Chapter 287 - 0287: She’s The Only Real Thing

Chapter 287: Chapter 0287: She’s The Only Real Thing

Jaxx’s Point Of View

The sun hadn’t even fully cleared the horizon, yet the room was already bathed in that thin, bruised light of early morning. I’d been awake since six, propped up on one elbow, doing nothing but watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Elena’s shoulders. There was something almost sacred about it, this unguarded stillness, the kind of peace neither of us ever got to keep for long.

She lay buried beneath the charcoal duvet, wearing my shirt like a suit of armor she didn’t realize was a claim. My claim. The fabric hung loose on her frame, the collar slipping off one shoulder to reveal the curve of her neck, a sight that made my pulse quicken despite the hours we’d already spent tangled together.

I memorized it anyway, the way the morning light caught the edge of her collarbone, because men like me learned early that nothing good stayed long enough to be taken for granted.

Every time she shifted in her sleep, the scent of sandalwood soap and us drifted up, hitting me in the chest like a physical weight. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to breathe too loudly. For a man who lived his life in the crosshairs of a dozen different enemies, this kind of stillness was a luxury I couldn’t afford... but for her, I’d steal the time from the devil himself. I’d steal eternity if she asked. I would have stayed there all morning, counting the freckles scattered across her nose, if the world had let me.

The thought should have terrified me. A year ago, it would have. Now, watching her dark lashes rest against her cheeks, I found I didn’t care about the danger of wanting something this badly. I’d spent so many years building walls brick by brick, and she’d dismantled them without even trying, simply by existing in my space like she belonged there.

Then, the sharp, digital chirp of my phone cut through the silence like a blade. I felt Elena twitch, a soft mumble escaping her lips as she burrowed deeper into the pillows, one hand reaching unconsciously for the space where I’d been lying. The gesture... so trusting, so unguarded, made my throat tighten.

Even in sleep, some part of her searched for me, and that small, instinctive act undid something I hadn’t known was still tightly wound inside my chest. I grabbed the device from the nightstand before it could buzz again, my fingers moving with practiced stealth, honed from years of answering calls I didn’t want her, or anyone, to overhear.

A text from the one man I couldn’t ignore glowed on the screen.

[6:14 AM] Pops: Come to my study. Right now.

I stared at the message, a heavy, familiar tightness settling in my jaw. The muscles there clenched involuntarily, an old reflex from years of these summons. I knew that tone, even in text form. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a summons to the gallows.

My grandfather never texted unless he wanted to remind me that despite everything I’d built, everything I’d become, he could still pull my strings with two words and a period. It didn’t matter how many empires I’d carved out for myself in the shadows of his; to him, I would always be a piece on his board, waiting to be moved.

I looked back at Elena, her face soft and wiped clean of all the sass and fire she’d thrown at me last night. In sleep, she looked younger, vulnerable in a way she’d never allow herself to be while awake. Her lips were slightly parted, and I could see the faint flutter of her pulse at her throat.

The sight made something in my chest constrict... something dangerously close to fear. Not fear of my father or his empire, but fear of losing this. Of losing her. I thought of all the things I’d be willing to burn down just to keep that pulse steady, that peace intact, and the answer frightened me more than any enemy ever had.

I leaned down, pressing a ghost of a kiss to her lips, careful not to wake her. She tasted like sleep and late-night chocolate, sweet and warm. Slowly, with the precision of a bomb technician, I eased my arm from under her and tucked the covers up to her chin. My fingers lingered for a moment on the fabric, reluctant to break this fragile peace. She made a small sound of protest, and I froze, but she only turned her face into the pillow where I’d been sleeping, breathing in deeply. The intimacy of it nearly undid me, more than any blade pressed to my throat ever could.

I grabbed a notepad from the dresser, scribbling a quick message, and left it beside her on the pillow where my head had been. It wasn’t poetry, just a few words to keep the worry from creeping into her eyes when she woke to find me gone, but I hoped it would be enough to hold her over until I returned.

Twenty minutes later, I’d showered and changed into a crisp black turtleneck and slacks. The "Prince of the Underworld" look, as Elena had once mockingly called it, her eyes dancing with amusement even as her fingers had traced the line of my collar. I needed it now. I needed the armor it provided, the psychological edge. Dressing for war had become second nature to me long before I’d ever held a gun; appearances were their own kind of weapon in this family.

Because as I walked toward the east wing, each step echoing in the empty corridor, I knew I was heading into a cage with the only lion who still had bigger teeth than mine. My father had built this empire from blood and ash, and he’d never let me forget it. Every hallway in this house felt like a monument to his will, every polished surface a reminder of what I owed him and what I’d never be able to repay.

The walk felt longer than usual, each portrait of dead ancestors watching me with knowing eyes. They’d all bent the knee to the patriarch of their time. I wondered if any of them had tried to break free, and if so, what it had cost them. Looking at their painted, solemn faces, I suspected I already knew the answer.

I knocked once on the study door. The wood was solid oak, thick enough to muffle a gunshot. I’d tested that theory once, years ago, during a particularly heated argument about territory disputes. The memory brought a grim smile to my lips, though there was little humor left in it by the time I crossed the threshold.

"Enter."

Pops stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a porcelain mug in his hand... the one my mother had given him before she died, the only sentimental object he’d kept. The steam rose in a straight line, matching the rigid posture of his back. He hadn’t turned to acknowledge me, which meant this conversation would be worse than I’d anticipated. I braced myself the way I always did before stepping into the ring with him, squaring my shoulders as though that alone might shield me from whatever came next.

