Is the Deepest
Jaxon doesn’t say a word as he escorts me down the hall— and neither do I. After what I just saw, I’m too… I don’t know what. I want to say “shocked,” but that’s not the right word. Neither is “disgusted” or “horrified” or any of the other descriptions—any of the other emotions—that someone who’s an outsider might expect to feel.
I mean, watching Jaxon nearly drain that guy wasn’t what I would call pleasant, but he is a vampire. Biting people’s necks and drinking their blood is pretty much par for the course, isn’t it? It feels hypocritical to freak out now just because I got to see it up close and personal—especially when Jaxon obviously had a reason for what he did. Otherwise, why go on a rampage like that? And why announce to the whole school that this is the only warning they’re going to get?
I’m more concerned about finding out why he felt the need to issue the warning than I am about what he did. Especially since I’m terrified that it has something to do with me and his fear that someone is trying to hurt me.
I don’t want to be responsible for Jaxon getting into trouble—and I definitely don’t want to be responsible for Jaxon hurting someone…or worse.
Not for the first time, my hand goes to the marks at my throat as I wonder what would have happened if Marise hadn’t stopped. If she had bitten me for a purpose other than to help heal me. Would I be as laissez-faire about Jaxon’s treatment of that shifter if I had nearly died the same way?
I don’t know. I just know that right now, I care more about Jaxon’s state of mind than I do some boy I don’t know. Some boy who, if Jaxon is right, wants me dead.
As for the rest? The telekinesis, the absolute control Jaxon exerted over everyone in that lounge, including me? The obscene amount of power he wielded with just a wave of his hand? I don’t know how I feel about all that, either. Except, like the violence, it doesn’t scare me the way it probably should.
He doesn’t scare me the way he probably should.
My injured ankle twinges a little as we round a corner— more than likely all the running I did on it earlier—but I bite down the cry of pain that wells in my throat. Jaxon’s moving fast, I assume because he’s trying to get us somewhere we can talk before the consequences of what just happened catch up to him.
I mean, yeah, this is a supernatural school and the rules are probably different than what I’m used to, but I have a hard time believing it’s okay for one of the paranormal species to start chowing down on another one in the middle of the student lounge.
No matter how much he might deserve it.
Which is why I don’t complain about the pace Jaxon sets as we quickly make our way down several hallways to the
back stairs. It’s as we start climbing that I realize where he’s taking me. Not to my room, as I half expected, but to his. And judging from the look on his face—the blank eyes, the tight jaw, the lips pressed into a firm, straight line—he expects me to object.
I have no intention of arguing with him, though. Not until I know what we’re supposed to be arguing about. And on the plus side, I’m pretty sure no one will be crossing Jaxon again any time soon, which means maybe I can make it through a whole forty-eight hours without any near-death experiences. Not going to lie, that counts for something, too, even though I feel a little Machiavellian just thinking it.
The second we make it to the top of the tower steps, Jaxon lets go of my elbow and puts as much distance between the two of us as can be had in his little reading alcove. Which leaves me…adrift.
Nothing has changed since I was here a few hours ago. The window is still boarded up, the rug still missing, the book I tried to read while I was waiting for him still sitting in the exact same spot.
And yet it feels like everything has changed.
Maybe because it has. I don’t know, and I won’t know until Jaxon opens his mouth and actually talks to me instead of standing there next to the fireplace, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes everywhere but on mine.
I want to start the conversation, want to tell him…I don’t know what. But everything inside me warns that that’s the wrong approach to take. That if I have any hope of navigating what’s going on here, I need to know what Jaxon is thinking before I open my mouth and say something that
ruins everything.
And so I wait, hands in the pockets of my hoodie and eyes nowhere but on him, until he finally, finally turns to look at me.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice low and rusty and so empty that it hurts to listen to it.
“I know.”
“You know?” He looks at me like I’ve grown another head…or three.
“I’ve never thought you were going to hurt me, Jaxon. I wouldn’t be here if I did.”
He looks shocked at my words. No, not shocked. Stunned, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he struggles for a decent response. When it eventually comes, it’s distinctly underwhelming.
“Is there something wrong with you?” he demands. “Or is it just that you have a death wish?”
It’s my turn to pull his favorite trick and lift a brow. “Dramatic much?”
