Page 114 of Jax & Knox

AINSLEY

"He's dead."

Knox's voice cuts through the thick fog in my head, sharp and certain.

I'm sitting in the back of the truck, Owen asleep in my arms, his tiny body warm and heavy against my chest. Jax is beside me with his good arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders, his breathing labored and uneven. Everything feels distant. Muffled. Like I'm underwater and the world is happening somewhere far above me, rippling and distorted.

"Ainsley." Knox's voice again, firmer this time, pulling me back. "Justin's dead. It's over. He can't hurt you anymore."

I nod mechanically, but I don't feel it yet. The words don't land. They float around me, meaningless.

The drive back feels endless, like we're trapped in some kind of purgatory. I watch the trees blur past the window, their branches creating shadowy patterns in the dim light. My mind keeps replaying the moment over and over, stuck in a loop I can't escape.

The weight of the gun in my hands. Justin's face, surprised, angry, then blank. The shot ringing out, echoing in my ears. The terrible, crushing silence that followed.

Jax's hand tightens on my shoulder, grounding me. "You with me, baby?"

I turn to look at him. His face is pale, drained of color, his shirt soaked through with blood that's still damp and sticky. But his eyes are steady, focused entirely on me.

"You should be at the hospital," I whisper, my voice hoarse and raw.

"I'm staying with you," he says firmly, leaving no room for debate.

Knox pulls into the driveway of our house, the one on club property, the one we moved into after the first threat came through. The one that was supposed to be safe, surrounded by brothers who would protect us.

Home.

We're home.

Knox kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening. He comes around to open my door, his movements careful and deliberate. He helps me out, his hand steady and warm on my back.

"Can you walk?" he asks gently.

I nod, though I'm not entirely sure it's true.

Jax climbs out slowly, his face contorting with pain with every movement. Tiny rushes over to help him, hands outstretched, but Jax waves him off with his good arm.

"I'm fine," he growls, stubborn as ever.

"You're not fine," Tiny argues, his voice tight with worry. "You need a hospital. You need stitches, antibiotics, a doctor⁠⁠—"

"I'm staying with my family," Jax says, his voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. His jaw is set, his eyes hard.

Knox carries Owen inside while Jax and I follow behind at a slower pace. The house is quiet. Dark. But it's ours. It's safe. The familiar scent of home, coffee, laundry detergent, the vanilla candles I like, wraps around me.

Knox takes Owen straight to his room, his actual room, with the hand-carved crib that Tiny spent weeks making and the colorful dinosaur decals that Tessa put up last month. He sets him down gently in the crib, adjusting the blanket around him, and Owen doesn't even stir. He's completely exhausted.

I stand in the doorway, watching, my heart aching with a complicated mix of relief and guilt and love so overwhelming it hurts.

This is real.

This is our home.

Our son is safe in his own bed.

Knox turns and sees me standing there. "Come on," he says softly, his voice full of understanding.

He guides me through the house, his hand never leaving my back, and out to the front porch. Jax is already there, sitting heavily on the steps, his head in his hands, shoulders hunched with pain and exhaustion.