Chapter 9: Bathing in Aftermath
The loft was a crime scene draped in dawn’s weak light. Jax stood motionless, his father’s absence a louder presence than the shattered skylight. Lila shivered inside the heavy denim jacket, the scent of gasoline and old violence clinging to the fabric.
He finally moved, a slow unfreezing. “Don’t look,” he said, his voice shredded. He guided her past Serena’s form with a hand on her back, careful not to touch the scratches. Downstairs, the garage was a wreck of splintered wood and twisted metal where the main door had been. He led her through the carnage, into the small bathroom, and shut the door on the world.
The shower hissed to life. Steam began to fog the mirror. Jax’s hands, usually so sure with a wrench, fumbled with the buttons of his own jacket on her shoulders. He peeled it away, his breath catching at the raw, parallel lines scored down her back. “Jesus, Lila,” he whispered, the words crumbling.
He helped her out of her torn clothes, his touch clinical now, focused. He tested the water, then guided her under the spray. She flinched as the hot water needled the scratches. He followed her in, still in his jeans and t-shirt, the fabric instantly soaked and clinging. He took the soap, worked a lather in his palms, and began to wash the blood from her skin.
His calloused hands trembled as they traced the raised welts. The water at their feet ran pink, then clear. He washed her arms, her neck, her face around the split lip with a tenderness that cracked something open inside her chest. She stood passively, her head bowed, watching the diluted evidence of the violence swirl down the drain.
When his fingers gently brushed the bruise blooming on her cheekbone, a single, silent sob shook her frame. She turned then, pressing her forehead against his soaked chest, her body curling into his. Her tears were soundless, hot against his skin, mixing with the spray. He dropped the soap and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight as she shuddered.
“I should’ve killed her years ago,” he murmured into her damp hair, his voice thick with a venomous regret. “This is on me. All of it.”
She stiffened against him, her forehead lifting from his chest. Her green eyes, wide and wary, searched his face as the water plastered her dark hair to her skull. “What?” she rasped, the word scraping from her bruised throat.
Jax’s hands slid from her back to her shoulders, his grip firming, his blue eyes holding hers with a frightening intensity. “I need an explanation, Lila,” he said, the casual tone strained, metallic. “I was told that Miles’ wife and daughter were killed.”
His blue eyes were stones, waiting for the weight of her truth to sink them. The water beat down on her shoulders, a constant, insistent pressure. She watched his jaw work, a muscle flickering beneath the scarred skin.
“They only killed my mother.” The words left her like rust flaking from a long-sealed vault. Her voice was a dry whisper against the shower’s hiss. “That’s when I went mute.”
Jax didn’t blink. His hands, still on her shoulders, went utterly still. The steam thickened between them.
“Six years,” she continued, her gaze drifting to the water swirling at their feet. “My father moved me. Hid me.” She looked back up, her green eyes clear now, sharp. “He contacted Marcus. To hide me here.”
Jax’s breath left him in a slow, controlled stream. His fingers tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Sparky knew.”
“He knew you.” Her correction was gentle, absolute. “He knew you were out. That this garage was clean.” A flicker of something painful crossed Jax’s face—betrayal, understanding, she couldn’t tell. “He didn’t know that your ex would be the problem.”
Jax’s hands slid from her shoulders down the slick plane of her back. He stopped just above the welts, his thumbs pressing into her spine. “So your old man used my garage as a witness protection program.”
“He used you,” she corrected, her voice gaining a thread of strength. “The one person he knew Serena would never think to look for.” Water streamed down the grim lines of his face, catching in the stubble along his jaw. His gaze was locked on hers, unblinking, as he processed the calculation of it.
A brittle laugh escaped him, devoid of humor. “She spent six years thinking you were dead.” Lila nodded slowly, water beading on her lashes. “And three minutes ago, she wasn’t.”
The truth of it settled between them, cold and final. Jax’s eyes dropped to her mouth, to the split in her lip he’d just washed clean. A low sound, part growl, part sigh, rumbled in his chest. “And my father?”
“Cleaned up his mess,” Lila whispered. “Like he always does.”
Jax’s expression shut down, a familiar armor sliding into place. He studied her face—the bruise, the defiance in her eyes, the trust she’d placed in him without ever asking for it back. His breath hitched, a sharp intake in the steam-filled space. All the lines he’d drawn for himself blurred in that instant.
He pulled her closer. His arms banded around her, crushing her wet body against the soaked cotton of his shirt. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, his breath hot on her skin. “I’m not him,” he said, the words muffled against her.
His embrace was a cage of soaked cotton and desperate promise, but the words felt like another chain. Her palms flattened against his chest, fingers splaying over the damp fabric where his heart hammered against her touch. She pushed him away.
The force was not violent, but it was absolute. Jax stumbled back a half-step under the spray, his arms falling to his sides. Water streamed down the stark confusion hardening his face, his blue eyes searching hers.
