Page 41 of Earning Her Trust

He considered not answering at all. Maybe if he ghosted out hard enough, Jax would get the message and go away. But the guy was stubborn—the more you tried to evade, the more Jax dug in.

He stalked to the door, yanked it open just far enough to scowl through the crack. “What?”

Jax stood on the porch, hands in the pockets of his canvas jacket. He must have taken Oliver home before coming over, since the kid was nowhere to be seen, but Echo hovered two steps behind, eyes on Cinder, tail wagging softly.

He thought he felt the swish of Cinder’s tail against the back of his leg, but when he glanced down at her, she was as stoic as ever.

“You good?” Jax asked.

“Fine.”

The furrow that appeared between Jax’s brows said he didn’t buy it. “You left pretty fast.”

“Had work to do.”

“Uh-huh.” Jax just watched him, gaze steady. “I know that mug meant something to you, man. When I came here, it was one of the first things River told me: don’t touch Ghost’s blue mug.”

“River’s full of shit.”

“Usually.“ Jax let the word hang and took off his cowboy hat, dragging a hand through blond hair that had grown shaggy over the last few months. He looked back up the road toward the bunkhouse, then sighed and replaced the hat, which was still new enough that the brim was stiff and Ghost could smell the subtle, rich scent of the felt.

“But not this time,” Jax finished. “It sucks, man, but it was a dumb accident. Bear feels like shit?—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The words were like rocks in his throat, scraping all the way up.

Jax’s throat worked like he was swallowing back whatever he’d wanted to say. “Yeah, okay. I get it. I’m just?—”

“Standing here and psychoanalyzing me.”

Jax went stone still. For a second, the only sound was the faint chirp of the crickets in the field behind the cluster of cabins.

“Ghost, I’m not trying to?—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He enunciated each word. “And I sure as hell don’t need you showing up to drag me through some feel-good rehab moment. I’m not your next fucking project, and we’re not friends. Go find another broken dog to work with and leave me the fuck alone.”

Behind him, Cinder rumbled softly, eyes locked on Jax, hackles raised, tension running through her legs and tail. He didn’t tell her to back off. He just wanted Jax off his porch, and if the dog’s low growl helped get Jax moving, so be it.

The silence stretched.

“Jesus,” Jax finally said, voice flat. “You are cold motherfucker. Sorry for giving a damn. Won’t make that mistake again. C’mon, Echo.” He hooked a finger at his dog and turned away. He didn’t look back as he jogged off the porch and across the road to his and Nessie’s cabin, which glowed warmly in the darkness. The light in the window flickered, as if someone had moved the curtain—probably Nessie, looking for him.

Ghost slammed the door and twisted the deadbolt. He pressed his forehead to the door, breathing through the leftover anger. It left him fast, adrenaline burning off, nothing but bitter aftertaste pooling in his gut.

He’d won. Mission accomplished. Nobody would dare intrude again anytime soon.

So why did the victory feel so fucking empty?

He paced the room. One circuit. Two. Windows blacked out, monitors blinking security feeds at him in the dark. He sat behind the desk, then stood up again. He checked cameras, cross-referenced overnight logs, recalibrated the sensor grid. Anything to keep his hands busy.

None of it helped.

The feeling grew, spreading from his chest outwards. An itch he couldn’t scratch. The air felt thin, the walls too close. Even the dog seemed restless—Cinder tracked his every movement, never letting him out of her sight, but refusing to approach.

He caught himself staring at the empty spot on the desk where the blue mug used to sit.

Goddamn it.

He tried not to hate himself for lashing out at Jax. Tried and failed.