Page 19 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

Stella

It started, as most bad decisions do, with eye contact and poor impulse control.

Carrick didn’t bat an eye. Just leaned in like a goddamn raccoon in tactical gear, and forked the final, golden bite of cobbler off Maddy’s plate—slow, deliberate, like he thought charm was a survival strategy.

He didn’t even get it halfway to his mouth before her spoon lashed out, a blur of stainless steel that pinged off his wineglass with the righteous fury of a woman who alphabetized her kitchen knives and knew which ones cut deepest.

“Unbelievable,” she huffed, eyes narrowed in mock betrayal. “You don’t even like peach cobbler.”

Carrick took the bite anyway. Chewed with exaggerated slowness. Then, grinning like a man who’d just won a battle, said around a mouthful, “Didn’t say I didn’t like yours .”

“Flattery,” she muttered, “will not save you.”

“Microwaving someone else’s hard work doesn’t make it yours, Madeline,” Bellamy added, her tone pure acid as she flicked a card at Carrick like it was a dagger.

“You were in the shower for half of dinner,” Maddy shot back. “I assumed you were otherwise occupied with your…what do you call it? Daily protein shake?”

“Say it slower,” Carrick murmured, clearly enjoying himself. “See if I blush.”

Sully snorted from across the kitchen, where he was elbow-deep in suds and soap. “Jesus. Someone hand me the holy water.”

“You’d just dump it in your blender and call it a detox,” Maddy said sweetly, the edge in her voice just sharp enough to draw blood. Deacon raised one brow and took a slow sip of beer, clearly enjoying the banter.

I watched with a sort of off-kilter awe, eyes darting between the combatants.

These weren’t civilians. These were trained killers, ex-military operatives with files too redacted to read, and they were arguing over cobbler like siblings.

It was absurd. It was strange. It was heartbreakingly human.

They’d built something here that didn’t come from shared blood or even shared trauma, but from the decision to keep living.

To stay. To laugh. To be more than the worst thing that had happened to them.

I laughed along with them, wearing a grin like armor, and did what I always did: deflected.

The performance was second nature now. Maybe that was the part that scared me.

Maddy took my mug without a word, and I handed it to her without thinking. She winked. “You’ll learn. Nothing’s sacred here. Except Sully’s protein powder and Deacon’s guitar.”

“Even I don’t touch the guitar,” Carrick muttered. “And I’ve broken into CIA lockups.”

“Didn’t you try to put stickers on it once?” Sully called over his shoulder.

“One sticker. Tasteful.”

“It said ‘Daddy Dom Energy’ in glitter font,” Maddy said, deadpan.

I choked. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Bellamy said, dealing cards without looking up. “He wore the black eye like a badge of honor.”

Deacon played a slow chord that vibrated like a warning. Sully laughed. “You can call Niko ‘boss,’ you can call Carrick a ‘bastard,’ but don’t touch Deacon’s strings.”

“I’ll write that down,” I murmured, accepting the now-refilled mug from Maddy.

The cider was warm and fragrant, and the unexpected care behind it caught me off guard.

No one here asked for backstory. No one needed me to justify the shadows in my posture.

It was a strange kind of tenderness—dangerous, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.

The only place I’d ever felt safe was behind a welder’s mask, where heat and pressure made sense.

This was different. This was soft. And terrifying.

I didn’t want to leave the table. Didn’t want to return to a room filled with ghosts.

I wanted to stay, to hear the next bad joke, to witness the next mock fight about something or other.

And that meant I was already in trouble.

The moment you start craving comfort, that’s when you burn.

Still, I followed them to the Den, feet quiet on the floor.

No orders. No agenda. Just muscle memory.

Just instinct. Just the kind of domestic, post-battle sprawl only found in homes that had been fought for.

The rhythm of the house shifted like breath.

Plates stacked. Leftovers wrapped. Laughter drifted between rooms, unbroken.

I followed, mug in hand, cinnamon thick on my tongue and something heavier pressing beneath it.

I wasn’t hungry anymore. Just hollow in a way that felt like memory.

The Den shouldn’t have been cozy. Not here. Not in this house. But it was. Every piece of furniture looked stolen from a family sitcom and softened by time. Carrick collapsed onto the couch and dragged Bellamy down with him. She stole the blanket. He let her.