“You are right now,” Lila said, her voice raw but clear. She wrapped her own arms around her body, the defiance in her lifted chin contradicting the protective gesture. “Holding on like you can fix what’s broken.”
He blinked, water clinging to his dark lashes. A slow breath expanded his ribs beneath the ruined shirt. “I’m trying to touch you, not fix you.”
Jax studied the space between them, his jaw tightening. He gave a single, sharp nod, then reached past her to shut off the water. The sudden silence was deafening, filled only by the drip from the showerhead and their ragged breathing.
The sudden silence was deafening, filled only by the drip from the showerhead and their ragged breathing. A violent shiver tore through Lila, her skin pebbling in the chill air. Jax watched the tremor, his eyes tracking a drop of water as it slid from her temple down the tense line of her jaw.
He reached past her again, yanking a towel from the rack. “You’re cold,” he stated, his voice low. He didn’t wrap her in it; he simply held it open, a challenge in his lifted chin.
She stared at the offered towel, then at him. Her green eyes were wide, the defiance now edged with a raw, vulnerable wariness. He saw the split in her lip, the darkening bruise, and a possessive heat flared behind his ribs.
“Take it,” he said, his tone leaving no room for refusal. She slowly took the towel, her fingers brushing his. The contact was electric, a static shock in the humid air. He didn’t let go of his end.
He used his grip on the towel to pull her, just one decisive step, closing the distance she had created. Her body bumped against his, warm and damp through his soaked clothes. She gasped, the sound small and trapped in her throat.
He released the towel. His free hand came up, calloused fingers catching her chin, tilting her face up to the weak light. His thumb swept over the uninjured corner of her mouth, a rough, possessive caress. “You trust Sparky. You trust my bastard father.” His voice was a gravelly whisper. “But you shove me away.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” she breathed, her words ghosting over his thumb. He felt her pulse hammering against his fingers where they held her chin.
A slow, dark smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good.” He leaned in, his breath warm against her cold skin. “Then this isn’t about trust.”
HE CLAIMS HER MOUTH.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a searing, desperate press of lips, a silencing and a claiming all at once. He tasted the faint copper of her blood and the clean scent of soap. She went rigid for a heartbeat, a statue in his arms.
Then her lips softened, parting under his with a shuddering inhale that was more surrender than sigh. His hands slid from her chin down to her hips, fingers digging into the wet skin. A low groan escaped him as he deepened the kiss, all tongue and teeth and desperate need. She responded by arching into him, her hands finding purchase on his soaked shoulders. The steam around them clung to their skin like a second layer. "Jax," she whispered against his mouth, the name a broken thing. He didn't answer with words; his arms tightened around her, muscles coiling. In one fluid motion, he broke the kiss and HE LIFTS HER AGAINST WALL. Her back met the cold tiles with a soft thud, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The shock of the cold surface against her skin made her gasp, eyes flying open. He pressed into her, the rough denim of his jeans a stark contrast to her bare thighs. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough with intent. Her green eyes locked onto his blue ones, wide and dark with arousal. Water dripped from his hair onto her face, each drop a tiny shock. "You think pushing me away changes anything?" he asked, his breath hot on her neck. She shook her head, a minute movement. "It just makes me want you more," he admitted, grinding against her slowly. The friction drew a sharp breath from her lips. His thumb traced the bruise on her cheek, a possessive gesture. "This is mine to protect now," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Lila’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening on his shoulders. “It’s not a possession,” she whispered, the words vibrating against his lips.
She uncurled her legs from his waist and pushed against his chest, a firm, testing pressure. Jax held his ground for a long, suspended second, his arms caging her against the tile, his expression unreadable.
Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he let her slide down the wall until her bare feet touched the cool floor. He didn’t step back. He simply watched her, his blue eyes tracking the rapid flutter of the pulse in her throat.
“That what you need?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft. “To see if I’ll force you?” A cold, hollow space opened inside her at the accuracy of his aim. She just stared, the towel slipping from her grip.
He leaned in, planting one hand beside her head, his body a heat she couldn’t escape. “I don’t force women, Lila.” His other hand came up, but he didn’t touch her. He pointed a single, blunt finger at the center of her own chest. “The fight’s in there. Not with me.”
He finally pushed off the wall, turning his back to her to rake a hand through his wet hair. The soaked cotton of his shirt stretched across the tension in his shoulders. “Get dressed,” he said, not looking back.
“Not force.. Claim.” she breathed.
He went utterly still. That word, hanging in the damp air between them, changed everything. He turned back, and the look on his face was new—a raw, calculating focus that stripped her bare more completely than the shower had.
“Yeah,” he said, the single syllable rough. He closed the distance again, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. He didn’t kiss her.
His hand, still damp and warm, slid up her rib cage, his thumb skating over the peak of her breast until she shuddered. He watched the reaction in her eyes, in the parting of her lips. “You want a claim?” he asked, his voice low.
