Page 177 of Deacon

The first thing that came back was pain. It wasn’t the blinding agony from before. Blue had taken the sharpest edge off that. What remained sat deeper, a heavy ache rooted in my left shoulder and spreading through my ribs every time I breathed too deeply. I tried to shift anyway, more instinct than decision, and the movement pulled a sharp breath out of me.

“Don’t move.” Jackson’s voice came from beside me, rough with exhaustion. His hand tightened against my stomach before he said it again, softer this time. “Please, don’t move.”

I blinked until the room came together around me. Pale morning light slipped through the curtains. My dresser. My ceiling. The faint smell of laundry detergent beneath candle wax and whatever antiseptic Blue had used on me. Home, though my body still hadn’t caught up to the fact.

My left arm was strapped across my chest in a black sling, supported by rolled towels tucked beneath my elbow. Even turning my head enough to look at it sent another throb through the joint. Blue had clearly done everything she could to keep me from undoing her work in my sleep.

Jackson lay beside me, propped halfway on his side with one arm stretched over my middle. Stubble shadowed his jaw. His eyes were red and sunken, the strain in his face too deep to hide even now that I was awake. He looked like he had spent the night measuring time by whether I kept breathing.

“You’re here,” I whispered. My voice sounded scraped raw.

His whole face changed. Relief moved through him before he could guard it, leaving him almost painfully open. “I’m here.”

I tried to lift my left hand toward him. Nothing happened the way I wanted, and frustration flashed hot enough to cut through the fog.

“Don’t.” Jackson pushed himself onto one elbow and cupped my cheek instead. His thumb passed once over my cheekbone, careful enough that my eyes burned. “Blue fixed your shoulder while you were out. She said you’ve got to keep it completely still.”

I looked at the tremor in his hand, the red around his eyes, the effort it was taking him to stay calm for me. “I don’t care about my shoulder,” I breathed.

My right hand caught his wrist and held his palm harder against my face. I needed the weight of him there, something warm and real between me and the memory of Jude’s hands, Mason on the floor, the gunshot, blood in my mouth. “Come here.”

Jackson’s gaze dropped to my mouth, but he didn’t move. The wanting was there. So was fear, deeper than hunger right now, because he had already seen what my body looked like when he carried me out of that house.

“Lila...” His voice dragged low. “Baby, I can’t just climb all over you right now.”

“Please, Jackson.” I hated how small the words sounded. I hated more that I needed him badly enough not to care.

Whatever he saw in my face broke through the last of his resistance. “Jesus,” he murmured, then moved with a care that made my chest ache for reasons that had nothing to do with bruised ribs.

He adjusted the towels beneath my elbow first. Then he shifted over me, bracing his weight to my right and keeping my injured side protected between us. When his mouth found mine, the kiss stayed slow. Deep enough to steady me. He kissed me like he needed proof I was still here and like he understood I needed the same proof from him.

For several breaths, that was all I let myself feel. Warm mouth. Familiar stubble. His hand secure at my hip. The smell of his skin instead of blood and floor cleaner. Then need pushed through everything else.

I made a sound against his mouth, and Jackson’s eyes squeezed shut before his kiss deepened. His restraint stayed there even as hunger crept into it. My good hand slid into his hair and pulled him closer, needing contact more than I needed caution.

“Fuck,” he breathed against my skin when his mouth moved to my jaw. “I need to feel you.”

His palm slipped beneath the hem of my nightgown and traveled carefully along my uninjured side. Every touch paused before the places Blue had bandaged or the bruises beginning to darken over my ribs. He was relearning where he could touch me without hurting me, and the care in it almost undid me more than anything rough could have. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t.” I knew that wasn’t literally true. Half my body hurt if I breathed wrong. But Jackson was the one person in the room who had never made pain feel like something he wanted from me.

His mouth came back to mine, and I let myself disappear into it. The nightgown shifted under his hand. His touch moved lower and then higher again, finding the places that still belonged to pleasure instead of injury. My body answered him before my mind could get embarrassed by how badly I needed that reminder. “Jackson—”

He stopped immediately, forehead resting against mine while he searched my face. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” I breathed. “Just you.”

That was enough. He kissed me again, slower than his hunger wanted, his hand moving with deliberate patience until the ache building through me had nothing to do with my shoulder. When release finally rolled through me, it came with a shudder that left me clinging to him, breathless and a little stunned by my own body.

Jackson looked down at me like the bruises didn’t exist. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough.

His fingers stayed against me, teasing enough to make my hips shift before I could stop them. “So fucking wet for me,” he growled, his thumb circling slowly.

“Jackson, please—” I tightened my hand in his hair, impatience finally cutting through caution.

He didn't make me wait. He stripped off his boxer briefs without jostling the bed, then settled over me again with his weight braced carefully to the right.

“Tell me what you want,” he breathed, watching my face.