Page 107 of Jax & Knox

The living room is a wreck. Furniture overturned, couch cushions scattered, the coffee table on its side. Glass shattered across the floor, glittering in the overhead light. Signs of a struggle. A fight. And in the middle of it all⁠—Jax.

He's on his knees, slumped forward like a broken puppet, one hand pressed to his shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and wet, spreading across his shirt in a stain that's growing by the second. His face is pale, sweat beading on his forehead, his breathing shallow and rough.

I'm beside him in an instant, dropping to my knees, my hand on his good shoulder. "Jax. Brother. Look at me."

His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening when he sees my face. "Knox..."

"Where are they? Where's Ainsley? Where's Owen?"

"He took them." His voice is barely a whisper, each word an obvious effort. "Two men. Dark sedan. Headed west on the main road. Maybe ten minutes ago. Maybe fifteen. I tried, I tried to stop them, but⁠⁠—"

My vision tunnels. Everything except Jax's words fades into white noise. "How bad are you hit?"

"Shoulder. Went through clean. I'll live." He tries to sit up and nearly collapses, his good arm buckling. "Go. Get them back. Don't worry about me."

I look at the blood pooling beneath him, at the way his lips are going pale, and know he's lying. The wound might have gone through clean, but he's losing too much blood too fast. But I also know he's right. Every second I stay here is a second Justin gets farther away with my family.

I pull out my phone and hit Mason's number, my hands somehow steady even though I feel like I'm going to explode. "Justin took Ainsley and Owen. Jax is down, GSW to the shoulder, losing blood fast. I need medical at the cabin and every available rider tracking west from our location. Now. Every brother, every prospect, everyone who can throw a leg over a bike."

Mason's voice is ice when he responds, cold and deadly and absolutely in control. "On it. Tiny's five minutes out with a medic. I'm mobilizing everyone. We'll find them, Knox. We'll get them back."

"Make it fast."

I look at Jax one more time, memorizing his face, praying this isn't the last time I see him alive. "Don't you fucking die on me, you hear me? You're my brother. You don't get to check out on me."

He manages a weak smile, blood on his teeth. "Not planning on it. Go get your family."

I'm out the door and back on my bike before I can think, before I can process what's happening, before the full weight of terror can crush me. Steele, Riot, Rook, and Switch are right behind me, their engines roaring to life.

We ride into the dark, and all I can think is:

I'm coming, Ainsley. Hold on. Just hold on. I'm coming for you, and God help anyone who gets in my way.

NINETEEN

AINSLEY

The cabin is too quiet after Knox leaves. The silence settles over everything like a heavy blanket. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind against the windows feels louder in the stillness.

Jax checks around the cabin twice, then a third time, his movements careful. He moves like a man who expects the trees themselves to attack, his hand never far from the gun at his hip. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. Every part of his body screams alert. I sit on the edge of the couch with Owen asleep against my chest, counting the minutes by the sound of the wind rattling through the pines outside. His tiny breaths are warm against my collarbone, the only comfort in the growing dread that wraps around my ribs like barbed wire.

"He'll be fine," Jax says when he comes back inside for the third time, snow dusting his shoulders. He brushes it off with rough, annoyed movements. He doesn't sound like he believes it any more than I do. His voice is hollow, automatic, the kind of thing you say because silence is worse.

I nod anyway. What else can I do?

We don't talk much after that. There's nothing safe to say. Every topic feels like it might crack open something we can't handle right now. Every so often Jax's phone lights up with a short text from Knox or Steele, where they are, nothing detailed. Just enough to know they're alive. I try not to watch the screen, try not to count the seconds between messages, try not to imagine what it means when the gaps stretch longer. I fail.

Sometime after three in the morning, Owen wakes hungry, his soft whimpers quickly turning to loud cries. I heat a bottle in the small kitchen, the microwave way too loud in the dead of night, while Jax stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the front windows. The generator hums under everything like a second heartbeat, steady and endless. I test the formula on my wrist, the routine so familiar now it's almost calming. Almost enough to quiet the panic clawing at the edges of my mind.

I'm putting Owen back in the crib, his eyelids already drooping, when I hear it, the soft, wrong sound of gravel under tires that aren't supposed to be here. The crunch is far away but clear. My entire body goes stiff.

Jax is already moving. He kills the lights in one smooth motion, making everything dark, and pulls me into the bedroom by the wrist, his grip firm but not painful.

"Stay down," he whispers, his face inches from mine in the blackness. "Do not come out unless I call for you. You understand me?"

He's gone before I can answer, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound that makes my knees weak. I drop down beside the crib, one hand on Owen's back, feeling him breathe, the other wrapped around the small gun Knox left in the nightstand. The metal is cold and heavy in my palm. My heart is trying to climb out of my throat, pounding so hard I'm sure whoever's outside can hear it.

Outside, a car door opens. Then another. The sounds are slow, unhurried. Confident.