Chapter Fourteen: The Savior

The bottle was low, my glass lower. I could feel the whiskey doing its work, buzzing behind my ribs, loosening the edges of things I'd been holding tight. Jax hadn't pushed. He never does, not in the obvious way. But every now and then he'd throw a question sideways, roundabout, like a man circling a stray dog that might bite if cornered.

"So," he said after a stretch of silence, "was it all bad? With him?"

I let the rim of the glass rest against my bottom lip. The easy answer sat there, the one that would shut him down. But it wasn't true. And if tonight was about anything, it was about not lying anymore.

"No," I said finally. My voice surprised me. "It wasn't all bad. At first... it wasn't bad at all."

His eyes narrowed just enough to say *go on*.

"In fact, I was happy," I admitted, staring into the glass like it held the memory at the bottom. "Happier than I'd been in a long time. Something about him—it reminded me of home. Not this house," I gestured around us, "but Charming. The clubhouse. You. Opie. The noise, the laughter, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than just me."

I glanced at Jax then, and I saw it—the way his jaw twitched, the muscle ticking like he was chewing down his response. He didn't like hearing it, but he didn't cut me off either.

"He made it feel safe," I went on. "The way he'd put a hand on my back when we walked into a room, or step in front of me when some drunk got too close. I thought that meant protection. I thought it meant care."

I laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "And maybe it did, at first. But little by little..."

I trailed off, the words catching like splinters. Jax leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his blue eyes steady on me. He didn't say a word, just waited, the way he always had when I was younger and trying to decide whether to spill a secret.

"Little by little," I repeated, "it shifted. Things that felt small. Things that sounded harmless. Like, he'd tell me what bars weren't safe. Which streets I shouldn't drive down. At first, I thought—okay, he knows more than I do. He's looking out for me."

The porch boards creaked when I shifted, my knee brushing the rail. "Then it was who I talked to. He'd get quiet if I laughed too much with someone else. Or he'd make a comment—*don't smile like that, people get the wrong idea.*"

I swallowed hard, finishing what was left in my glass. "Then it was my clothes. Not all at once. Just—*that skirt's too short for this place,* or *those jeans are too tight, men are lookin' at you.* Always with that same voice, like he was keeping me safe."

The words felt sour in my mouth now, bitter even with whiskey chasing them.

"At first, I told myself it was nothing. That he was right. That he cared enough to notice. But the more it went on, the smaller I started to feel. Like every choice I made was the wrong one unless he approved it first."

The cicadas outside were loud now, filling the silence I couldn't. I pressed the empty glass into my thigh, grounding myself against the burn of the memory.

Jax's voice came low, steady. "Sounds like control."

"Yeah," I whispered. "But back then? It sounded like love. Or what I thought love was supposed to be."

The porch light buzzed overhead, drawing the moths closer. My chest ached, not from the whiskey, but from saying it out loud. Naming it.

"It didn't start with bruises," I said, softer now. "It started with suggestions. With looks. With words that sounded sweet if you didn't listen too close."

For the first time all night, Jax looked away. He stared out at the street, his jaw tight, fingers curling into fists and loosening again. He didn't speak, but I could feel the heat rolling off him. Not at me—never at me—but at the picture I was painting.

I drew in a shaky breath, leaned my head back against the post, and let the night air cool my face. "That's how it went. From sweet to sharp. From easy to edged. And by the time I realized what it was, I was already tangled up in it."

Jax finally turned his eyes back to me. He studied me for a long moment, the weight of his gaze almost too much to sit under. Then he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees again, and asked the question I'd been waiting for all night.

"So what made you run?"

The words cut clean through the air, sharp as the first crack in glass. My chest tightened, my hands curling around the empty glass like it could anchor me. I didn't answer. Not yet. The porch went quiet except for the moths, the night holding its breath right along with me.