Chapter 169 Chapter 169 Hurt Him
Sal’s friend, Stefania, drove down from Florence to collect the samples herself. She said she’d call me tomorrow with the results and could mail me an official copy if I needed one later. Constantine didn’t question her at all when she swabbed him—he just sat there, curious, like it was another strange adult thing he didn’t need to understand yet.
Dinner was unbearable.
Everyone felt it—the tension sitting thick in the air, heavy and suffocating. Conversations were forced, laughter hollow, eyes constantly shifting, watching, waiting. No one said what they were thinking, but it was there, pressing down on all of us.
I can’t sleep.
I lie on my back, staring up at the crown molding on the ceiling. It’s intricate, beautiful—something I’d normally admire—but tonight it feels like it’s closing in on me. My mind won’t shut off. I can’t stop thinking about what it will mean if Constantine is Illia’s son.
So I do something I haven’t done in years.
I pray.
To a god I don’t even believe in.
Please don’t let my son be Ivan’s brother. Please. Just make this one thing simple for me. I’m begging you.
I turn onto my side, facing Constantine. He’s completely out, sprawled across the bed, worn out from a full day of swimming and running. His cheeks are sun-kissed, his lips slightly parted, soft breaths steady and peaceful. I take a moment, just watching him.
He’s so beautiful.
So innocent.
My chest tightens.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and text Jax.
Still prepping breakfast? Do you want help? I can’t sleep.
It takes him twenty minutes to reply, but when he does, it’s simple.
Yeah. Come down. Marta went to bed.
I slide out of bed, slipping on my flip-flops. I don’t bother changing—I’m already in a shirt and shorts. The house is quiet as I make my way to the kitchen, the walk taking only a few minutes.
Like always, he’s at the counter.
Flour is everywhere.
He’s kneading dough, focused, hands working with practiced precision.
“I’m making bread for the next two days,” he says without looking up. “Everything else is done and in the chiller. Just needs to be baked tomorrow.”
I move to the sink, washing my hands, and he nods toward the counter, showing me what needs to be done. I grease the pans, lining them up neatly while watching him work.
Jax is wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans, the front of his shirt dusted with flour. Every time he moves, his arms flex—veins prominent, muscles tight. It’s distracting.
Too distracting.
“Do you want to do the last one?” he asks.
I nod, stepping closer.
He starts explaining, but I play dumb on purpose. He knows it too—I see it in the way his mouth curves into that dimpled smirk.
Jax steps in behind me, close—too close. His body presses lightly against mine as he reaches around, guiding my hands, showing me exactly how to shape the dough. His voice is low, steady, right near my ear.
I knead it into a smooth ball, place it in the pan, sprinkle flour over the top.
He scores each loaf, then covers them with towels.
“They’ll rest overnight,” he says, satisfied. “Then into the chiller. After that, we bake them as needed.”
He sounds proud.
Accomplished.
Jax pulls the towel from his shoulder, wiping his hands—and then something shifts.
Without warning, he steps into me, closing the space completely. I’m pressed back against the counter before I can react. His hands land on my waist, firm, grounding.
My hands move up his arms instinctively, feeling the tension there, the strength.
Before I can say anything, he lifts me—effortless—and sets me on the counter.
“This is a bad idea,” I say, breath catching.
Jax laughs softly. “Don’t I know it.” He tilts his head slightly. “Elizabeth says I’m crossing a line. One I shouldn’t blur because I’m too old. Says she can see it—in the way I look at you.”
Six years ago, those are the exact words I wanted from him.
To resist just enough.
To give in anyway.
My body betrays me instantly. I want him closer. I want to feel him between my legs—all of him. His size, his weight, the way he takes up space. His strawberry blond hair, those dark eyes so much like Ivan’s.
I know what he looks like under his clothes. I’ve seen it—more than once. Spain. Late nights. The Pavlov men and their stupid habit of skinny dipping.
The family crest on his chest.
The tattoos on his hands, his fingers.
I’ve always wondered what those fingers would feel like inside me.
Jax grips my knees, pulling me closer until I can feel him through his jeans—hard, undeniable. His hand comes up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering.
Then his fingers slide to my neck.
Firm.
Possessive.
He pulls me into a kiss.
It’s not soft. It’s not hesitant.
It’s intense—his mouth claiming mine, his tongue pushing in, warm and demanding. His other hand slips under my shirt, finding bare skin, moving upward until he reaches my chest.
He curses into my mouth when his fingers brush over my nipples.
Heat floods through me instantly.
I want him.
Right here.
On this counter.
I want him to fuck me until everything else disappears—until tomorrow doesn’t exist, until the weight in my chest is gone.
His shirt is gone in seconds. My hands move to his chest, sliding over smooth skin, over muscle, grounding myself in something real, something physical. The sounds coming out of me feel foreign—low, desperate, pulled from somewhere deep.
And then—
Something shifts.
Something snaps back into place.
This isn’t right.
I push against him, breaking the kiss, putting space between us.
“I can’t do this,” I say, even as my hands hover dangerously close to the button of his jeans. “I can’t hurt Ivan like this.”
Jax lets out a cold, quiet chuckle.
“You don’t want to hurt him? After everything he’s put you through?”
I swallow, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
“Six years ago…” I start, my voice softer now. “I would’ve let you fuck me on the side of the road. I wouldn’t have stopped you. Not for a second. Just to get back at him.”
I shake my head slightly. “But now…”
“But now,” he finishes for me, taking a slow breath, “you’re a grown woman, a mother… and you still love him.” His jaw tightens.
Jax steps back, giving me just enough space to breathe. To think.
I slide off the counter quickly, my feet hitting the floor harder than I expect, and I move fast—out of the kitchen, through the double window doors, needing air, distance.
And then I see him.
Ivan.
Leaning casually against the wall next to one of the guards, like he’s been there the whole time.
Ivan pushes off the wall the second our eyes meet.
He stalks toward me.
“We need to talk,” he says.
Simple. Direct.
I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head.
“I don’t want to listen to your beautiful lies,” I snap. “Spare me.”