Page 12 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

She gasped—sharp and shocked—then came alive in the fight.

Her fingers clawed at my hoodie, her shin collided with mine, her elbow struck my ribs and dragged a curse from my throat.

I didn’t let go. Didn’t speak again. Just held her.

Contained her. But underneath all that fury, there was a pause.

Subtle. Reflexive. And it told me she felt it too.

This wasn’t just about escape. It was about the moment of being caught.

And this woman, this scared, flailing, hot-as-fuck woman— Where did that thought come from?

—was enjoying it. She was enjoying being caught.

I shifted my grip to brace myself beneath her ribs, and her breath hitched audibly as my arm snugged up under her breasts.

I didn’t squeeze tightly, just held her solid.

To my utter astonishment, her back arched into the pressure, which pushed her ass against me in a decidedly sexual manner.

I tried to ignore her, but something hot and electric passed between us, and that heat sank into my bones and took up residence.

Her breath hitched as I shifted my grip to brace beneath her ribs. Not tight. Just steady. And the way her back arched into the pressure, her thighs pressed to mine without hesitation, I shouldn’t have noticed. But I did. Every inch of her burned. And me? I wasn’t exactly cold.

“Are you done?” I asked, voice rougher than I meant.

“Fuck you,” she snapped, unthinking.

I smiled. “Can’t. House rules.”

She made a strangled sound, part growl, part gasp, like her body couldn’t decide which impulse to follow. And that was when I knew. I’d hit something volatile. Not fear, or fury. Something electric. Unnamed. Alive beneath her skin, but not yet part of her vocabulary.

I set her down slowly, my arm steady at her waist until her feet found dirt.

But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t shove me off or restart the fight.

She just stayed there, breath ragged, spine locked, chest rising too fast for calm but not fast enough for panic.

Like her system hadn’t decided whether to bolt or lean in.

I didn’t move either. Because she felt it. Same as I did.

The current stretched between us—coiled, taut, and undeniable. Pressure that doesn’t build by accident. That waits for one misstep. One breath too close.

Her breath hitched again, sharper now. And I knew with a clarity I didn’t want: this wasn’t about freedom anymore. It was about the line she hadn’t meant to cross. And the part of me that didn’t want to stop her.

I leaned in. Just enough for my voice to slip into the silence she hadn’t tamed. Just enough to let it land.

“Next time you want to go for a walk,” I murmured, heat in my throat, “you ask.”

Her chin lifted like she might spit another insult, maybe swing again just to prove she could. “I won’t.”

My voice dropped—low, steady, and edged with something I hadn’t meant to let out. “Then next time, there’ll be consequences.”

She didn’t answer. Not with words. Just narrowed eyes, a clenched jaw, and breath stuttering in that small, involuntary way that gave her away.

And when I let go—slow, deliberate—she stumbled like she didn’t know what to do without my hands on her.

I didn’t smirk. What I gave her was worse.

A look that said I see you . The real you.

Sharp, dangerous, desperate beneath all that rage.

Then I turned. No order. No invitation. She followed.

Of course she did.

I heard her behind me, gravel crunching beneath stockinged feet, breath uneven, footsteps louder than necessary. She wasn’t cooperating. She was protesting. Burning with it. As if the heat in her glare could scorch through my spine.

I didn’t turn; let her stew in it for a bit. Let her be the one to chase me, for a change. Let her decide whether she wanted to run again, or admit that just a little bit of her had enjoyed being caught. Her physical reaction to me had been as undeniable as it had been surprising.

But I was barely ten paces from the house when it shifted. A breath sucked through teeth. A muttered curse. Then nothing.

No steps behind me.

I turned.

And there she was, half in shadow, one hand planted on her hip, the other clenched like it was the only thing stopping her from throwing something at my head. I couldn’t hold back the small smile that crossed my lips. Sometimes my face just did things without permission.

“You think this is funny?” she snapped, voice low and dangerous. “You think this is some game?”

I tilted my head. “You’re the one playing it, Stella. I’m the guy who is going to keep score.”

She moved toward me, quick and reckless.

Not quite a charge, but enough to make my pulse tick up a notch.

I let her get close. Close enough to smell the cedar still clinging to her hoodie.

Close enough to see the flecks of sweat at her hairline, and the fire behind her eyes that hadn’t dimmed since she tried to bolt.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she hissed.

“No,” I said evenly. “But I know how people move when they’re scared.”

Her jaw locked. A muscle in her cheek jumped. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Sure,” I murmured. “But maybe you should be.”

The words hit like a slap, and for a second, I thought she’d swing at me.

I almost hoped she would. There was something electric in the way she vibrated with rage, as if touching her too long might leave scorch marks.

Her breath came in quick little bursts, her chest rising and falling like she’d been sprinting, even though we’d stopped moving.

“God, you’re such an arrogant?—”

“Careful,” I cut in, voice smooth as silk over a blade. “That’s twice tonight you’ve tried to bite. People might start thinking you want to be tamed.”

She blinked, startled, but not by the words. By the way her body reacted to them.

I saw the shift as it happened: the flutter at her throat, pupils flaring just slightly, lips parting like her lungs forgot how to function. That was the moment. The tell. The change.

I stepped forward slowly and deliberately, giving her space to move if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

My voice dropped to a hush, dark velvet with a warning stitched beneath it. “You’re quick. Smarter than I expected. But you’re not invisible. Not here. Not with me.”

Her chin lifted in defiance, but her mouth trembled before she clamped it shut.

“You gonna hit me now?” she spat. “Drag me back? Lock me in my room?”

I gave a low chuckle, deep in my chest. “If I’d wanted to drag you, you wouldn’t be standing.”