“You’re impossible.” He nearly strangles on the words. “Pretty sure I’m not the impossible one in this…” I break
off because I have no idea what to call this thing between Jaxon and me. Relationship? Friendship? Disaster? I finally settle on “thing,” which is probably the worst description possible of whatever it is we have. “After all, you’re the one who keeps running away.” I’m trying to lighten up the funereal atmosphere, trying to make him smile a little. Or if not actually smile, then at least not frown so hard.
It isn’t working. In fact, I think he’s looking even grimmer than he was a couple of minutes ago.
“You saw what I did, right?” I nod. “I did.”
“And you’re telling me that it doesn’t scare you?” He looks incredulous. Suspicious. And, in a bizarre turn of the tables, maybe even a little disgusted. “That it doesn’t horrify you?”
“Which part?” I want to reach out, want to touch him so badly, but it’s fairly obvious now isn’t the time. Not when everything about him screams boundaries. Or, more accurately, armed battlements.
“Which…part? What does that even mean?”
“It means, which part of what I just saw should I be afraid of? The part where you threw everyone across the room? Or the part where you hung someone in the air and choked him with your mind?” I ignore the frisson of discomfort that works its way down my spine at the memory. “Or am I just supposed to be hung up on the biting part?”
“I didn’t realize this was an either-or situation,” he growls at me as he paces back and forth in front of the fireplace. “You saw what I did to Cole. I thought you’d be appalled.”
Watching him, I don’t think I’m the one who’s appalled here. I think Jaxon is—by what he’s capable of and by what he’s just done. Which makes my job of convincing him I’m not disgusted by him harder than I ever imagined it would be.
It also means I need to tread lightly.
“Is that the guy’s name? Cole?” I finally settle on asking.
I want to get closer to him, want to shrink the gap he’s put between us, but badass, take-no-prisoners Jaxon currently looks like he’ll bolt at the first wrong move I make.
“Yes.” He’s back to not looking at me, so I wait him out,
refusing to speak until he finally, reluctantly turns his gaze back to mine.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he whispers. “Like what?”
“Like you understand. You can’t possibly—”
“Did he deserve what you did to him?” I interrupt. His whole body goes rigid. “That’s not the point.”
“Actually, I think it’s the most important point.” I’m not going to stand here and beat him up emotionally when he’s already doing a ridiculously good job of it himself. “Did he deserve it?” I ask again.
“He deserves worse than what he got,” Jaxon finally spits out. “He deserves to be dead.”
“But you didn’t kill him.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “But I wanted to.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wanted to do,” I admonish him. “It only matters what you did. You never once lost control when you were going after Cole—in fact, I’ve never seen anyone more in control than you were in that lounge. The power you wield…it’s unfathomable.”
He quirks a brow at me even as his shoulders tense, as if preparing for the next body blow. “And terrifying?”
“I’m pretty sure Cole was terrified.”
“I don’t give a shit about Cole. I’m talking about you.” He shoves a frustrated hand through his hair, but this time his gaze never leaves mine.
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then tell him the truth he so desperately needs to hear. “You don’t scare me, Jaxon.”
“I don’t scare you.” His tone is half sardonic, half
disbelieving.
I shake my head. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” I repeat. “And I’ve got to say, you’re beginning to sound an awful lot like a parrot.” I make a face at him. “You might try being careful of that if you want to keep your badass reputation intact.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “My badass reputation is pretty solid right now, thank you very much. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me? Why are you worried about me?” I’m sick of waiting on the other side of the room for him to calm down. Not when it’s not getting us anywhere, and not when the need to touch him, to hold him, is a physical ache inside me.
With that in mind, I finally take my hands out of my pockets and walk toward him, slowly, carefully, deliberately. His eyes get wider with every step I take, and for a second, I really do think he’s contemplating fleeing.
Not going to lie, the idea that I scare Jaxon Vega fascinates me on all kinds of different levels.
“What the fuck is happening here?” he demands after the silence between us has gone on too long.
I have no idea. I just know that I hate the way Jaxon looked when he walked up to me in the study lounge, hate even more the way he looked when he brought me into this room. Wary, lonely, ashamed, when I don’t believe he has anything to be ashamed of.
“What do you think is happening here?” I ask.
“Now who’s the parrot?” He shoves both hands into his hair in obvious frustration. “Are you okay? Are you in
shock?”
“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me? I—” He breaks off and just stares at me, speechless, as he registers that I very deliberately mimicked his words. “I just terrorized the entire school. Why the hell are you worried about me?”
