The walk down the second-floor hallway of the Irwin manor felt like a journey across a continent. Chloe's bare feet sank into the thick wool carpet, silencing her steps. The antique sconces on the wall cast long, dancing shadows, making the opulent corridor feel like a haunted passage.
Her mind was a whirlwind of Iesha's poisonous words from her past life. He's a monster, Chloe. He doesn't love you, he owns you. He'll break you.
She had believed it all. She had been a fool.
But that was another lifetime. Tonight, she had watched Jax tear a door off its hinges to get to her. She had watched him offer to break a man's legs for laying a hand on her. She had felt his thumb on her cheek, feather-light, wiping away blood that wasn't hers. A monster didn't touch his wife like she was made of glass. A monster didn't look at her the way Jax had looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth saving.
She stopped in front of the heavy oak door to Jax's master suite. It was a door she had never willingly approached before. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she tried to calm the frantic hammering of her heart against her ribs.
She raised her hand and knocked, the sound muffled by the solid wood.
A few seconds of silence stretched into an eternity.
"Enter," a deep voice rumbled from within, laced with weariness.
Chloe turned the cool brass handle and pushed the door open, stepping into the room she had always avoided. It was his sanctuary, his fortress, and she was invading it.
The room was vast and dark, lit only by a single floor lamp in the corner. It cast a golden glow on Jax, who was slumped in a leather armchair, a glass of amber liquid—whiskey, she guessed—in his hand.
He looked up as she entered, and his brow furrowed. The hand holding the glass tightened, his knuckles turning white.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice cold and clipped. "Your room is at the other end of the hall."
Chloe didn't answer. Instead, she reached back, closed the heavy door, and twisted the lock.
The sharp click echoed in the silent room.
That sound made Jax's eyes darken with a dangerous light. He set his glass down on the small table beside him, his body tensing, shifting forward in his seat like a predator about to spring.
She walked toward him until she was standing directly in front of his chair. She looked down at him, her gaze clear and unwavering.
"I've been a fool, Jax," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "I listened to the wrong people. I let them poison my mind against you. I believed every lie they told me, and I treated you like an enemy when all you ever did was try to protect me."
A bitter, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. "Is this a new game, Chloe? A new strategy? What do you want this time? More freedom? A bigger allowance?"
She shook her head slowly.
Then, before he could react, she moved. She hitched up her silk nightgown and settled herself onto his lap, straddling him. Her arms wrapped around his neck.
Every muscle in his body went rigid. A tremor ran through him, a battle between instinct and restraint. He started to raise his hands, to push her away, but they froze in mid-air, hovering near her waist.
"I don't want freedom," she whispered, her lips a breath away from his. "I don't want an allowance. I want this marriage to be real. I want you."
She didn't give him time to process, to think, to erect his walls again. She closed the small distance and pressed her mouth to his.
For a moment, he was completely still, a statue of shocked resistance. Then, a low groan rumbled in his chest, and his control shattered into a million pieces.
His hands clamped onto her, one tangling in her hair, the other pressing into the small of her back, pulling her closer—but not roughly. There was a carefulness to his grip, a restraint that spoke of years of wanting and never being allowed to touch. He kissed her like a man who had been dying of thirst and had finally found water, but was terrified the well would run dry.
A soft gasp escaped her lips, and her body trembled under his onslaught.
He felt the tremor. It seemed to jolt him back from the edge. He broke the kiss abruptly, his chest heaving. His eyes, now blazing with a mixture of raw desire and agonizing restraint, bored into hers.
"Chloe." Her name was a ragged prayer on his lips. "If you don't leave right now, I won't be able to let you go. There will be no turning back. So please—" his voice cracked "—if this is a game, if you're going to hate me in the morning, walk out that door now. I'll survive it. I've survived it before."
The vulnerability in his words—this powerful, terrifying man, reduced to begging her not to break his heart again—undid something inside her. She looked into his tormented eyes, seeing the war he was fighting with himself, and made her choice.
Without breaking his gaze, she reached for the silk tie of her robe. She pulled it.
The robe fell open, sliding from her shoulders to pool around her waist, exposing the pale, smooth skin of her collarbones and the swell of her breasts in the dim golden light.
Her answer was clear.
A guttural sound was torn from his throat. He surged up from the chair, lifting her with him as if she were a doll, and carried her across the room. He laid her down on the vast, soft expanse of his bed with a gentleness that made her eyes sting. His body covered hers, a heavy, warm blanket of muscle and heat, but he held himself above her, giving her one last chance to change her mind.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice hoarse. "Tell me now, and I will."
She reached up and cupped his face in her hands. "I don't want you to stop."
Something broke in him then—not his control, but the walls he had spent years building. He lowered himself to her, his lips finding hers again, and this time the kiss was slower, deeper, a promise rather than a plea.
As he claimed her, finally, irrevocably, Chloe clung to his back, her fingers digging into his skin. In the silent chamber of her heart, she made a vow.
This time, I will not fail you.
