Page 29 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

Stella

The next couple of days passed by in a blur of routine, punctuated by little spikes of adrenaline every time Jax found his way close to me.

He was busy, as were the rest of the men in the house, but he found opportunities to be near me when he could.

And if I was being honest, I looked for those opportunities as well.

I wasn’t sure exactly what had passed between us that afternoon in his cabin, but it was something.

The moment I got bored, I knew I was in trouble.

Not the kind of trouble that kicks in doors or rattles chains, but the quieter kind, subtle and slow, like your nervous system easing off the gas without telling you why.

I wasn’t safe, not really, but my body had started pretending otherwise, and that was almost worse.

That’s when the couch stopped feeling like a war zone and started just feeling like a couch.

That’s when my shoulders stopped trying to fuse with my ears.

That’s when she appeared.

“You like fantasy?” Maddy asked, throwing herself onto the far end of the sectional like the furniture owed her rent. “I’ve got one with a demon prince who keeps getting tied up. Emotionally and physically. Very relatable.”

I glanced up from the book I hadn’t read in fifteen minutes and studied her, barefoot, braid slipping over one shoulder, wearing a cracked glitter T-shirt that said GET OFF MY DICK, and pastel sleep shorts that looked like they belonged in a candy store.

She was part Lisa Frank, part serotonin gremlin, and all chaos.

“No, thanks,” I said, clipped but polite. “I’m good.”

She didn’t flinch. “Your loss. The demon’s got brat energy for days. Big ‘tie me up and make me behave’ vibes. Honestly, I think he’d get along great with your vibe.”

I raised an eyebrow, letting the deadpan settle between us. “My vibe?”

“You know,” she said, waving a hand at me like she was tracing the outline of my aura, “sharp cheekbones, artistic but in a super badass way, probably knows exactly how much electricity it takes to kill someone without leaving a mark. Very hot.”

My lips twitched, though I fought it. “Glad I meet your literary criteria.”

“You exceed them,” she said, grinning like she’d just discovered her favorite plot twist. She looked at me the way writers look at an unsolvable character, fascinated and entirely too determined.

Then, with zero warning, she threw herself backward onto the couch in the most dramatic collapse I’d ever seen, legs flung over one armrest, braid sliding across the cushion like she was starring in her own coming-of-age movie.

“But seriously,” she said to the ceiling, her voice dipping just slightly into something softer, “if you ever want to talk…or spiral, or drink wine while watching reruns of Buffy, or scream into a pillow about men who say things like ‘I own you’ and somehow make it hot? I’m here. ”

The offer hit harder than I expected. It didn’t feel performative. It didn’t feel fake. Just there. Open. Waiting. I blinked, unsure what to do with it. “You always like this?”

She rolled her head sideways, still upside down, and gave me a grin that somehow managed to be both ridiculous and sincere. “Define this .”

“This,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the mess of limbs and charm sprawled across my couch. “The human equivalent of a motivational sticker with boobs.”

She gasped, an actual hand-to-heart gasp, like I’d wounded her and made her proud in the same breath. “I’m writing that down. That’s going on my gravestone.”

“Only if you die from glitter inhalation.”

She shot upright with alarming speed, eyes gleaming as she leaned forward until we were nearly knee to knee. “Spoiler alert - That’s the dream!”

A sound slipped out of me. Not quite a laugh, but close enough to count. Sharp, involuntary, more breath than voice. But it was something. The first in days.

Her face lit up like I’d handed her a gold medal. “There it is,” she said, triumph blooming in her voice. “A crack in the armor. One laugh away from hair-braiding and cookie-fueled trauma bonding.”

“I don’t braid,” I muttered, but the edge in my voice was already gone.

“I do,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll bring snacks.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m delightful.”

“Debatable.”

She winked, all glitter and confidence, like she already knew she’d won.

“Offer stands.” I opened my mouth to shut it all down before the moment stretched too far, but nothing came.

Instead, I watched her, perched on the armrest like it was hers by right, braid slipping over her shoulder, eyes clear, kind, and unbothered.

She wasn’t pressing. Just offering something I hadn’t realized I missed.

A lump caught in my throat, and I swallowed hard before it could reach my voice.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, quieter than intended. Her grin softened, but didn’t diminish.

“I know.”

