Page 9 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

The tension cracked as he introduced each of the men standing on the porch. Shoulders loosened, and the air eased. The man stepped aside, gesturing toward the door invitingly. The others shifted with him, their edges softening into something more human.

The one he called Carrick leaned on the porch beam, arms inked in dark sleeves of tattoos, his stance loose but edged in danger.

He looked like the kind of man who had learned to wear trouble as casually as a shirt.

A bad-boy vibe that didn’t need to be announced.

It lived in the curl of his mouth, in the way his eyes tracked movement without apology.

Near him, the bald one, Sully grinned, wide and shameless, the kind of shit-eating smile that would’ve earned him detention in high school.

It didn’t fade as I got closer. If anything, it grew, bright with childlike wonder, wrapped in a frame too big and too solid to be harmless.

A jolly not-so-green giant, with mischief humming beneath the charm.

“Welcome to Camp Oh-Shit,” he said, grin stretching like it was a gift he couldn’t help but hand over.

It didn’t land the way he meant it to, but it wasn’t cruel. Just an attempt to cut through the weight. I gave him a smirk—tight, dry, but enough to pass.

“Charming.”

“Always,” he shot back with a shrug that somehow managed to be both smug and sincere.

Behind them stood the quietest of the group, the one he’d called Deacon.

Broader through the chest, rooted like a wall you could lean against or break yourself against if you tried.

His arms were crossed, but it wasn’t dismissal.

His silence wasn’t rude. Just… contained.

Like he lived best in the spaces between words, and stepping out of them was a choice he didn’t make often.

And then there was the last one. Jax. Off to the side, with hands folded, head tipped just enough to watch without intruding.

He hadn’t spoken, but he didn’t need to.

His stillness wasn’t distance; it was calculation.

The kind of presence you didn’t register at first, but once you did, you couldn’t un-feel it.

The door opened wider. The path cleared. Serious, yes. Professional. But not hostile. With that welcome still echoing in my chest, I understood: whatever this place was, I wasn’t being left outside of it.

Nikolai turned back to me, his voice steady but not unkind. “Your bedroom is upstairs. The room’s all ready for you.” He tipped his chin toward the broad, bald-headed one. “If you’re hungry, Sully’s the man to talk to.”

Sully’s grin spread wide, shameless and cheesy, more suited to a kid caught red-handed in the cookie jar than a man built like Popeye on a permanent spinach bender. “Always,” he said, his tone bright enough to crack the edge of tension.

I nodded once, measured and intentional. Agreement without surrender.

Across the room, the one called Jax remained still.

He didn’t shift or adjust. He simply occupied the space with a quiet gravity that bent the air toward him.

His gaze found mine and held, level and unblinking.

There was no welcome in it, and no hostility either, only a steadiness that gave nothing away.

The look made me wonder if he was waiting for me to speak first, or if he had already decided everything he needed to know.

Certainty radiated from him, a weight without force, and the absence of edges made it harder to brace against.

Quinn’s fingers brushed my shoulder, light and automatic, a gesture that was meant to be reassuring.

“I’ll check in tomorrow. Thanks again for this, Niko.

I’ve lost count of how many times I owe you one,” he said, already stepping back.

That was it. No reassurance, no plan, just his retreating figure and the crunch of gravel fading behind me as the SUV reversed down the same path that had swallowed us whole only minutes before.

I was in. Inside the gate, inside the house, inside whatever system these men had built for themselves behind barbed fences and secrecy thick enough to choke on.

And Jax still hadn’t looked away.

The door opened with a smooth, weighted shift, as if the hinges had been trained to behave. Even the sound was controlled—no creak, no wasted noise.

Inside, the air carried a different kind of order. Not sterile, not staged, but deliberate. Every piece of furniture had a place, every surface cleared with intent. No clutter, no distractions. The wood floors were polished, the light recessed, the choices practical.

It could have felt cold. It didn’t.

Stairs rose directly ahead, wide and solid.

To the left, the living room opened up around a leather couch facing a fireplace and the TV mounted above it.

A chessboard sat mid-game on the coffee table, flanked by a stack of magazines.

