AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Several minutes later, Jaden gets all businesslike. He pulls me up and points me toward the bedroom. “Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll be leaving first thing.”
Wide-eyed from confusion, I stumble from the room. What does this mean? Did I just . . . sell myself? The thought makes my insides coil tight with shame, but at the same time a shiver runs up through my core as I recall his touch. How can something feel so wrong and yet so good? What will happen now? Will he throw me out after what happened?
But no matter how much guilt I feel—a tiny smile lingers in my heart as warmth floods between my legs whenever I think about him. I try to deny it, but I want more.
11
JADEN
The bitter aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeates the air, a scathing reminder of my lapse in judgment. As I pour the liquid into my cup, it's not just the steam that rises; it's the untold complexities of my involvement with Rayne. A part of me detests the implications—she's someone I swore to protect, not exploit. But a more self-serving part revels in the euphoria of last night. A euphoria too familiar, too inviting.
Stepping into the shower, I let the warm droplets cascade over my skin, each one a memory of her touch. As alluring as a dream you want to go back to, even when waking life calls. No. I shake my head, banishing the thought. Last night was an escape, a hiatus from my internal strife. For the first time since—I wince and push past the threatening anguish—in ages, I felt almost tranquil.
And then, as if mocking my fleeting sense of peace, the recurring nightmare intruded. “Don’t be such a wuss.” This time, however, it retreated when I sought refuge in the recesses of my mind. What unholy game is my psyche playing? The phantoms I had wrestled into submission have resurfaced, and their haunting is intimately linked to Rayne. Her soul reverberates with my own suppressed emotions—shame, desire, and an unsettling curiosity—intermingled with a self-contempt that I can't quite grasp. For some absurd reason, she matters.
Why, then, this magnetic pull towards her? Soulmates and destiny are notions for romantics and fools. Yet she possesses a haunting allure, unsettling the fortress of emotional detachment I've meticulously erected.
Then a flicker of a thought breaks through. Maybe my perspective has been myopic. Rayne survived her trials not defeated but defiant, unbroken despite the horrors she endured. Unlike me. Another thought I push away. She's not just a survivor; she's a warrior, a kindred spirit fighting her demons. And that strength, that resilience, intrigues me in a way I hadn't expected.
Could I be the mirror that reflects her intrinsic worth back to her? Not romantically—God knows I'm not the man to offer that—but as someone who recognizes the exceptional nature of her spirit. She's not just a potential lover; she's an asset, a future cornerstone of our operation with her eye for minutiae. I can offer her sanctuary, a place for her resilience to thrive, while she offers an invaluable skill set to our mission.
So, I suppress the urge to dissect my burgeoning plan into its finer details. Those can be elaborated upon later. The focus now is on the near future: she stays. She'll stand beside me, her unbroken spirit complementing our collective purpose, as we bring Viper's empire to its knees. And for a moment, despite my deeply ingrained skepticism towards emotional entanglements, that prospect seems disturbingly comforting.
As Rayne enters the kitchen, a subtle tension coils around me, binding the air with its weight. Her tousled curls cascade around her face, an artful mess that beckons and warns in equal measure. In this moment of silence, our future teeters on a precipice. If she reverts to the possessiveness that's all too familiar with other women I've been involved with, then the vestiges of potential between us will evaporate. But there's a gut feeling—a sensation that she defies my assumptions in every aspect that resonates with me.
Pretending to be engrossed in my coffee cup, I observe her from the corner of my eye. She moves with a deliberate grace, fetching a tea bag and hot water. Her actions are neither hurried nor hesitant, but purposeful. And when she finally stands, clutching her mug as a protective shield, she maintains a distance that echoes my own guarded demeanor. A silent nod of approval echoes in my mind.
"Morning.” Her voice is like a gentle sunrise—soft, warm, and slightly hesitant.
"Morning.” The word catches in my throat as I wait for her to ask for something I can't give. Yet, the aura she emanates is not one of possessiveness but an uncanny echo of my own caution and intrigue.
Her brow furrows, a response no doubt to the guarded undertones in my voice. As if she senses the boundaries I've fortified around myself. I brace for the typical sentimental rhetoric that usually comes after a sexual encounter.
"So, when do we leave?" She eyes me while sipping her tea. Her question shocks the shit out of me and sends a ripple through my expectations. This little dragon avoids the familiar terrain of emotional attachment and opts for the practical. Once again, that foreign yet comforting feeling pulses through me, a testament to her uniqueness.
"As soon as you're ready.” I surprise myself with my easy acceptance. Honestly—and I'm always brutally honest with myself—I’m already strategizing ways to maneuver the conversation to avoid the emotional minefield, whether it's real or just in my head. How can I make it work with her in my life? I pause, then ask, “Why didn't you press me about your sister last night?"
Her eyes fixate on me, piercing through her glasses, which she adjusts—her physical tell. It's as if she's probing the thick walls I've erected, searching for an entry point. She won't find one, not today. I may be magnetically drawn to her, but the barriers I've built are fortified by years of self-preservation.
She sighs and shakes her head, clearly grappling with her feelings and how to articulate them. Her demeanor has no pressure or entitlement, and I find that oddly reassuring.
When she finally replies, her voice tinges with a vulnerability she can’t fully cloak. “You said she was safe, and you clearly needed time.” She pauses again, then heaves a sigh. “And so did I.”
Her agreement hang in the air, adding new dimensions to our intricate dance. She may be calculating her steps and measuring the distance, but her focus is unwavering. And it's trained squarely on me.
“I had to take a step back.” A mix of determination and vulnerability threads through her voice. "Last night was intense. I needed a moment, some space to process. And I think you understand that, maybe more than anyone else."
"Taking a step back was essential.” A mix of determination and vulnerability threads through her voice. "Last night was overwhelming, and I needed room to breathe. I get the sense you understand that feeling all too well.”
Her words reverberate through me, binding my emotions to hers in a momentary but potent link. It's a foreign experience, acknowledging selfishness without recrimination. She's right; we're both trying to keep our pieces intact. I hold my tongue as I reach for the bread, the hum of the toaster a convenient distraction from the complicated emotions welling within me. It’s been a very long time since I had someone to care for. Since Savannah.
She finally looks up, eyes fixed on mine as if seeking a response I'm not ready to give. "Our mom's a paranoid schizophrenic.” Her words trail in the air like smoke. "So, crazy is in the blood."
My medical training kicks in involuntarily. "Catatonia isn't genetically predetermined; it's a psychological state.”
As she stares back at me, an unspoken understanding passes between us, an acknowledgment that mental health is a complex terrain, often misconstrued.
"Guess I'll be staying with Summer now.” Her voice is flat with resignation, and the abrupt change in topic jolts me. "I'm sure they have people who can help me find us a place to live.”