“Try me,” she said, voice tight with defiance, the kind powered by adrenaline. But her body betrayed her. A tremble in her fingers. A lean in, not back. Her fight was already bleeding into something hotter. Something dangerous.

I stepped in closer, close enough that she had to tip her chin to meet my eyes. “I could have. Chose not to.” Not a threat. Just a reminder.

Her breath hitched, barely. But it was enough. Enough to confirm what we both already knew. This tension wasn’t just danger, or chemistry. It was alive. Responsive. Unnamed, but undeniable.

I let that tension stretch a second too long, then stepped back, giving her just enough room to believe the space was hers to claim. I turned, hands in my pockets, like we hadn’t just cracked something open that wouldn’t close.

“Come on, Stella. Let’s get you tucked in before you steal my fucking sheets.”

She muttered something feral behind me, but followed.

Her steps were still louder than they needed to be, full of defiance.

Not surrender. Not obedience. Just fire.

I didn’t look back. I could feel her—furious, curious, still trying to understand why being ignored felt worse than being pinned.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t done. It was coiled.

Waiting. And I was already counting the seconds until it snapped.

I reached the bottom step and paused. Not for myself. For her. She needed the illusion of choice, and I let her have it, let her believe this wasn’t already a game she’d started and I was finishing.

Her boots crunched on gravel behind me. I didn’t turn. Just waited. One beat. Then another.

And then she stormed past, all fury and wounded pride, the kind of defiance that made her the most dangerous person in the room, even if she hadn’t figured that out yet.

I caught her elbow before she hit the first stair. Not rough. Not sharp. Just enough to stop her.

She stilled, spine locking tight. Her face turned toward mine, eyes burning.

“Let go,” she said, voice thin with tension.

I didn’t.

I stepped closer, not forcefully, but deliberately, enough to let her feel me. To feel the shift in the air. My hand skimmed from her elbow to her wrist, a slow, precise slide that made her breath hitch even as she glared up at me like she wanted to flay the smirk off my face.

“You’re fast,” I said. “I’ll give you that. More resourceful than most, too.”

Her jaw clenched. “If you’re about to compliment me into compliance, you’re going to be disappointed.”

I laughed, low and soft, the sound vibrating between us. “Honey, if I thought praise would work on you, I’d try it. But we both know you’re wired for consequences.”

That earned me a flare of something. Not anger. Not quite. Something more primal. Her pupils blew wide for a half-second, like her body betrayed her faster than her brain could catch up.

Then she shook her head and scowled. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet... you followed me.”

“I was caught.”

“You still had a choice.” She paused, just for a breath, but it was enough. I saw it land. Good. Let it shake her. I was already a bit rattled myself, if I was being honest. Getting turned on by chasing a near-stranger through the woods had not been on my bingo card for this evening.

She stepped inside behind me, her jaw tight, breath sharp and shallow. Not from fear. Not anymore. That fire I saw out by the trees hadn’t gone out. It had just changed temperature. Settled into something lower. Meaner. Like coals banked beneath her skin.

We stepped into the front corridor, where shadows stretched long across the floor. Her stride lengthened like distance might fix things, but she didn’t look back. Refused to give me the satisfaction. Smart.

Still, I tracked the slope of her spine, the flush rising up her neck, the tension carved into her shoulders.

I shouldn’t have noticed. Shouldn’t have cared.

But my hands remembered the shape of her waist. The sound she made when she missed my ribs with that elbow.

The fight she didn’t actually want to win.

I clenched my jaw and kept walking, trying to shake it off. She wasn’t supposed to matter. But I could still feel her breath on my skin.

I let the silence stretch, louder than anything I could have said, unsure whether I was trying to quiet her or myself.

She stopped in the foyer, arms stiff, chin high. Defiant in a way that didn’t read like rebellion. It read like survival.

And damn if that didn’t land harder than I wanted it to.

I turned to face her. Slow. Deliberate. My boots silent on hardwood I could cross blindfolded. She didn’t back down. She didn’t lower her gaze. That part of her, the part that refused to flinch, that’s what caught me.

That’s what always fucking caught me.

“I don’t care what kind of danger you think you’re running from,” I said, voice low, calm. Combat-calm. The kind you use when people start bleeding and panic’s a luxury you can’t afford.

She didn’t move. Just held my stare like it owed her something.

“Whatever it is, I promise you that you are safer here in this house than anywhere you could run too, out there. But if you do run again, Stella?”

I stepped in closer. Close enough that I could smell cedar, sweat, and the soft undertone of her skin that hadn’t left me since the porch.

“You’re not going to like what happens next.

” It wasn’t a threat. It was data. A forecast drawn from observable variables—her fight response, fatigue levels, the dilation of her pupils when I touched her, the tremor in her breath.

Not fear. Adrenaline. She was running on instinct.

But instinct lies. The body tells truths the mind won’t name.

Like how hers didn’t pull away. It reacted.

My grip hadn’t just contained her; it had ignited something.

And some long-buried part of me, sealed under layers of protocol and restraint, recognized that spark.

Liked it. Wanted to study it. Wanted it in my hands.

She didn’t speak. Just held my stare like a bluff she wasn’t sure she could carry.

And I didn’t touch her again. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I’d already done the math.

Proximity plus volatility doesn’t equal calm.

If I reached for her, I wouldn’t stop at control. And I don’t forget who I am.

So I turned. Not because I’d won, but because staying meant becoming the version of myself I'd spent years burying. The one who forgets where the line lives between need and damage. Between wanting and ruining.

And I knew exactly what I was capable of if I stopped choosing the difference.