Page 18 of The Ashes of Summer

Jackson moves beside me, shrugging off his jacket with a calmness that feels obscene in a moment like this. He folds it over his arm, like this is no more than an introduction. Then he places himself just behind me. Just enough to control the space; enough to remind me where I am.

In the middle of the devil and the wolves.

Exposed.

Silence stretches as the men keep staring. I feel each second of it. Feel their attention crawl over my skin. The tall one with the black mustache runs his tongue over his lower lip. My fingers curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to hurt. Jackson breaks the silence.

"Summer will be staying here for quite some time." His voice is even. Controlled. Empty of anything human.

My heart jumps to my throat as I stare straight ahead, refusing to look at any of them again. Refusing to give them anything else.

"But there are boundaries with this one."

This one.

Not her. Not she. Not even Summer.

This one.

Like I'm a thing. Replaceable. Interchangeable. Disposable.

"None of you are to lay a finger on her."

For one split second, something stupid inside me stirs. A satisfaction that I'm off limits to the wolves.

Then he finishes.

"You don't hurt a hair on her head without my say-so."

The meaning twists instantly; he’s not offering protection. He’s saying they need to ask permission.

His gaze moves between them, slow and certain, making sure every one of them understands him. Making sure there's no space for misunderstanding, no excuse later.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

All three answer at once. No pause. No resistance. Just obedience.

The sound hollows something out inside me, because it feels too natural. Too practiced. Like this isn't the first time. Like I'm not the first girl who's stood where I'm standing now.

Jackson steps closer. Barely anything. My body reacts anyway. Every muscle tightens. My breath catches before I can stop it. I hate that. Hate that he can do that without touching me. He stops just behind my shoulder, bringing his hand up to gently tuck my hair behind my ear, sending a chill of repulse through me. Lowers his head until his mouth hovers over my ear.

"Because…"

His voice drops, quieter now. Heavier. Intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl.

"…every tear you shed…"

My pulse turns unsteady. A chill slips down my spine.

"…will belong to me."

The reality of it hits all at once—the men behind me, the guns at their hips, the walls closing in, nowhere to go and no way through any of it. I don't run. I don't scream. There's no point and I know it, and knowing it is its own kind of horror.

I'm fucked.

It barely settles before the ground vanishes beneath me as he lifts me and puts me over his shoulder.