through in the past few days presses into my shoulders like wet concrete. And now I’m here to pack a few things then go back to that prison Jayson says will be our home.
Then—a knock. My breath catches. My heart stutters once, then goes wild.
I cross the kitchen slowly, fingers grazing the edge of the countertop as if grounding myself to reality. I cross through thehouse to the front door and peer through the peephole. I see that it’s Jayson.
I open the door. He’s standing there, windblown and scowling like he’s angry at himself for following me to the house. Maybe he is.
“I thought you might need some help,” he mutters. When I know what he really means is that he’s worried I’d run.
I snort. “You didn’t bother knocking the last time you were here,” I remind him.
He walks in behind me, shutting the door with a soft click that feels too final. I don’t know what he expects—that I’ll fall apart? Make small talk? Pretend we didn’t just bind ourselves in a bloodstained contract masquerading as a marriage?
But I say nothing. Instead, I lead him to the kitchen. Wordless. Careful. I still don’t know how to read him. His face is a locked vault, and I’ve got no key. Just a sick feeling in my gut that whatever’s behind that expressionless mask could eat me alive.
“I should grab my phone,” I murmur, breaking the silence because it’s choking me. “It’s probably dead by now.”
He steps aside without hesitation, without emotion. “Then do it,” he says. Dismissive. Like this conversation is a waste of oxygen. Like he’s doing me a favor just by existing near me.
But even standing still, Jayson Caluna shifts the entire gravitational pull of the room. He’s the kind of presence that makes silence louder. He doesn’t fill a space—he dominates it.
I nod and bolt upstairs, heart pounding too hard for something so simple. At the top, I take a sharp right toward my bedroom, deliberately not looking left. I can’t. That’s where my father’s room is.Was.I don’t want to see it. Don’t want to feel whatever I’ll feel if I do.
Downstairs again, I plug my phone in beside the toaster like this is any other day. Like I’m not a captive in my own home. Thescreen stays black for too long, and the air thickens with the sound of nothing.
To distract myself, I busy myself with the kettle. My hands tremble slightly. Enough to betray me if he’s watching closely.
I glance over my shoulder but keep my gaze trained just to the side of him.
“Do you want one?” I ask, without meeting his eyes. I’m afraid of what I’ll find there. Or worse—what I won’t.
“I can’t say no to caffeine,” he says, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes on me like he’s trying to memorize me in this space. Like he’s not sure how many times he’ll get to see me like this—so domesticated, with a little fire still left in my bones.
