Page 54 of Jayson
“Who?” he says, barely audible.
I blink at him, confused.
His fists clench at his sides. “Who did this to you?”
The air thins again. My lungs rebel.
I shake my head. “It’s not—it’s not what you think.”
“Don’t tell me it’s not what I think,” he snaps. “I think someone hurt you. I think you wake up screaming because someone broke you open and left you bleeding.”
He’s pacing now, slow and feral, the kind of rage that builds without sound. Controlled. Dangerous. The kind that ends with someone buried six feet under and no one ever asking where the body went.
23
JAYSON
Iknow what it’s like to wake up choking on your own breath, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a war drum in your ears. I know what it’s like to stare at the ceiling and wonder if you’re still alive—or if you’ve just landed another layer of hell cleverly disguised as survival.
Nightmares don’t just visit me—they live inside me. They’ve made a home in my bones. Set fire to my memories. And somehow, they still have the audacity to demand gratitude for the trauma they leave behind.
I’ve had my fair share. More than fair. Every day of my life since that night—the night—has been a slow, crawling nightmare. And the ones that come when I close my eyes? They don’t fade when the first light breaks through the fog of night. They just wait their turn.
That’s why, when I hear her scream—raw and terrified and ripped from the core—I don’t hesitate. I don’t think. I move.
My feet hit the hallway floor before my brain catches up. The house groans around me, old wood and older secrets, the walls still thick with the silence of a decade I spent avoiding this place. I haven’t stepped foot here in ten years. Not since I walkedout and left my grandmother with her memories and the ghosts that cling to every inch of this estate.
I never intended to come back. Swore I wouldn’t, not unless it was to bury my father.
And now he’s dead.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
If he hadn’t drunken himself into an early grave, I wouldn’t be here now. I would’ve kept my word, let this place fade into oblivion, a bad dream I dragged myself out of. But blood drags you back. Death cracks open doors you meant to keep locked forever.
Nina—my grandmother—was the only light in this place. I missed her more than I let myself admit. She was soft where my father was jagged. Compassionate where my father was cruel. I never understood how such warmth could birth something so wicked.
He’s the reason I left. I had to, before I became him. Before I liked becoming him. So yeah. This house holds more than furniture and faded wallpaper. It holds every version of me I buried.
And tonight, when I kicked open Keira’s door and saw her crumbling under the weight of her own nightmares, I felt all of it resurface. The violence. The helplessness. The shame. The guilt.
But I’m here. She’s here. And for some reason, the silence between us feels less suffocating when I’m beside her.
I lie down at a distance. There are no words. I don’t touch her. I’m just here beside her. Close enough to be a presence. Far enough not to startle her.
And for a long time, she just breathes.
Eventually, her body shifts. Tentative. Like a sleeper reaching for the sun. She rolls toward me, curling in, her forehead brushing my shoulder like she’s not even conscious of it. Like I’m gravity and she’s done fighting it. Her breath warms my shirt.Her hand rests just inches from my chest. And I freeze. Not because I’m afraid of her. But because I’m not used to being wanted. Not like this. Not for comfort. Not without demands. Not without it costing me something in return.
She doesn’t ask for anything. She doesn’t even wake up. But that one touch—that quiet little nudge into my space—cracks something open inside me. The vault I’ve kept locked for years. The part of me that remembers softness. And it terrifies me.
I lie there staring at the ceiling while she sleeps against my side, wondering how the hell a girl with eyes full of ghosts managed to make a dent in the monster I’ve spent my whole life trying not to become.
I don’t move. I don’t fall sleep. I just stay. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not guarding my own demons. I’m guarding hers.
The next morning,I stand at the kitchen counter, my hair still damp from the shower, the glass of orange juice in my hand cold against my palm.
The room hasn’t changed much in the years I’ve been away. Same wallpaper, yellowed and curling at the edges like it’s too tired to keep pretending. The same cracked tile beneath my boots, grout long since darkened with age. Nina must’ve scrubbed this place within an inch of its life, but the years still cling to it, stubborn and loud.
