My legs give out. I sink to the shower floor, knees pulled to my chest, water beating down.
I sit there for a long time. I don’t know how long. The water runs cold, but I don’t move to turn it off. I just stare at the drain, watching the water swirl, unable to connect the concept of “washing” with the physical action.
Eventually, the shivering becomes too violent to ignore. I turn off the tap. Towel off with mechanical, jerky movements. I put on the clothes from the cabinet—black cargo pants I have to roll up, a gray T-shirt that drowns me. They smell like detergent and something else. Gun oil, maybe. The scent of tactical efficiency.
I unlock the door.
When I emerge, Jackson stands at the kitchen counter, medical kit open. He’s changed too—black tactical pants, black Henley that clings to every plane of muscle.
I stop in the doorway, pulse tripping over itself.
Without the tactical vest. Without the chaos. Without the adrenaline masking everything else.
He’s just a man now. And that somehow makes him infinitely more dangerous.
The Henley pulls taut across shoulders that look built to bear the world—fabric clinging to every ridge and line of muscle. The sleeves are shoved to his elbows, exposing forearms laced with veins and scars, strength that speaks of use, not vanity. He moves with unthinking precision, organizing medical supplies like he’s still defusing bombs—every motion efficient, economical, controlled.
Nathan’s body was sculpted for mirrors. Jackson’s was forged for survival. For violence. For protection.
And every part of me reacts to that difference.
Heat slides through my veins, pooling low, my breath catching on the sight of him. The damp edges of his hair cling to his temples; a single droplet traces the sharp edge of his jaw before vanishing into the stubble shadowing his throat. The light from the kitchen gilds the scar cutting through his left brow, softening nothing—if anything, sharpening him further.
He shouldn’t be beautiful. Not like this. Not when every instinct screams danger.
But he is—beautiful the way a blade is beautiful. Purpose and precision. Violence in repose.
And as he turns, catching me watching him, that easy control in his movements doesn’t falter. His gaze just lifts—steady, unreadable—and for one breathless second, I swear he sees exactly what he’s doing to me.
This man killed three people in front of me less than an hour ago. Shot them with the same precision he’s now using to organize bandages. The men in the alley—he detonated an explosive and took them down without breaking a sweat. His hands have ended lives tonight. Those same hands that are now carefully arranging medical supplies.
I should be terrified.
I should be backing toward the door, looking for escape routes, calculating the distance to safety. Any rational person would fear a man who can kill so efficiently, so calmly. Who can transition from violence to casual conversation, like changing channels.
Instead, I’m mesmerized.
My body hums with awareness, skin prickling with each small movement he makes. Something’s fundamentally wrong with me that I’m standing here, pulse racing, thighs clenched, attracted to a man who is objectively dangerous. A killer. A stranger who could snap my neck as easily as he opened that medical kit.
But he threw his body over mine. Took shrapnel meant for me. Protected me with a ferocity that was somehow gentle. Threw me over his shoulder on that fire escape like I weighed nothing, carried me to safety while I was paralyzed by fear.
The memory of being held against him—my stomach pressed to his shoulder, his arm locked around my legs, the solid strength of him the only thing between me and a five-story fall—makes heat pool in my belly.
The contradiction makes my head spin. Lethal and protective. Dangerous and safe. Everything about him is a paradox that my body understands even if my mind doesn’t.
He looks up, and his attention hits like a physical touch. My nipples tighten beneath the borrowed shirt. I cross my arms, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“Sit.” He indicates a kitchen chair. “Let me check those ribs.”
I sit. He kneels in front of me, eye level now. This close, I can see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the gold flecks in his green eyes. He smells like cedar and gunpowder, a combination that makes my mouth water.
“May I?” His hands hover near the hem of my shirt.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He lifts the fabric carefully, exposing the bruise spreading across my ribs. Purple-black, the perfect imprint of a boot. His fingers ghost over it, barely touching, but even that minimal contact sends electricity through me.
“Not broken.” His voice is low, clinical. “But deep bruising. Painful but not dangerous.”