The study smelled of old leather, expensive tobacco, and the kind of power that didn’t need to shout to be heard. It was a scent I’d known my entire life, one that still made my spine straighten involuntarily, no matter how much I resented the reflex. I’d once thought I would outgrow that instinct. I hadn’t.

"Good morning, Pops," I said, keeping my voice neutral as I leaned against the doorframe with a casualness I didn’t entirely feel. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I’d learned long ago not to let him see weakness.

He didn’t turn around. He just set the mug down on the edge of his mahogany desk with a sharp clack that echoed like a gunshot in the silence. His reflection in the window showed the hard line of his jaw, the silver threading through his dark hair. "What do you think you’re doing, boy?"

The word "boy" hung in the air like an accusation, like a collar. At thirty, I ran half his empire, commanded the loyalty of hundreds of men, and had bodies buried in three states. I’d negotiated deals that had made us millions, eliminated threats he couldn’t touch. But in this room, under his gaze, I would always be "boy." The realization settled in my stomach like lead, cold and heavy and permanent, no matter how many times I told myself it shouldn’t still sting.

I arched an eyebrow, my pulse steadying as the adrenaline surged through my veins. "I’m standing in your office, Pops. I figured that was obvious."

Finally, he turned. His eyes resembled flint... sharp, unforgiving, capable of striking sparks. "Don’t play the fool with me, Jaxx. It doesn’t suit you." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "You know exactly what I mean. Why are you with her? What in God’s name are you doing with that woman in this house?"

I shrugged, pushing off the doorframe and settling into one of the leather armchairs. Crossing one ankle over the other, I affected an air of casual indifference I didn’t quite feel, though inside, every nerve stood on alert, ready for the fight I knew was coming. "I’m showing her off. It’s a birthday party, isn’t it? I thought the family appreciated ’good things.’ Your words, remember?"

"Everything is wrong with this!" he snapped. His hand slammed onto the desk, and the sound echoed like a crack of thunder through the study. A crystal paperweight jumped from the impact. "You think I’m senile? You think I don’t see the way the room went silent when you walked in?" His voice rose with each question. "You think I don’t know who she is?"

I met his gaze directly, my own eyes narrowing. The air in the room grew thick and oppressive, charged with the kind of tension that usually preceded violence. "She’s mine, Pops. That’s all you need to know."

"She’s a liability!" he roared, stepping toward me until I could see the veins pulsing in his temples. "Is she who I think she is? Tell me the truth, Jaxx. Don’t lie to me. Not about this."

I didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. "Yes. She’s exactly who you think she is. She’s Elena. Graham’s ex-wife."

Pops let out a sound that was somewhere between a bitter laugh and a snarl. He started pacing the length of the Persian rug, his hands clasped behind his back in that way he always did when calculating his next move. "You’ve brought the ex-wife of your half-brother, into the heart of this estate. During my birthday gala, no less." He stopped mid-stride, whirling to face me. "You’ve handed him a reason to start a blood feud that will paint these streets red."

"Graham already hates me, Pops, and the feeling is mutual," I said, keeping my voice level despite the rising heat in my chest. "This doesn’t change the weather; it just brings the storm faster."

"And why?" Pops stopped, leaning over me, his face inches from mine. I could smell the expensive scotch on his breath, see the fury and genuine confusion warring in his eyes. "Since when do you care about a woman enough to risk the family legacy? You were the one who said love was a parasite. You were the one who swore never to be handled by your heart." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, revealing something almost like disappointment, and for a moment I saw not my grandfather, the feared patriarch, but an old man afraid of losing the only grandson he had.

"I’m not being handled," I lied, the words tasting like copper on my tongue. "I’m taking what’s mine. Graham had her, and he threw her away like she was nothing. He treated her like a footnote in his pathetic life, something to be discarded when it no longer served his purposes."

"She is a footnote in this world!" Pops hissed, spittle flying from his lips.

I stood then, my height matching his, the fierce, jagged protectiveness I’d been suppressing all morning finally snapping to the surface. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. The room felt too small for both of us, the walls closing in, the air itself seeming to thin with the weight of what hung unspoken between us.

"She is the only real thing I have ever touched!" My voice dropped to a dangerous, vibrating low that made even Pops take a half-step back. "And if Graham thinks he can even breathe the same air as her again, he’s going to find out exactly how much of your ’training’ I actually kept."

I leaned in, my voice deadly quiet now. "I’m not letting her go. Not for you, not for the business, and certainly not for that pathetic excuse for a brother."

Pops stared at me, his chest heaving, his eyes searching mine for any sign of the cold, detached soldier he’d raised with such meticulous care. But all he found was a man who was ready to burn it all down for a woman in an oversized white shirt. A man who had finally found something worth more than power. I watched the realization dawn on him slowly, the way a man watches a storm roll in over the horizon, powerless to stop it.

"You’re going insane, Jaxx," he whispered, the anger fading into a grim realization. His shoulders sagged slightly, as if the weight of what I’d become had finally settled on him. "He will come for her. You know he will. And when he does, there will be no stopping what follows."

I turned toward the door, my hand gripping the brass handle so tightly my knuckles went white. My jaw was set so tight it ached, a muscle twitching beneath the skin, the words I wanted to say burning in my throat before I finally let them loose.

"Let him come," I said, looking back over my shoulder one last time. Our eyes locked, and in that moment, I saw him realize he’d lost me, perhaps for good this time. "He had his chance. He didn’t know what he had. Graham doesn’t deserve her. He never did."