Chapter 62 Marked
Chapter 62 Marked
The heavy tread of boots echoes from the concrete floor below, accompanied by the metallic jingle of a large keyring. The janitor is walking his midday rounds through the storage corridors.
Jackson reacts instantly. He catches my left wrist, his fingers clamping around the bone to pull me deeper into the shadow of the concrete support pillars.
The moment his hand squeezes my flesh, a spike of pain shoots up my forearm. A choked whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it. My body flinches away from his touch, my knees buckling slightly as I try to wrench my arm out of his grasp.
Jackson freezes. The suddenness of my reaction catches him off guard. His grip relaxes just enough for me to pull my hand back against my ribs, cradling my wrist against my chest.
Below us, the fire door groans on its hinges. A man grumbles something about a broken lock, the sound of his footsteps moving away toward the boiler room. The door slams shut again, the boom vibrating through the concrete floorboards until the stairwell returns to dead silence.
Jackson eyes remain fixed on my arm.
"Maya," he calls. He reaches out again, his palm open this time, unthreatening. "What is that? I barely touched you."
"Nothing," I say quickly, tucking my hand deeper into the pocket of my gray cardigan. I take a step backward, my spine pressing against the cold iron railing of the stairs. "I just... I bumped into a doorframe while we were moving furniture last night. It's just tender."
"You're lying," Jackson says flatly.
He steps into my space, reaches down, catches the fabric of my sleeve, and pulls my arm out of my pocket. His thumb slides under the cuff of my gray cardigan, pushing the knitted wool up past my forearm.
The white skin of my wrist is exposed under the yellow light of the overhead bulb.
The marks are dark purple and blue. Four oval bruises on top of my wrists, and a deep crescent mark from a thumb print on the underside. It is the exact shape of a hand pinning someone down against a hard surface.
Jackson stares at the bruises. The silence in the stairwell becomes suffocating.
I watch his face change. The lingering jealousy and hurt from our hallway encounter drain away. His jaw sets, his nostrils flaring as his breathing turns shallow and heavy.
He reaches out a single finger, his touch lighter than a feather as he hovers just millimeters above the purple skin, not wanting to cause more pain.
"He did this," Jackson states. It isn't a question.
"Jackson, let it go," I plead, trying to pull my sleeve back down, but he keeps his hold on my forearm, his eyes scanning the texture of the bruise as if calculating the exact amount of force required to leave those marks.
"The new neighbor," Jackson continues. "Raphael. He held you down."
"It was a misunderstanding," I lie, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I hate myself for defending Raph, but the image of my mother's relieved face at the dinner table flashes through my mind. I think of the eviction threats from Arthur Thorne. If Jackson loses his temper, if he goes after Raph in the middle of the school day, the fragile structure of lies keeping my family housed will collapse. "We were arguing about the past. I tried to walk away, and he grabbed me to make me listen. It looks worse than it is."
"Don't do that," Jackson snaps, his eyes lifting to meet mine. "Don't sit here and minimize it, Maya. I spend half my life in a penalty box for hitting guys twice my size. I know exactly how much pressure it takes to break the blood vessels in a person's wrist. He didn't just grab you to make you listen. He held you down until you couldn't move."
I keep my mouth shut, a single tear finally escaping my eyelid and running down my cheek. I turn my face away, staring at the scuffed concrete wall.
"Did he do anything else?" Jackson demands, his fingers tightening on my sleeve, his body vibrating with urge to move. "Did he touch you anywhere else, Maya? Tell me the truth."
"No," I whisper. "He just... he wants things to go back to how they were before. My mom loves him, Jackson. Leo thinks he's a savior because he promised to help with his physical therapy. If I cause a scene, if I tell them what he's really like, they won't believe me. They'll just think I'm trying to cause drama because I'm upset about us."
Jackson lets out a ragged breath, his forehead dropping against the cold brick wall next to my head. His shoulders shake slightly as he controls his temper. "I am going to kill him," he mutters against the brick. "I swear to God, Maya, I am going to find him in the senior locker room and break his jaw."
"No, you won't!" I say, my voice rising in a panicked rush as I grab the damp fabric of his practice jersey with my good hand, shaking him. "Look at me, Jackson. You can't touch him. If you fight him, the administration will suspend you. Your dad will find out why you did it. He’ll know we are still talking, and he’ll follow through on his threat to evict my mother."
Jackson straightens up slowly.
"So what am I supposed to do?" Jackson asks, his voice cracking. "I'm supposed to just sit in class and watch him walk you down the hall? I'm supposed to let him take you home every afternoon knowing he puts his hands on you when the doors are closed?"
"He won't do it again," I say, trying to convince myself as much as him. "I'll be careful. I'll stay in public spaces. Just keep your distance, Jackson. You chose Chloe to keep us safe. Stick to the plan."
Jackson stares at me for a long moment. His hand slowly slides down my arm, his fingers brushing against mine for a fleeting second before he drops his arm to his side.
"This isn't a plan, Maya," he says softly, his voice heavy with defeat. "This is a nightmare."
Before I can answer, the lunch warning bell rings through the PA speaker above the stairwell door. The high-pitched tone shatters the quiet, signaling that the hallways are about to flood with students again.
I pull my gray cardigan down, covering the purple marks on my wrist, and turn toward the door without looking back at him.