Then Jackson leans forward. His arm drapes along the back of the seat, casual, like we’re just on a late-night drive. His eyes gleam in the dashboard light, too blue, too bright.
“You want to know why?” His voice drops low, soft, almost tender. “Because, sweetheart, I’ve been counting the days.”
He taps a slow rhythm on the seat, each knock deliberate, like the tick of a metronome.
“Months in a cell. Every second of every fucking day, I swore two things. First, that I’d kill Michael Miller for putting me there. Second….” His lips curl, wolfish. “That I’d get you.”
My throat dries, tongue heavy. “Why?”
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Don’t play dumb, Summer, you know why. Your fucking father is the reason I went to that hell hole, Jacob was the one who put me in cuffs. Originally, my men were going to take you, sell you. Make a bit of money. But after my time inside, and with him protecting you… well… I’ve had time to plan this out.”
His hand lifts, hovers, then brushes against my cheek—the same side he slapped earlier. My stomach lurches, but I don’t pull away. He leans closer, his breath tinged with smoke and something metallic, like the tang of blood.
“Here,’’ he says, gesturing toward the house, his voice smooth as silk, “is a life where you won’t have to want for anything again—as long as you follow my orders.” He leans closer. “This place dresses itself in velvet and chandeliers, but don’t be fooled. Every gilded room has its predator. And darling… you’re looking at him.”
Donnie snorts as he steps out of the truck, but Jackson doesn’t glance at him. His eyes stay pinned to me, burning.
“I told myself every night, when the lights went out in that cell, that I’d find you. That when I did, I’d make sure you’d be mine. They thought the bars kept me in. No. They just gave me time to plan.”
The SUV door clicks as Donnie pushes his door open. Icy air spills in, cold enough to sting my lungs.
Jackson leans back finally, giving me space. “Now,” he says, gesturing toward the door with a flick of his hand. “Time to meet your new home.”
The words hang in the air like smoke, impossible to breathe, impossible to escape.
And I know that this is only the beginning.
Chapter 32
This Little Piggy
Jacob
The office door slams open so hard the glass rattles.
“Sheriff—I came as soon as I knew.”
It’s DeputyCalder Briggs, sweat streaking down his face, breath stuttering like he’s run from the lot. He’s clutching a folder so tight the edges are bent, and his eyes are lit with something close to desperation.
“What?” I bark.
“George Johnson,” he blurts. “One of Jackson’s men. I pulled him a couple days ago on a traffic stop. Brought him in, ran his prints. Got his last known address. He won’t have had time to move.”
The room stills. The men inside—Carter, Mason, Grove, and the others—turn toward him, like bloodhounds catching a scent.
“Show me,” I say.
Calder’s already moving, snapping the file open across the desk, shoving papers toward me. Mugshot. Print card. The name scrawled across the top in heavy black ink.
George Johnson.
“This guy might not know shit,” Calder admits, voice low. “But he might. And right now, he’s the only thread we’ve got.”
I don’t waste time. I glance around at themen—my men. Some retired, some barely hanging on to their oaths, all of them united by one thing: hatred for Jackson Moore.
Mason’s jaw ticks, that familiar haunted look tightening his face. His daughter’s blood has never left his hands. Grove leans against the wall, arms crossed, his stare as dead as the memory of the daughter he never got back. Carter’s already strapping on his vest.
I slam the folder shut. “Gear up. Now.”
