Page 19 of The Ashes of Summer

A gasp tears out of me as I'm lifted in one easy motion. My body reacts before my mind does—hands pushing, twisting, fighting for space—but it means nothing. Jackson doesn't even stagger. His hold is solid, immovable, like I weigh nothing.

Like I am nothing.

A sob breaks free, raw and humiliating, as he carries me down the hall like my choices no longer belong to me.

"Have fun." The voice comes from behind us, laced with mockery. I twist just enough to see Donnie raising a hand in a slow, taunting wave, his grin wide and ugly. The other men laugh under their breath, and nausea slams into me all over again.

Heat rushes to my face, shame and fear twisting together until I can't pull them apart. I force my gaze away and go rigid in Jackson's arms, trying to make myself smaller. It doesn't work. Nothing works. Jackson doesn't react to the laughter. Doesn't acknowledge any of it. He just keeps walking with the same steady calm, like this is routine. Like it belongs in his world. Even now, carried down this hallway like something purchased, I am still counting doors. Still noting which direction we've turned. Still mapping the distance between where we started and where we're going.

We reach a door at the end of the hall, and before I can brace myself, he drops me back onto my feet. The impact jolts through my legs. My knees buckle, and I catch myself at the last second, breath coming fast and shallow. Jackson pushes the door inward with one hand before stepping aside. And for whatever stupid reason, I lift my head.

It’s not the expression he wears that knocks the breath out of me, not even the sweat beading at his hairline. It’s his eyes.

Every story I've ever heard about Jackson Moore crashes into me at once. My breath falters. My skin turns to ice. I can't make my feet move, can't drag my gaze away from his. It's like looking into the eyes of something that already knows exactly how easily it could kill me.

His expression barely changes. It doesn't have to.

"Go,” he almost growls.

The sound slides over my skin, low enough to feel more than hear. It sends a shudder racing through me, every instinct recoiling as though my body recognizes the danger before my mind can catch up. It isn't the volume that terrifies me. It's how effortlessly he pulls fear from somewhere deep inside me I didn't know existed.

"Please… please Jackson," my lip trembles, tears tracking silently down my cheeks as I plead for my freedom. For my life.

"If you don't follow my instructions, I can have my men bring you in here," he says, his voice dropping to something quieter and more dangerous than a shout would ever be. "A snap of my fingers and they'll tear you apart."

Every instinct screams at me to run, to fight, to throw myself back down the corridor if that's what it takes, but my eyes betray me, darting past Jackson to the men standing at the end of the hall. Huddled together, laughing, one of them mimicking movements with his hands. And I can picture just how much damage he could do with those hands on me.

My stomach twists. My hand clenches on instinct, but my broken fingers refuse to obey, pain splintering through them instead. If he gives the order, they'll come for me. I don't let myself imagine what happens after that. So I move, each step slower than the last, every muscle straining against the command my feet refuse to obey as I force myself across the threshold.

It's a bedroom. Or at least, it's pretending to be one.

The room stretches wider than I expect, swallowing me whole the farther I step inside. Everything is immaculate. Too immaculate. The bed sits beneath towering windows with the sheets pulled so tight they don't look as though anyone has ever slept in them. The dresser against the wall is bare, stripped of anything that might suggest a life exists beyond these four walls. No photographs. No books. No forgotten belongings. Nothing.

My gaze catches on the chair beside the bed. It isn't tucked away or carelessly abandoned. It's angled toward the mattress with deliberate precision, as though somebody placed it there to watch. A chill crawls the length of my spine.

I cross to the window because if I stop moving, I'll fall apart and I can't afford that. Not yet. Not here. The glass is cold under my fingertips. Outside, the grounds stretch away in darkness—manicured lawn running to a low stone wall, tree line beyond it, the shape of the gate just visible in the far distance.

Too far to run tonight. Too exposed between here and there. But I take in the layout of it. The direction the wall runs. The gap in the tree line to the right that might mean a path, or a road, or something worth knowing about.

Jackson interrupts my observations. "Take a seat." His voice lands against my chest like weight. He points to the bed.

I shake my head before I can stop myself, my body deciding before my brain catches up, backing me away from it by instinct alone.

It's barely anything. A tiny movement. But I don't miss the way one of his eyebrows slightly lifts.

Then, as if testing me, he lifts his hand, fingers poised—a single click away from summoning the men in the hall. Fear shoots through me so hard it turns my stomach.

What I want doesn't matter enough to irritate him.

My throat almost closes as my feet betray me, carrying me forward one step at a time. By the time I reach the bed, my hands are trembling badly enough that I can see it. I sit right on the edge, like that makes it less real. Like if I don't settle fully, maybe it doesn't count.

It counts.

Jackson watches me, his gaze moving over me, taking me in piece by piece without laying a hand on me. My skin prickles under it. Then he reaches into his pocket and casually pulls out his phone. My heart starts thudding harder as his thumb moves across the screen. Tap. Pause. Tap again.

A soft beep sounds somewhere in the room makes me flinch. Then a small red light begins blinking in the corner.

My breath catches.