I lean back against the bed, lips twitching. “Besides,” I add, “it’s about time you made a little noise.”
And for the first time since I met Nolan Rhodes, I see it.
A flicker of rebellion.
A fissure in the armor.
The spark of a man ready to set fire to the strings that once held him still.
CHAPTER 48
THE RECKONING
NOLAN
My knuckles strikethe door in three sharp raps.
I stand outside Jackson’s suite, jaw clenched, breath seething through my nose, each exhale a barely contained inferno.
The door swings open. Chloe stands before me in a barely-there bikini. I don’t spare her a glance.
Her voice is strained when she starts in, “Nolan?—”
“Where’s Jackson?” I plant my hands on my hips, securing them so I don’t rip the door off its hinges.
“In the shower,” she answers, brow furrowed.
I shoulder past her, ignoring the startled gasp she makes and beeline it for the living area. Rage simmers below the surface as I take in the space.
Seconds later, the bathroom door opens. Jackson strolls out completely naked, water dripping from his smug, unbothered frame.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan, throwing up a hand. “Jackson, I’ve seen your dick more than my own reflection. Put it away.”
“Nolan,” he drawls, rubbing a towel through his hair. “Didn’t expect a house call.”
“I bet,” I snap, voice hard. “That stunt you pulled today…the reckless, arrogant, idiotic move you thought was clever? That shit stops now.”
Thankfully, he wraps the towel around his waist with infuriatingnonchalance, tilts his head, that same stupid smirk still carved into his face.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be so dramatic.”
I’m in his face before he finishes the sentence. “You don’t get to play goddamn bumper cars on an ATV course, Jackson. You hurt Rorie. She needed stitches. You could’ve ended her if she’d landed wrong. Do you even give a damn?”
He blinks. Shrugs. “It’s a competition. Shit happens.”
I punch him. My fist connects with his jaw so fast it stuns us both. He stumbles backward, crashing into the minibar with a grunt, ice clattering from the bucket.
Chloe yelps behind me.
“You son of a bitch,” Jackson snarls, clutching his nose. Blood gushes between his fingers. “You’re done. I’m telling Thatcher?—”
“Go ahead,” I bite out, stepping forward, crowding his space. My voice venom-laced. “Tell him how you sent Rorie flying off that ATV. How you nearly got someonehospitalizedbecause your ego couldn’t handle losing to a woman.”
Jackson opens his mouth—I don’t let him speak.
“And while you’re at it?” I snap, eyes blazing, “Ask him how many NDAs it takes to cover up the trail of women you’ve fucked while on the clock.”
That lands.
