Page 32 of Shadows of Obsession

Jaxon's jaw tightened, a flicker of something dark flashing through his eyes. A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Everything's fine," he said, clipped and dismissive. "You didn't need to come all the way out here."

The way he gripped the doorframe told a different story. His knuckles were pale from the pressure, his body a coil of tension. The air between us felt charged, like the stillness before a storm.

"I also wanted to see how you were after the other day," I said gently. "You seemed… on edge."

His expression darkened, eyes narrowing further. "I wasn't being paranoid," he said, his voice suddenly hard, each word hitting like astone. "I know what I felt. I know when something's not right. Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean it wasn't there."

I lifted my hands in a quiet, placating gesture, my heart racing. "I didn't mean to imply you were imagining things," I said quickly, my tone soft. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That's all."

He stared at me, unblinking. The silence between us thickened, heavy with everything unsaid.

Then, with a slow exhale, he stepped back from the door, his shoulders sagging like he'd just lost a battle with himself.

"You might as well come in," he muttered. His voice was gruff, but not unkind. There was a tiredness in it. "I'll put on some coffee."

I hesitated only a moment before stepping inside.

My eyes widened as they adjusted to the interior. The cabin's rustic exterior had given me expectations, but none of them prepared me for what I found.

Inside was a spacious, open-concept living area, the walls painted a soothing shade of gray. The furnishings were a blend of modern and industrial—sleek lines, masculine details, and subtle elegance. It was unexpected. It was… beautiful.

A plush charcoal sofa anchored the living room, its clean design contrasting with the rough-hewn beams that crisscrossed the ceiling above. On the wall hung a large abstract painting. Swirls of black, gray, and white that added a sophisticated edge. A dark wood coffee table with metal legs sat in front of the sofa, topped with a leather-bound book, a small succulent in a concrete planter, and a vintage compass.

To the left, a gleaming stainless-steel kitchen stretched out, its countertops a pristine white quartz. The appliances were clearly top-of-the-line. A large island with modern barstools made the space feel both refined and comfortable.

It was open, masculine, carefully curated, and yet it felt lived in. Welcoming. Warm.

My gaze drifted toward the staircase leading to the second floor. The railing was a sleek black metal that caught the soft light streaming in through the windows. Despite the modern finishes and precision in every detail, the space had soul.

Jaxon moved through the kitchen with quiet efficiency, the rich scent of brewing coffee beginning to fill the air. His movements were practiced, deliberate. There was something intimate about watching him in this setting, something revealing. This was a different side of him. A glimpse beneath the armor.

I was suddenly very, very curious. Andthatwas very concerning.

As I wandered deeper into the space, I couldn't help but admire the care in every corner. The soft texture of an area rug beneath my boots. The way the furniture invited conversation. The greenery placed just so—subtle, but intentional.

Jaxon had poured his heart into this place. And I was starting to wonder what it had cost him.

I made my way to the kitchen island, sliding onto one of the sleek barstools with gray upholstered seats. I watched as Jaxon moved with fluid grace, his hands steady as he poured the steaming liquid into two simple black matte ceramic mugs. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air between us.

He placed one of the mugs in front of me before taking a seat on the stool beside me, his own mug cradled between his palms. For a long moment, we sat in silence, the only sound the gentle clink of ceramic against the countertop as we sipped our coffee. I couldn't help but notice the way Jaxon's fingers curled around the mug, strong and capable, yet holding it with surprising gentleness. His hands were marked with small scars I felt an irrational urge to trace.

Tension crackled between us, a palpable force that seemed to fill the space. I glanced at Jaxon out of the corner of my eye, taking in the hard line of his jaw. His stubble was back, darker today, and his shoulders seemed to hunch forward, as if bracing for some invisible blow.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, I set my mug down and turned to face him fully. My heart raced in my chest.

"Can I ask you something?" I said, my voice soft but steady.

Jaxon's gaze flicked to mine, his blue eyes guarded and wary. There was a flicker of turmoil in their depths beneath the surface.

"What is it?" His voice was low, a rumble that seemed to vibrate through me.

I took a deep breath, my resolve firm as I broached the sensitive topic.

"The other day, in town," I began, my words measured and careful, "you said you felt like something was wrong. Can you tell me why?"

Jaxon's grip tightened on his mug, the muscles in his jaw working. For a moment, I feared he might retreat into his usual silence. But then, with a heavy sigh, he seemed to relent.

"I've learned to trust my instincts," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "When something feels off, it usually is. And that day in town everything felt wrong. Like we were being watched. Like someone was following us." His eyes took on a distant look, as if reliving the moment.