Page 14 of Claimed By the Villain
Today marks the anniversary of Martin’s death—her brother, my best friend.
Somehow, getting physically involved in saving Taylor triggered a kind of compulsion in me to get closer to Jackie. We haven’t spoken face-to-face in years. The last time was at Martin’s funeral—and even then, I only stayed at the cemetery for a few minutes. In my line of work, socializing, going to events like normal people do, is a risk.
I deal in calculated risks. I don’t take them just for the hell of it.
I notice Jackie is still moving deeper into the club, like she’s got a destination in mind.
I know she sometimes suspects I’m following her, but I’ve never actually stepped inside a place where she was before—so I don’t think she knows I’m here now.
The fucking club is packed, people bumping into me, and I have to stay closer than I’d like—because at one point, all I can see is a glimpse of her thick brown hair.
Jackie’s never cut it since she was a teen. She’s always kept it long—just the way I told her I liked it once, during one of the few times I let her get close enough.
The arrogant bastard in me likes to think she keeps it that way for me. To please her“middle brother,”like she used to call me when she was little.
Jackie was always a smart, no-nonsense kid—not like most girls, I imagine. She didn’t just want to prove she was as tough as me and Martin. She was.
She rarely cried, and as far as I can remember, it only happened three times: when she lost her dad, Zimmer Alston; her mom, Agnes, about seven years ago; and Martin, a year later.
Everyone’s gone. Now it’s just the two of us. And one day, I’ll make her cry too, whether it’s because I die, which is highly likely and probably sooner than later, or when she finally learns the truth.
We reach the back exit of Vanity, and irritation doesn’t even begin to describe what I feel when I see her heading for the rear door.
What the hell is she thinking, putting herself out there like that? Is she meeting someone? No. I don’t believe that. Jackie’s guarded. Careful. She’s not some naïve girl who sees the world through rose-colored glasses. She’s a woman raised by three monsters—me, her brother, and her father. All these years, she’s never put herself at risk.
A strange wave of relief hits me when I step outside and realize no one’s waiting for her.
Maybe she just wanted some fresh air. Or maybe she was trying to skip the chaos of the front entrance.
Still the same good girl.
That feeling lasts only a few seconds because just a few meters from the nightclub door, she stops walking.
“Do I really need to put myself in danger just to make you speak to me?” she asks, not looking back.
It only takes me a second to understand: She sensed me. She didn’t expose herself by accident—she knew I’d follow.
“This isn’t a game, Jackie. This is your life,” I say, speaking to her in person for the first time in a long time.
I glance around, scanning every corner of the dark alley to make sure we’re alone.
She turns to face me, and I watch her step closer. This time, I know I’ll let it happen.
“My life’s been protected since forever, Lucifer. By my dad. By Martin. By you. I’m not looking for protection, I want your presence.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying. We can’t talk.”
“You’re still stuck in the past, Lucifer. You don’t know who I’ve become. You keep treating me like I’m a little girl, but I’m twenty-six now. Maybe I want to take risks. Maybe I want to leave with a stranger tonight and take him home because I’m tired of being alone.”
“Jackie...”
She takes another step toward me and I think she does it on purpose, forcing us under the one sliver of light in the dark alley.
She’s so close I can see her face—features of a woman I never paid attention to before. In that, she’s right: I still see her as a child. But Martin’s sister has become a woman in every sense of the word.
My eyes betray me.
They travel down her curvy body, over hips that are far wider than her small waist and delicate frame. Long legs on full display under a miniskirt that barely reaches past her ass.