“Because you don’t exactly look happy about it, now, do you?”
“There’s nothing to be happy about.”
And that, right there, is exactly why I’m not afraid of him.
I’m only a few steps away from him now and I take them slowly, under his watchful, worried gaze. “So how do you feel about what just happened?” I ask.
His face closes up. “I don’t feel anything about it.”
“You sure about that?” Finally, I’m close enough to go for it. I reach for his hand, grab on tight. The second our skin touches, he jerks like he’s being electrocuted. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he just stands there and watches as I lace our fingers together. “Because you look like you feel a hell of a lot.”
He takes a step back even as he holds fast to my hand. “It had to be done.”
“Okay.” I take a step forward. If we keep this up, it’s not going to be long before I have him pinned against a bookcase the same way he had me pinned against that chess table on my very first day.
Poetic justice, if you ask me.
“You should go.” This time, he takes two steps back. More, he drops my hand.
I feel the loss of his touch keenly, but that doesn’t stop me
from closing the distance once again.
Doesn’t stop me from reaching out and resting a hand on his hard biceps.
Doesn’t stop me from softly stroking my thumb up and down his inner arm. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” He nearly strangles on the word, but this time he doesn’t move away from my touch. From me.
And while there is a part of me that can’t believe I’m doing this, that I’m all but throwing myself at Jaxon, there’s another part of me just waiting for him to give in.
It’s the same part that’s encouraged by the fact that he’s barely coherent at this point.
The same part that can’t help but feel—and be happy about—the small tremor running through his body.
The same part that desperately wants to feel Jaxon’s mouth once again on my own and is determined not to leave here until I find out.
“I don’t believe you,” I whisper. And then I take the final step, closing the last of the distance between us and pressing my suddenly trembling body flush against his.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he tells me in a voice that’s low and tortured and anything but cold.
He’s right. I don’t have a clue how much I’m asking of him. But I know if I don’t ask, if I don’t push, I’ll never get another chance. This will be the end of the discussion.
More, it will be the end of us.
And I’m not ready for that. I don’t even know if there is an us, or what will happen in a day or a week or three months, if there is. I only know that I’m not ready to walk away from him—or whatever happens next. Which is why I reach for
him again and whisper, “So show me.”
Long seconds pass, minutes maybe, and Jaxon doesn’t move. I’m not sure he even breathes.
“Jaxon,” I finally whisper when I can’t take the agony of waiting. “Please.” My mouth is nearly pressed against his.
Still no response.
My confidence—shaky at the best of times—is about to desert me completely. After all, there’s nothing quite like throwing yourself at a boy and having him turn into a human statue to make a girl feel wanted.
But I’ve got one more attempt in me, one more chance to get Jaxon to understand that I trust him, no matter what he did in that hall. That I want him, vampire or not.
Two months ago, I would have walked away—run away, really—prepared to hide under my bed forever. But two months ago, my parents weren’t dead, and I didn’t yet realize just how fleeting, how fragile, life really is.
And so I swallow my fear and embarrassment as I slide my hand down Jaxon’s arm to his hand. Once more, I lace our fingers together before lifting both our hands to my chest. I press his palm flush against my heart and murmur, “I want you, Jaxon.”
Something flashes in his eyes. “Even knowing what I am?”
Confusion swirls through me. “I know who you are. That’s what matters.”
“You say that now, but you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“So show me,” I whisper. “Give me what I’m asking for.”
His eyes darken, his pupils blown completely out. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it. I need you, Jaxon. I need you.”
His jaw clenches, and his fingers tighten reflexively on mine. “Are you sure?” he grinds out. “I need to know you’re sure. I don’t want to scare you, Grace.”
My knees tremble like some medieval heroine at the intensity in his voice, in his eyes. But I am not going to blow this now, not going to mess it up when I’m this close to getting what I want.
This close to having Jaxon as my own.
So I lock my knees in place, look him in the eye. And say as loud and clear as I have ever said anything in my life, “What scares me isn’t you being a vampire, Jaxon. What scares me is the idea that you’re going to walk away and I’m going to go my whole life without knowing what this could feel like.”
And just like that, Jaxon strikes. Hands grabbing, fangs flashing, body wrapping itself around me so quickly, I barely understand what’s happening. He whirls me around—my back to his front—tangles his hand in my hair, and pulls my head back.
And then sinks his teeth into my neck, right below my jaw.