“I want something real,” she breathed, her defiance a thin veneer over a bottomless need.
He gave a slow nod, understanding. His gaze dropped to the unmarked skin of her left hip, pale and smooth above the towel. He leaned down, his breath a warm ghost over her flesh. He didn’t use his teeth.
HE MARKS HER SKIN.
He pressed his open mouth there, a hot, deliberate brand, and sucked. Not hard, but with a persistent, devastating pressure that pulled a gasp from her throat. His tongue swept the spot, sealing the promise. He held her hip steady, feeling the muscles flinch and quiver under his hand as he worked.
When he finally pulled back, a violent red bloom stained her skin, a perfect, darkening oval. He studied his work, his expression unreadable. Then he looked up, meeting her dazed eyes. “That’s real,” he stated, his thumb gently tracing the heated periphery of the mark. “It’ll be there tomorrow.” He straightened up, his own breath uneven. “A reminder.”
“Of what?” Her voice was thin.
“That you asked for this.” He grabbed a dry towel from the rack and thrust it at her. “Now get dressed. We’ve got a body to deal with.” He walked out, leaving the bathroom door swinging open behind him.
He walked out, leaving the bathroom door swinging open behind him. The cold air from the garage chased the steam, raising goosebumps on Lila’s skin where his mouth had been. She dressed slowly, her fingers fumbling over the buttons of a clean flannel, the mark on her hip a throbbing, secret ember.
Downstairs, Jax stood amidst the splintered remains of the door, his silhouette rigid against the gray dawn bleeding through the opening. He was staring at the shadowed shape of Serena on the concrete when the first bike rumbled to a halt outside.
The engine’s growl cut abruptly. Boots crunched on gravel, then stilled. “Holy shit, boss.” The voice was Mack’s, low and strained. “What the hell happened here?”
Jax didn’t turn. “Door was in my way.” Two more figures, Dex and Paul, edged into the ravaged doorway, their wide eyes scanning the wreckage and the ominous shape beyond Jax. They froze when they saw it, the recognition dawning in their stiffening postures.
Lila descended the stairs, her steps silent on the metal. Four pairs of eyes snapped toward her—the crew’s expressions shifting from shock to a protective, wary confusion. Mack’s gaze flicked from the fresh bruise on her face to Jax’s stormy profile. “Is she…?”
“She’s with me,” Jax cut in, his tone leaving no space for questions. He finally turned, his blue eyes meeting Lila’s across the garage’s chaotic space, a silent current arcing between them over the broken concrete. “We need a cleanup. A professional one.”
Dex swallowed hard, nodding slowly as he understood the magnitude. “I know a guy who doesn’t ask questions.” Paul just stared at Serena’s body, his face pale. “The Reaper’s back?” he whispered, almost to himself.
Jax’s jaw tightened. “He was never gone.” He took a step toward Lila, his crew parting for him, their respect and fear a palpable force in the oil-scented air. “You okay to ride?”
Lila’s chin dipped in a single, firm nod, her eyes never leaving his. “I can ride.” Her voice was a scrape of gravel, but it held.
Jax’s own nod was a command executed. He turned to Mack, his posture shifting into something efficient and lethal. “The van from the back. Dex, the plastic sheeting is on the west shelf.” The men moved without another word, their earlier shock buried under a grim familiarity.
The garage filled with the rustle of thick plastic and the soft, terrible sound of a zipper. Lila watched, her arms wrapped around herself, as they worked with a quiet, respectful haste. Jax didn’t help them.
Instead, he stepped close to Lila, his body a wall between her and the sight. He traced the line of her jaw with a single knuckle, a startling contrast to the brutality unfolding behind him. “Look at me,” he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.
She dragged her gaze from the workers to his face. His eyes were a calm, deep blue, holding hers with an absolute focus that shut out the world. “You’re with me.” It wasn’t a question.
His hand slid down to the small of her back, pressing against the flannel shirt to find the warmth of her skin beneath. He pulled her tight against him for a three-second eternity, her body molding to the hard planes of his. The possessive heat of his hand seeped through her clothes, a brand over her spine.
Then he released her, turning to address Mack. “The quarry, the deep pit on the north ridge.” Mack gave a curt nod, hefting his end of the now-shrouded burden with Dex. “Lime in the storage locker. Use all of it.”
The loaded van engine coughed to life, a mundane sound for a ghastly task. Jax watched it bump slowly over the gravel and into the weak morning light, his expression unreadable. Only when its taillights vanished did the rigid line of his shoulders drop a fraction.
He turned back to Lila, his eyes scanning her face, reading the exhaustion in the shadows under her eyes. “My place,” he stated, his thumb brushing the edge of the bruise on her cheek. “We can’t stay here.”
He led her to his bike, a sleek beast of black metal still gleaming from last night's work. He handed her his spare helmet, his fingers lingering on hers. “Hold on tight,” he said, his voice low. “Don’t let go.”