I looked down at my book, though the words didn’t stick. Her presence filled the room like it was stitched into the furniture. She didn’t need volume. Just existed like joy was a natural state—bright, teasing, completely disarming. I didn’t understand her. Maybe that’s why I trusted her.

Sunlight stretched across the floor, warming a pile of pillows and an abandoned mug. The air held cinnamon and leftover coffee, smelling sweet, spiced, and almost painfully normal. Then came a clang—metal, concrete. Voices followed, low, focused. And then: boots. Steady. Heavy. Measured.

Maddy snapped upright like someone had pulled a string, grin sharpening with a wicked edge. “Ohhh,” she whispered, practically vibrating. “Here we go.”

I blinked. “What…?”

“You’ll see.”

He walked in.

Nikolai Sokolov didn’t just enter a room.

He arrived . A shift in pressure. A weight.

He came from the hall like a shadow given form—black boots, dark shirt molded to muscle, each movement quiet and precise.

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t register the twitch in my fingers or the silence I couldn’t break.

His eyes found Maddy, who hadn’t moved but had changed completely, still and charged like a wire.

He raised a hand. Snapped once. Sharp. Final. Then pointed.Two fingers to the floor. No cruelty. No explanation. Just absolute clarity.

Maddy gasped, one hand to her chest in mock offense.

“So bossy today,” she said, turning toward me with a pout.

“Do you see this? The tyranny I endure?” I blinked, still mentally catching up as she batted her lashes and flicked her fingers like she was testing gravity.

“Hmm. What if I don’t?” she teased. “What then?”

Nikolai didn’t respond. He just lifted a brow barely, then let out a sound. Low. Contained. A growl that coiled up from his chest and rippled through the air. Not loud enough to startle. Just quiet enough to mean it. The back of my neck tingled.

Maddy shivered, like the sound had seeped under her skin.

Her breath hitched. Her pupils darkened.

A slow, radiant smile followed, one that looked far too pleased for someone on the receiving end of a command.

“Gotta gooo,” she sang, already rising, barefoot and practically glowing as she crossed the room with a grace that looked effortless.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t even glance back.

Her body already knew where it belonged.

I couldn’t look away. She reached him and stopped exactly where he’d indicated, lifting her face to his without instruction, offering a kiss to his jaw that was quiet and full of reverence.

Not performance. Not plea. Just reverence.

Her version of thank you. He didn’t move.

Didn’t acknowledge it. But something shifted; the space between them tightened with meaning.

Then they were gone—no words, no lingering.

Just the door closing behind them, leaving taut silence in their wake.

I exhaled, realizing how long I’d been holding my breath. My body remained still, fingers clenched around the forgotten book, pulse too loud in my ears.

What had I just witnessed?

My brain scrambled for context. Command, response, tone.

That growl. The snap earlier. The grace with which she obeyed.

It should’ve felt off. Controlling. Dangerous.

But that wasn’t what stayed with me. Maddy didn’t look afraid.

She hadn’t seemed diminished. She looked.

.. aligned. Like something inside her had clicked back into place.

As if she’d been tuned, and he was the one who struck the chord.

And the wildest part was, he hadn’t even touched her.

That wasn’t control I recognized. It felt like something older. A ritual. Wordless and weighty. And somehow sacred. I didn’t understand it. But God, I wanted to.

I rubbed my thumb against my knuckle, unsettled by the heat still blooming low in my stomach, and the fact that I didn’t feel ashamed of it.

I’d spent every day since being kidnapped jumping at noises and watching for hidden threats.

But this didn’t feel like a threat. It felt deliberate.

Intentional. Safe, even in its strangeness.

And it wasn’t really about Nikolai. It was about what she’d given him. That wasn’t power taken. It was power offered. Trusted. Whatever happened behind that door, I didn’t believe it was violence. I believed it was a choice. Controlled. Consensual. Maybe even beautiful.

My jaw tightened. Because if that was true, if control could mean safety, if surrender could be strength, then maybe I could re-learn how not to be afraid all the time. I wasn’t ready to believe it. But the thread had already been pulled.

The silence after they left pressed against my skin and settled deep in my ribs, heavy and intrusive. I stared at the closed door, half-expecting Maddy to burst back in—bright, loud, absurd. But she didn’t. And he wouldn’t.