A folded blanket draped over the back of the couch added a softness that couldn’t be faked.

Farther back, stainless steel caught the light in the kitchen. The counters were mostly clear, save for a half-empty mug that made the space feel lived in. That was the balance here: disciplined, orderly, but carrying the quiet weight of people who actually called it home.

It hit me all at once how isolated I really was.

They didn’t just prepare for intruders here. They prepared for lockdown.

Nikolai moved with quiet certainty toward the dining table, which was made of the kind of solid wood that looked like it had carried a thousand late-night debates and strategy sessions.

He pulled out a chair and waited, a simple gesture, polite but purposeful.

I understood it for what it was. Not a command.

An invitation. A way of telling me I had a place here, at least for now.

I sat carefully, keeping my posture steady, hands folded to contain the nerves I didn’t want to give away. The chair was solid beneath me, grounding in a way I hadn’t expected.

Jax lingered near the doorway, once again holding back the way he had outside. Not looming, not intruding, just steady. It was becoming clear this was his pattern—present, observant, but never pushing to the center. A quiet kind of consistency that didn’t demand attention, but carried it anyway.

It was immediately obvious to me that Nikolai didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.

He carried leadership the way some men carried knives—always visible, always sharp.

Confidence without arrogance. Control without ego.

The steadiness in his frame, the weight of his gaze; it wasn’t dominance that demanded.

It was dominance that didn’t have to demand to be obeyed.

“You’ve been through enough, I’m sure,” he said, voice even and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

“We’re not here to interrogate you. Not tonight.

What matters is that you’re safe. This house runs on rules that keep everyone breathing, but you’ll have time to learn them. To breathe. To settle.”

The words slid under my skin in a way that felt dangerous. Kindness from men like this could be a blade in disguise. Still, I couldn’t deny the pressure in my chest eased a fraction. “Thank you, N-Nikolai. It has been a rather long few days. A breath is exactly what I need, I think.”

To my left, Sully leaned against the wall, forearms crossed over a chest built like a tank.

The man looked like he’d been chiseled out of granite and then fed spinach for good measure.

Popeye in the flesh. But there was mischief glinting in his eyes, softening the bulk of him. Not a threat, unless he wanted to be.

Deacon was all silence in the far corner, immovable, watchful. Carrick was nowhere in sight, which somehow made me feel him more. His absence pressed in like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

And Jax, calm and unreadable, stayed locked on me. His stillness was its own kind of intensity, a weight pressing on my skin. Not judgment. Something sharper.

Nikolai’s voice pulled me back. “Now, there are two other people here who would very much like to meet you. They’ve been waiting upstairs. We didn’t want to crowd you.”

As if on cue, a feminine voice rang from the landing above—bright, impatient, and impossible to ignore. “Can we come down now? Pleeease?”

Carrick’s groan carried from the shadows. “Here we go.” But his smirk gave him away, his eyes already lifting toward the doorway.

Nikolai sighed and tipped his head back. “Yes.” He called back to the unseen voice. “But be nice.”

Two sets of footsteps pattered down the stairs, lighter and quicker than the men’s.

A younger woman arrived first—bubbly, high energy, like the room tilted to fit her.

“Hi! I’m Maddie.” Her grin was infectious, her voice a rush of warmth.

“Listen, we’ve been exactly where you are.

Recently. And I mean exactly where you are .

It’s terrifying, it’s confusing, and it makes you feel like you’re drowning.

But you’re not alone. We’re upstairs if you need us. Anytime. No judgment.”

A second woman came after, a quiet counterweight.

Where Maddie flared, this girl steadied.

Her tone was low, calm, carrying a quiet authority that slipped under the noise.

“Good to meet you. I’m Bellamy. She’s right.

We know what it’s like to be dropped into this.

To not know who to trust. If you need someone to talk to, or just someone to sit with, we’re here. On your time. On your terms.”

Then both of them turned on the men.

Maddie’s brow arched. “You’re being nice, right?”

Bellamy’s voice followed, softer but no less cutting. “Don’t push her.”

The atmosphere shifted; not resistance, not irritation, but a subtle yielding. Even these hard-edged men knew when to stand down, apparently.