Page 108 of Jax & Knox

Voices. Male. More than one. I try to hear, pressing my ear toward the door.

I hear Jax's voice, low and hard. "You're on private property. Turn around."

A different voice answers. One I know in my bones, one that still haunts my nightmares.

"Where is she, Jax?"

Justin.

My blood turns to ice. Every muscle in my body locks up. Owen moves under my hand, sensing my tension even in his sleep. I freeze, barely breathing, needing him to stay quiet.

There's the sound of a fight, boots on wood, a grunt, something heavy hitting the porch. Furniture falling over. The sick thud of flesh on flesh.

Then a gunshot.

The sound cracks through the night like thunder, so loud it seems to split the world in half. Owen wakes with a startled cry, his face scrunched up in fear and confusion. I clamp my hand over his mouth, tears streaming down my face, trying to keep him quiet, trying to keep us invisible. My whole body is shaking.

Another shot.

Then silence. Terrible, choking silence.

The bedroom door opens.

I raise the gun with shaking hands, trying to remember everything Knox taught me. Breathe. Aim. Don't hesitate.

Justin fills the doorway. He's older than the last time I saw him up close, thinner, meaner. His face is all sharp angles and cruelty now, the handsome mask he used to wear completely gone. There's blood on his knuckles and a gun in his hand, still warm from firing. Behind him I can see a second man, tall, broad, unfamiliar, with cold eyes that sweep the room like he's done this a hundred times before.

"Put it down, Ainsley," Justin says, almost gentle. That familiar tone, the one he used to use right before things got bad. "Or I start shooting through the walls and hope I don't hit the kid."

My hands shake so hard the barrel wavers, the front sight dancing in the darkness. Owen is crying now, loud and scared, his screams cutting through everything.

Justin's eyes flick to the crib and something ugly crosses his face. Something possessive and hungry. "You've got three seconds."

I lower the gun. I have no choice.

He crosses the room in three steps, takes the gun from my numb fingers, and shoves it into his waistband. Then he grabs my arm hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and pulls me up.

"We're leaving. Now. Pack whatever the kid needs. You've got sixty seconds."

"Jax, " My voice breaks on his name.

"Is bleeding out on the porch. You want him to die faster, keep arguing."

My stomach drops. The world tilts. No. No, no, no. I can't breathe. Can't think past the image of Jax lying in his own blood.

"Move," Justin snarls, shaking me hard enough to rattle my teeth.

I move.

I grab the diaper bag with shaking hands, barely able to see through my tears, shove in the extra formula, the rabbit, a change of clothes. I'm on autopilot, muscle memory taking over where my brain has shut down. Justin never lets go of my arm, his grip a constant, bruising reminder. When I reach for Owen, he does it himself, lifting my son with a familiarity that makes bile rise in my throat. Owen screams, reaching for me with both hands, his face red and streaked with tears.

"Shh, shh," Justin coos, his voice a mockery of tenderness. "Daddy's got you."

I want to claw his eyes out. I want to scream. I want to rip Owen out of his arms and run until my legs give out. But I can't. Because if I do, he'll hurt Owen. Or he'll go back and finish what he started with Jax. Or both.

Jax.

The thought of him bleeding, dying, alone, gasping for air, calling for help that won't come⁠—I can't breathe.