Page 19 of Jax
And then, just like that, there she was. Slipping out of the house like a whisper. Hoodie up. Hair braided back. No shoes. Smart. Quiet. Strategic.
I let out a low breath through my nose. Not quite a laugh, but not far off either. “Well, well,” I murmured. “Took you longer than I thought.”
Most runners wait until the third night. That’s the pattern. By then, they’ve convinced themselves they’ve learned the schedule. That they’ve found the cracks. That we’ve relaxed.They tell themselves stories—usually something righteous. Something noble. That they’re doing the right thing. That their cause outweighs the rules. Doesn’t matter that it never works. They all believe they’re the exception.
But Stella? I’d expected her to make her move an hour ago. She didn’t move like someone praying for a miracle. She moved like she didn’t need one.
I liked that about her. Hated that I liked that about her.
She moved low across the gravel, skirting the sensor range like she’d memorized the perimeter from a blueprint. Her timing was good. Her angles were better. She paused in the shadow of the outbuilding, checked her blind spots, looked back once, not in fear. In calculation. Like she was assessing the spread before a bet.
“Wrong direction, sweetheart,” I said under my breath as she eased toward the tree line.
I stood slowly. Set the mug down with a soft tap. No rush. No alarm. This wasn’t a breach. This was a choice. A test. One she didn’t realize she’d already failed by thinking she was alone out there.
I pulled my hoodie off the chair and slipped it on, zipping it up tight to avoid unnecessary noise. Grabbed the flashlight off the hook, not to use it. Just in case she needed convincing. I didn’t need light. I didn’t need a warning bell. And I didn’t need a team.
She was good.
But I had trained for this. I wasbuiltfor this.
By the time she reached the trees, I was already outside. The door shut behind me with a whisper. My boots didn’t make a sound. Let her think she had a head start. That’s how you learn what someone’s really made of.
She ran like someone who had something to lose. That was the difference. Most people bolt like they’re trying to outrunfear, or guilt, or whatever hell waits back at the start line. But not her. She didn’t look back. Not after the window. Not after the edge of the compound. Every step was forward. Every step was calculated.
I moved low and silent, hugging the darker patches between outbuildings and brush. The compound gave way to uneven ground, pine needles softening the noise underfoot until I could barely hear myself move. That suited me fine.
I already knew where she was going.
The cameras had lost her at cedar cluster four, north side, between the fence and the old crawl trench. I’d rewired that sector three months ago. She obviously hadn’t noticed the new heat-triggered trip sensors embedded low along the tree line. She was moving fast enough to stay out of reach, but she wasn’t smart enough to know she was already caged.
I stopped just before the rise, the angle optimal for a full sweep without immediate detection, eyes locked on the break in the underbrush where the terrain distorted just enough to catch my attention. And there she was. Crouched near the cedar, half-shadowed by its trunk, her silhouette tight with compression—back to me, knees coiled, elbows drawn in. Her hands moved with controlled urgency, rapid yet precise, like she was following a pattern she’d practiced a dozen times in her head. Her breath came in sharp, steady pulses, barely audible even from this range. Not panic. Regulation. Impressive, given the circumstances.
The material in her hands wasn’t rope. It was some sort of fabric, her sheet most likely. Torn into lengths and knotted into crude segments. A makeshift ladder; crude, but seemingly functional. She’d apparently stripped the bedding from her assigned room, fashioned it, and then anchored it between branches and pinned the bottom with heavy rocks. I grunted,not exactly in admiration, but recognition. Her method had flaws, but her intent was sound.
The rope slipped. She tugged it taut, her braid swinging forward like a metronome scraping madness. When the knot failed, she cursed, quiet and clipped. Not fear. Frustration. She’d trusted the plan. That meant something.
I could’ve stepped into view. Watched the freeze reflex play out, the jaw tremor, the oxygen shift, the dilation. But I didn’t. I waited. Observed her reset. Let her try again. The seam tore clean this time. The sound, magnified by stress, snapped louder than it was. She stumbled back, boot catching on a root that shouldn’t have escaped her notice. Then everything went still, so abruptly it felt like time obeyed her. She’d heard me. Or thought she had.
Her breath narrowed. Shoulders squared. Body responding before permission caught up. Not fear. Certainty. The instinctive kind that doesn’t require logic. I stayed still as she started moving again, studying the tension in her spine, the set of her jaw, the defiance woven into every line of her frame. Even worried she might be caught, she didn’t fold. That said more than anything in her file.
I gave her one more second. Enough to let her believe in momentum. Then I moved. Not loud. Not fast. Just inevitable. Followed her to the next cedar, where she dropped again, breath hitching, no longer measured. Her hands started in again. Another knot. Another exit strategy, fraying beneath her. She trembled now, not from the threat of being caught, but from sheer desperation.
And still, she kept going. That refusal hit hard. The kind of data point I don’t like measuring anymore. I advanced—quiet, deliberate—letting silence split around me like water around a blade. She felt it before she saw it, body tightening, breath catching mid-pulse.
“Going somewhere?” I asked, my voice calm, low, precise. Not a threat. A variable she hadn’t accounted for.
She spun, every line of her drawn tight, teeth bared like she meant to bite something. Maybe she did. She blinked hard, locked onto my face, and I watched the realization land, the jolt of knowing she wasn’t alone. Then came the fury. Beautiful, blistering, and immediate.
She lunged. I caught her wrist mid-turn and used the momentum to pivot her back into me. She twisted fast, tried to duck under my arm, almost made it. But I’d already mapped her tells, the subtle drop of her left shoulder before she moved. I countered without effort, let her slip just far enough to think she might break free, then wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her clean off the ground.
She gasped—sharp and shocked—then came alive in the fight. Her fingers clawed at my hoodie, her shin collided with mine, her elbow struck my ribs and dragged a curse from my throat. I didn’t let go. Didn’t speak again. Just held her. Contained her. But underneath all that fury, there was a pause. Subtle. Reflexive. And it told me she felt it too. This wasn’t just about escape. It was about the moment of being caught. And this woman, this scared, flailing, hot-as-fuck woman—Where did that thought come from?—was enjoying it. She was enjoying being caught.
I shifted my grip to brace myself beneath her ribs, and her breath hitched audibly as my arm snugged up under her breasts. I didn’t squeeze tightly, just held her solid. To my utter astonishment, her back arched into the pressure, which pushed her ass against me in adecidedlysexual manner. I tried to ignore her, but something hot and electric passed between us, and that heat sank into my bones and took up residence.
Her breath hitched as I shifted my grip to brace beneath her ribs. Not tight. Just steady. And the way her back arched intothe pressure, her thighs pressed to mine without hesitation, I shouldn’t have noticed. But I did. Every inch of her burned. And me? I wasn’t exactly cold.
“Are you done?” I asked, voice rougher than I meant.
