“If you insist.”
He presses the trigger.
The world erupts.
The blast hits before sound catches up—pressure slamming the air from my lungs. The dumpster wails like struck metal. Debris explodes into shrapnel.
But Jackson is already moving—launching toward me, pinning me against the wall as the wave crashes through us. His body cages mine, absorbing the hits: brick fragments, glass, grit. Each impact reverberates through him into me.
Heat. Smoke. Silence ringing like aftermath.
He doesn’t move, just braces there—solid, breathing hard, shielding every inch of me. His heartbeat hammers against my spine. My chest can’t rise. Not from fear, but from him.
I’m wrapped in his scent—gunpowder, sweat, adrenaline. The weight of his protection. The violence he meted out for me.
Something fundamental shifts.
Not the ground. Not the air.
Me.
This isn’t Nathan’s controlling grip, meant to diminish. This is pure protection, Jackson literally putting himself between me and harm’s way. The difference hits like another explosion, breaking something open in my chest.
My body responds without permission. Heat floods through me, pooling low. Every point where he touches burns. His breath against my neck, harsh from exertion. His chest pressed to my back, heart hammering. His hips pinning mine against the wall.
Safe. Protected. Held.
The ringing in my ears fades. The debris stops falling. But Jackson doesn’t move. For three heartbeats, we stay frozen—him shielding me from a danger that’s passed, me trembling from something that has nothing to do with fear.
“You hurt?” His voice rumbles against my ear.
I shake my head, not trusting what sound might escape.
He pulls back slowly, checking me for injuries his body might have missed. He runs his hands over my arms, my ribs, clinical but thorough. Each touch leaves trails of heat.
The three operatives are on the ground, clutching their heads, disoriented. One tries to stand, falls. Another has blood running from his ears. The third is crawling, lost.
“Move.” Jackson grabs my hand, pulling me over the downed men.
We run. My legs barely work, still shaking from him. From the memory of his weight, his protection.
Two blocks over, an older Honda sits in a residents-only lot. Jackson works the lock with something from his pocket. Thirty seconds and the engine turns over.
“Get in.”
I collapse into the passenger seat. My whole body trembles. The phantom weight of him presses against my back. I can still feel everywhere he touched, protected, shielded.
Jackson drives with controlled speed, checking mirrors and making random turns. Professional. Calm. Like he didn’t just use his body as my personal shield.
“Safe house in ten minutes,” he says, glancing at me. “You’re shaking.”
I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. But it’s not fear making me shake.
“You didn’t have to shield me.” The words scrape out of a throat still dust-rough.
“Yes, I did.” His eyes stay on the road, hands steady on the wheel. “It’s my job.”
Job.
