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J ax walks in an hour later, but I’m too immersed in what I’m painting, too focused on the parts of my soul I’m trying to let bleed onto the canvas, that I don’t look up from what I’m doing. I need a moment, several moments, to work through everything that has happened this week. I’m still reeling from seeing Bryce and Sam, and I am more than uneasy about the idea of that video, the video of me, being leaked to the world. And as I keep painting, as I keep dipping my brush into the dark colors, I feel an anger I’m not used to feeling start to bubble deep within me.

I paint for the better part of an hour, despite Jax moving around the room, clearly giving me the time and space I need without interrupting me. It’s not until I hear a loud clicking sound that I look up from my work, only to find Jax studying the gun in his hand, before tucking into the back of his pants.

I raise an eyebrow at him, completely lost for words.

“Work,” is all he says, as if that’s enough of an explanation. When I don’t say anything else he sits on the bed, motioning for me to come join him. I wander over to him, until I’m standing between his legs, and his hands are resting on my waist.

“When I said I needed a couple hours to kill them, I wasn’t bluffing, love,” he says, looking at me. His tone is serious, but his eyes are alight with something I haven’t seen before: bloodlust.

“You’re actually going to seek them out like this?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you weren’t in the business of hurting people?”

“When it comes to you, love, my business—my rules—change.”

I nod as I shift my weight to my other foot. I’m not sure how to explain what I’m feeling, what has been bubbling under the surface, and I’m scared. Scared to admit what I’m thinking, what I want, and what that says about me, and who I am as a person.

“I can see you thinking,” Jax says quietly.

“I want them dead,” I say quietly, my own confession causing an uneasiness to settle deep within me.

“Considering what they did to you, I’d say that’s a normal reaction.”

“Considering your track record for always being so level-headed,” I start, the sarcasm light in my tone, “excuse me if I don’t feel reassured by your acceptance of what I’ve just said.”

Jax smiles at me, his lips kissing my chest, and I lean into him, wishing my shirt wasn’t between us.

“I think,” he starts slowly, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully, “you’re conflicted by how you actually feel and what you actually want, and what you think you should feel and want.”

My eyes start to sting as he so accurately assesses me, and not for the first time I’m thankful for his ability to read me so well.

“I’m angry,” I whisper as my lip starts to tremble, worried that my words will push him away, but he doesn’t do anything except continue to hold me. “I am so fucking angry, and so exhausted of my life always being in a state of constant turmoil, and I’m so angry at myself for all the stupid choices I’ve made. But, most of all, I’m so fucking angry at all the men who think they can control me—who have tried to control me—and have left me to clean up the mess afterwards. I’m angry at my dad, I’m angry at Garrett, and I’m angry at Rhett and Tanner, and all their friends who did this to me.” I pause, realizing how loud my voice has become, and how the tears have started to fall freely down my face. Jax wipes them away with a gentle brush of his thumbs, his eyes showing nothing but love.

I lean into his touch until the anger turns to something else.

“I’m sad, Jax,” I say quietly. “I’m really fucking sad, and scared.”

I take a shaky breath. “What does it say about me if I want someone dead? If I wish for harm to come to someone just because they did something bad to me? It makes me a hypocrite.”

“I think it makes you human to have these thoughts.” He takes a breath, his eyes searching mine.

“I don’t think anyone could go through what you did and feel content afterward. I think anger is probably a very rational and normal response.”

“What if it’s… more than anger?” I ask quietly. “What if every part of me not only wants them dead, but wants to be the one to kill them myself?”

He pauses for a moment, contemplating what I’ve said. “You’re not a killer. You are not bloodthirsty. And I love that about you. I love your softness. I love your joy. I admire your bravery. I am jealous of your compassion and willingness to forgive. I would hate to see your anger lead you down a path that you can’t come back from, a path that many people would never be able to forgive you for. However”—he looks at me, his eyes bright—“while I love all of that about you, the same can’t be said for myself. Because I am angry. I am beyond angry at what was done to you, what you have gone through. How you have known the touch of strange men and the sting of angry words, and while I can’t undo the past for you, I can make sure no one else suffers at their hands in the future. So today, I’m leading with anger, and I’m following a path I’ve already been on for a very long time.”

“I don’t want you to do this for me.” I sigh quietly. “I don’t want to add this to your plate, you’ve got enough to deal with, and you’ve already done enough for me.”

“There is nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.” He presses his lips against my skin as he pulls me in closer. “And trust me when I say I really, really want to do this,” he growls, and I see a glimpse into the darker parts of him, a place where no humanity lives, a place of pure darkness.

I place my hand on his cheek, leaning into him and pressing my lips against his. “I’m so thankful for everything you’ve done for me… for everything you’re willing to do for me,” I murmur as our lips brush.

“You deserve more than I could ever give you,” he whispers back.