Page 89 of Jayson
I pocket my phone and say nothing as I stare out the window into the dark.
The phone buzzes again. This time, Jayson moves forward, waiting, analysing.
“Show me,” he says, voice low. No anger. Just that controlled edge that means he’s already made up his mind.
I hesitate. Then I sigh and pull it out, unlock the screen, and hand it over.
He reads the message.
Still digging, little girl? Careful. You might not like what you find.
His thumb scrolls. There are more. Weeks of them. Different numbers, same tone—taunting, cryptic, intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl. Whoever it is… they know too much.
His silence turns to stone.
“How long?”
“A while,” I admit. “It started with weird texts. Then calls that hung up the second I answered. A couple times… I think I saw someone watching me on campus. I couldn’t be sure. I thought it would stop. That they’d get bored.”
“But they didn’t,” he says flatly.
“No.”
“Do you know who it is?”
I shake my head, pulling my knees up to my chest.
Jayson exhales through his nose, tight and furious.
“What about enemies?” he asks.
I let out a sharp laugh. “You want a list?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me.
“It might take until tomorrow,” I mutter, voice bitter. “My father made sure of that. He collected enemies like art. Left me holding the invoice when he died. People hated him, and somehow, they think it’s okay to make me pay for it.”
Silence again, except this time, it crackles.
Jayson’s still holding my phone. Still staring at the last message like he could burn it off the screen with sheer will.
Then he speaks, quiet and cold.
“I’ll get you a new number tomorrow. This phone stays with me.”
I nod, throat tight.
“Keira,” he says, and it’s not a reprimand—it’s a warning that tells me we’ve moved past captor and captive. The fact that he killed my father and I’m married to him to safeguard his future is no longer something that resides between us like a plague. “I need you to take every threat seriously. Your father was a very powerful man, with a lot of very powerful friends.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then, Jayson rises—slow, deliberate. He steps into my space, a shadow swallowing mine. I half-expect a warning, or a barrage of questions, or…something. Instead, he sinks to one knee, bringing his height level with me.
His thumb slips under the cuff of my sleeve and drifts over the purple bloom on my wrist. Goosebumps race after his touch, cold and electric.
The study feels wrong for this moment—lamps glowing soft, leather-bound books pretending they don’t hear the storm crackling between us. Whatever counted as “civilized” died the second that cursed message lit up my phone.
He stares at the bruise like it’s a crime he needs to solve, rage flickering behind his eyes. When he finally looks up, the blue inthem darkens—midnight over deep water—and I know where this leads.