Maddy sprawled across the chaise like it was her throne, one slipper on the floor and a dare in her eyes as she looked at me near the door.

I didn’t move.

Then Sully, gentle giant that he was, murmured, “Sit down, woman. You’re making the furniture nervous.”

So I did. Sank into the far corner of the couch and pulled the mug closer. I wasn’t cold, not exactly, but I held the heat like a defense I didn’t want to need.

Carrick shuffled a deck of cards, flicking them between his fingers effortlessly while Bellamy batted at his hand, trying to steal them.

Maddy hummed under her breath. Sully returned from the kitchen with a new drink and lobbed a peanut at Carrick’s head mid-step.

And Deacon, silent, immovable Deacon, lifted a guitar off the wall with the ease of muscle memory and dropped into the armchair like gravity answered to him.

He rested the body of it across one thigh, fingers falling into place on the frets as if the strings had been waiting for him.

The first note was low and slow, weighty enough to hum against my ribs.

Then came more. Something aching and raw and deliberate.

Not a performance. Just feeling. A sound that settled into corners and stitched them closed.

I didn’t realize I’d turned toward him until I already had.

It shouldn’t have fit. The man moved like a stormfront, all tension and restraint. But here, beneath the music, something in him unraveled. And it did something to the air. Shifted it. The others didn’t speak. They just let the sound carry.

I tucked my legs beneath me, feigning ease while cataloging everything I didn’t know how to be. They made it look effortless, the transition from violence to softness, the way they shared space without negotiation or apology.

It made my skin itch. Not from threat, but from foreignness. From want.

Maddy, reading the moment without commentary, tossed a folded blanket into my lap like she’d planned the gesture ten minutes ago.

“Couch tax,” she said with a smirk. “Payable in warm toes and mutual eye rolls.”

I smiled. Maybe for real. The quiet swelled again.

Softer now, a silence that didn’t press or demand, just settled like breath.

Deacon’s guitar held it, a low, steady pulse beneath the room’s heartbeat.

Sully’s amused snort followed, then Maddy’s mug clicked against wood.

Bellamy murmured something I couldn’t catch.

Carrick answered with a growl that sounded more like a promise than a joke.

The house wasn’t just still. It was humming, vibrating gently with a warmth I didn’t know how to hold.

For one terrifying moment, it felt like home.

Then the door creaked open behind us—slow, casual, almost bored—but whatever stepped through dragged the room’s attention with it like gravity reasserting itself. I didn’t need to turn. The shift in the air said enough.

Jax walked into the room like a storm pulling itself back together.

He’d come through the side door; perhaps he’d been out at his cabin?

I couldn’t be sure. He offered no words.

No fanfare. Just boots on old wood, the shadow of a hoodie, and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

No one blinked. No one looked surprised. Which told me this wasn’t new to them.

Only to me.

He didn’t glance at a single face. Just moved to an open stretch of floor near the couch, lowered the bag without ceremony, and unzipped it in one clean motion.

The rasp of canvas teeth cracked through the warmth like the start of something.

Something sharp. Then he pulled out the rope— coiled, blood-red, lacquer-smooth.

It gleamed, but it looked heavy. Like it remembered things.

For a second, I thought it might be a joke. Some inside joke meant to haze the new girl. But then his fingers moved—slow, precise. Not decorative. Not hesitant. A loop, a column, a clean knot, tied with the ease of breath. Not flashy. Just solid. Like he’d been doing it his whole life.

No one said a word. Not Carrick. Not Maddy. Not even Bellamy, who hadn’t shut up since I met her. They just watched, or didn’t. Like it wasn’t strange at all.

That was what made my skin prickle. Because I’d never seen anything like it.

Deacon kept playing, fingers gliding through slow, brooding chords, like nothing had shifted.

Maddy sipped her tea, calm and deliberate, like Jax hadn’t just dropped a new kind of tension into the air.

Bellamy flicked another card at Carrick, who caught it one-handed without looking. No panic. No surprise.

I blinked. “What, are you into rock climbing or something?” I tried for detached, but it landed closer to breathless. Maddy gave a small chuckle and exchanged a glance with Bellamy.

Deacon didn’t pause. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Rock climbing.”

Jax didn’t look up. “Or something.”

And, holy hell, that voice.

It wasn’t a flirt. It was a warning. Like the flick of a match close enough to sting. Just enough heat to make you wonder how much more you could take before you got burned.