Chapter 25 Convictions
Elena’s POV
The smell of coffee reached me before I fully reached the kitchen.
It curled through the penthouse like an invitation—rich, dark, warm—cutting through the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to my skin.
I slowed at the threshold without quite realizing why, my bare feet stopping against the cool marble. And then I saw him.
Jack stood with his back to me, completely unaware—or pretending to be—shirtless, framed by the tall windows as the morning light poured in behind him. Sunlight kissed his skin in long golden strokes, outlining his shoulders, his spine, the strong taper of his waist.
My breath caught hard enough to hurt.
It wasn’t just that he was beautiful—though he was, devastatingly so. It was the way his body moved with quiet confidence as he poured coffee into two mugs, the subtle flex of muscle beneath skin that told stories long before his mouth ever did.
And his tattoos—God…
They sprawled across his back like a living map. Wolves mid-snarl and mid-run, all sharp edges and feral grace. Clockwork gears interlocking with impossible precision, time frozen and yet constantly moving. Serpents winding through it all, coiling around bone and muscle, their bodies etched in dark ink that looked almost alive in the sunlight.
It spoke of chaos and control.—violence and discipline—of Instinct and restraint.
I swallowed the lump at the back of my throat, which felt suddenly dry, my fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of my dress as if grounding myself. This was the first time I was truly seeing him like this.
Just him.
Seeing him raw, uncovered and real made me dazed.
I had always known he was strong. That beneath the charm and measured calm there lived something dangerous, something honed. But this—this was different. Seeing him like this made it impossible to pretend he was untouched by fire.
He looked like a man who had survived things that would have broken most people. A man shaped by shadow and violence and was still standing tall.
God help me.
The contract—the arrangement that had once felt so clean, so controlled—was unraveling thread by thread and I knew it. We had already broken its rules. Lingering touches. Glances that held too much. That kiss last night, amongst others—unfinished and unguarded and real in a way I hadn’t been ready for.
It made me realize that being with him crippled a part of me.
Then again, I felt my defenses loosen even as a familiar warning pulsed beneath the surface.
Suspicion, I still had my quiet suspicion.
I hadn’t forgotten Mia’s words, the files I’d seen, the implications Richard had dropped like poison and Damien’s voice, threading doubt into my bones.
Layla was still helping me investigate him because I was keen on protecting myself from the possibility that the man who made me feel safest might also be the one holding the knife behind my back.
But I wanted to completely believe him with every fiber of my being. I wanted to believe that his silences weren’t lies but shields.
“Good morning,” he said suddenly, without turning.
The sound of his voice slid straight down my spine abruptly.
I blinked. “You always know when I’m standing behind you?”
“I heard your footsteps,” he said easily. “And you smell like lavender.”
Of course he noticed.
He turned then, finally facing me, and the current snapped between us instantly. His eyes moved over me in a slow, deliberate sweep—my damp hair, my bare arms, the way the thin fabric of my dress clung to my waist. I caught something dark and restrained flicker in his gaze.
I lifted my chin, pretending I wasn’t affected by him. “Nice tattoos.”
My voice betrayed me anyway, a faint tremor threading through it.
His mouth curved into a half-smile. “They help keep the nightmares quiet.”
That surprised me enough that my head tilted. “What do they mean?”
He turned back to the counter, picked up one of the mugs, and offered it to me. “Every one of them is a reminder of who I was,” he said quietly. “And who I’m trying not to be anymore.”
Our fingers brushed as I took the mug. The contact was brief, but it sent heat up my arm all the same.
“You’re not that person now,” I said before I could stop myself.
He looked at me then, really looked, his gaze softer, heavier. “You don’t know the whole story yet.”
“Then tell me,” I said, my voice low but steady.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed. The stove hissed softly. The city hummed beyond the glass. Everything waited.
“I will,” he said finally. “But not today.”
I nodded, even though disappointment tugged at my chest.
We stood there sipping coffee, close enough that I could feel his warmth, the morning light wrapping around us like something fragile we were both afraid to break.
Then I wasn’t sure who leaned in first.
Maybe neither of us did. Maybe we just… drifted, drawn together by gravity stronger than logic, despite the secrets, despite the doubt, despite the war circling us. It all amounted to an almost touch, an almost kiss.
Then I moved past him, my shoulder brushing his chest just barely.
But my eyes betrayed me—they lingered longer than they should have, tracing the ink across his shoulder, the powerful line of his back, the serpent coiled over a broken crown.
“See what you like?” he asked casually.
I was startled, heat rushing to my face. “Don’t you own a shirt?” I deflected, setting my mug down a little too hard.
He laughed, unbothered. “With that look on your face? I think I’m good.”
He was enjoying this.
I scoffed and crossed my arms, though the smile tugging at my lips ruined the effect. He turned back to the stove like the air between us wasn’t charged with everything we weren’t saying.
I moved to the dining table and sat, exhaling slowly. My heart still hadn’t found a steady rhythm.
“I can’t believe you actually got me to confess something last night,” he said, almost to himself.
My fingers stilled on the edge of my mug.
“Confess what?” I asked, carefully.
“My feelings.”
His feelings—my mind drifted.
The words landed hard.
“You got me to say it.”
My stomach dropped, I remembered but I didn't dare to say it.
There was no humor in his voice but I looked away, suddenly very interested in a napkin that didn’t need adjusting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “Right.”
He didn’t push further and somehow, that made it worse.
He plated the food and set it in front of me gently—too gently—his hand lingering a fraction longer than necessary.
We ate in silence.
I could feel his eyes on me when he thought I wasn’t looking and the weight of what he’d said settling somewhere deep and dangerous inside my chest.
And that scared me more than anything Damien had ever done.
When I finally spoke again, my voice was barely above a whisper. “You regret saying it?”
He turned off the tap and dried his hands slowly. Then he faced me.
“No,” he said. “I only regret that you don’t believe me.”
I swallowed hard and stood. “I’m going to get some air.”
I didn’t look back when I walked away because the heat that logged between my thighs refused to go away and only God knew what would happen if I entertained the reckless thoughts at the back of my mind if I stayed there.