Page 26 of Jax
Stella.
The way she hit me like she meant it. The venom in her voice, low and sharp, spitting curses that could slice skin. That sound she made, not pain, not fear, but something primal had shredded my grip on control like it was never built to hold.
She hadn’t meant to give me anything. But she had.
And it stayed with me.
Still raw. Still burning, like a bruise I couldn’t stop pressing just to feel it again.
I coiled the rope without thinking—loop, turn, twist, pull. The rhythm came back easily, loosening my shoulders, but not the hollow in my chest. I used to love this. The bite of jute against muscle. The strain where tension met skin. The breath a sub took before surrendering to stillness. There was power in that. Not dominance, not ego, but something deeper. Tonight, it felt empty. A ritual without fire. Choreography with no soul. Just movement for movement’s sake.
The truth was, Stella wouldn’t kneel to please me. Wouldn’t perform for praise. She’d kneel like it was a provocation, like she might bite through the rope and use it to strangle me. And God help me, that did something to me. Beneath the rage, the fear, and the venom she wielded like a weapon, there was something unshakably real. Something I couldn’t ignore.
Maybe I didn’t want blind submission. Maybe I wanted a choice. Her choice. Not obedience. Not approval. Just the moment when the fight in her stilled. When she gave herself over, not because I asked, but because she wanted to. Because she trusted me not to break her. Because she stayed.
I found Calla a few minutes later in the lounge, lacing her boots like none of it had touched her. She was calm. Perchedon a bench, focused, quiet. Some subs needed blankets and whispers to come down. Calla didn’t. She never lingered. But I wasn’t about to let her leave without checking in.
“You good?” I asked. Not clipped. Just tired.
She looked up and met my eyes. The nod she gave me wasn’t out of habit. It was honest.
“I’m fine, Jax. You were careful. You always are.”
I handed her a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and dropped into the armchair across from her. She took a long drink, then held the bottle in both hands like it meant something.
“I didn’t mean to pull you in when I wasn’t all there,” I said after a beat. “I should’ve canceled.”
“You’re allowed to need an outlet,” she said gently, her voice steady. “I knew what I was walking into. I trust you.” That hit harder than I expected. I hadn’t earned that kind of faith tonight, but I’d done right by her, and that had to count for something. She stood slowly, testing her weight, and I assessed her with the same practiced instinct I always used—breath, balance, color. She was steady. Grounded. Fine.
“Let me know if anything aches tomorrow,” I said as I stood and stepped forward to open the door.
“Always do.” She brushed past with a soft smile. “Get some rest, Jax. Don’t let whatever’s in your head ruin you. And Jax? I meant what I said before. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
I waited until her footsteps dissolved into the velvet hush of the club, then turned back toward the rope room, where the tie mat still held the ghost of what we’d done. Loops left loose. Knots half-undone. Like I’d known I wouldn’t finish the scene the way I began it. I sat at the edge and picked up a coil, letting it slip slow through my hands. It should’ve grounded me, butit didn’t. The friction scraped raw. Grief bloomed where peace used to anchor.
I pulled tighter out of reflex, muscle memory taking over as thought spun jagged and directionless. It used to mean something; geometry made sacred by intention. Language older than want. A prayer in silence and tension. Every wrap a whisper ofI see you. Every bind a promise ofI’m still here.
I used to believe in that. The ritual. The unraveling. The way a body gave itself away slowly until all that remained was breath and the echo of being held. But tonight it felt performative, choreography dressed as meaning. Movement pretending to be truth. As if surrender only counted when it ended in wreckage.
The rope burned against my palm as I cinched the last coil, the whisper of it folding into the stillness. I stared down at the finished length. Neat. Perfect. Technical. And I felt nothing.
Out of reflex more than purpose, I reached for my phone. No messages. No missed calls. Just the blank pulse of the home screen. I scrolled anyway, thumb hovering over the search like I could summon her name from instinct. But Stella didn’t have a phone. And still, her absence hit harder than presence—louder, sharper, like something I should’ve been able to touch but never could.
I dropped the phone beside me, screen dark. No contact. No message. Just the weight of her still pressed beneath my ribs like a knot I didn’t know how to undo.
Perfect rope. Wrong girl.
Outside,the late summer air pressed warm against my skin, the humidity causing beads of sweat to appear on my forehead almost immediately.
I stood still, not moving, not thinking, just letting the silence settle around me. Overhead, one of those cheap security lights buzzed and flickered like it wasn’t sure it cared enough to stay lit. A car door slammed in the distance. Tires crushed gravel. An engine rumbled low and steady as it pulled away.
I slid into the driver’s seat of my own car and let the door thud shut, leaving the engine off while I stared at the dash like it might offer clarity I hadn’t earned. My hands rested on the wheel. Not gripping. Not trembling. Just still.
Tonight wasn’t about Calla. And it wasn’t about the rope.
It was about the fact that I couldn’t fucking shakeher.
Stella.
