Chapter 89: Madeline
The stairs creak beneath my feet, and I can feel him following close behind. Every step sounds louder than it should, like the house itself is holding its breath.
When we reach the top, I stop and turn, not sure what to do with my hands, my voice, anything.
“So… where do you want to go?”
Jake looks down the hallway, calm as ever. Shrugs. “That one,” he says, nodding toward the door on the right.
My door.
I swallow hard. “Okay. That's a bedroom.”
He only lifts a brow. “That’s fine.”
So I open it, and step inside.
He follows, the door closing softly behind him.
It’s like the air changes with that sound. The space feels smaller already, the faint scent of salt and old books, the warmth from the tiny lamp by my bed. I never realized how small it really is—until he’s in it.
I fidget with the hem of my skirt, staring at the floor. My legs suddenly feel too bare, my sweater too thin, my breathing too obvious.
He groans quietly, his head almost touching the ceiling. “How do you stand here?”
I glance up, startled. “I’m not six-something.”
His mouth curves just slightly. His eyes trail down, and then back up again.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You’re not.”
The words shouldn’t feel like that—like they scrape along my skin—but they do.
All night, there’s been this slow, steady heat sitting low in my stomach. From the twins—both of them—always near, always watching. Jake next to me at dinner. Reid behind me on the couch. The weight of their eyes, the sound of their voices, too deep, too calm.
It’s different now. It shouldn’t be, but it is.
No one else is here. No lights from downstairs, no laughter.
Jake steps farther in, scanning the space. “Whose room is this one?”
“Uh.” My voice sounds small. “It's mine.”
He looks around once, then sits down on the edge of my bed.
My heart stutters.
It’s such a simple thing, but it feels… intimate.
I can feel the warmth of him even from where I stand.
I force myself to move—to do something.
“Okay,” I say quickly, trying to sound normal. “So, the stories. I think Reid’s and Charlie’s was true, and Finn and Liam’s was definitely not. And…”
He nods once, as if waiting for me to go on, but the words have died somewhere in my throat.
I can’t seem to breathe right.
He’s still sitting on my bed, elbows resting loosely on his knees, broad shoulders bent just enough that the lamplight runs down the edge of his jaw. The room that always feels small now feels smaller.
Jake’s eyes are almost black in the dim light, fixed on me.
“Come here,” he says.
The sound of it rolls low, a command disguised as a request. It vibrates somewhere beneath my skin.
I take a step—one, slow, measured—and stop halfway. I don’t know why I’m obeying him, only that I am. That I want to, even if every instinct says run.
He tilts his head, the faintest movement, his jaw flexing once.
“Madeline.” It comes out rough, like a growl dragged up from somewhere deep. “Come here.”
The sound of my name does something violent to my heartbeat.
My cheeks are burning, my hands shaking at my sides, but I move again, just enough to stand between his knees.
He flexes his fingers once, as if testing restraint, and then lifts them—slow, deliberate. They hover just shy of my skin, close enough that the heat of him reaches me first.
“May I?”
The question comes out low, almost a rumble. The same words he used at his house, but heavier now.
I manage a nod, barely.
He doesn’t look away when he moves. His fingers trace the curve of my thighs first, a ghost of a touch that barely registers as contact—just heat and anticipation. Then his palms settle, warm and firm against the backs of my legs.
The contrast steals my breath—the softness of my skirt, the rough heat of his hands, the steadiness of his gaze never breaking from mine.
I can feel the weight of every breath between us.
He’s sitting; I’m standing, but our eyes are level.
Every heartbeat feels like it’s echoing off the walls.
I don’t know what to do with my hands.
They just hang at my sides, shaking faintly, useless.
Every part of me itches to touch him back—but it feels forbidden, like crossing some invisible line that would change everything.
Jake studies me for a long moment, his head tilting slightly. The movement’s small, almost feline—curious, assessing.
Then he asks, quietly, “Are you okay here? In this house?”
The question hits out of nowhere.
It takes me a heartbeat too long to understand what he means. I must show it, because his fingers tighten against the backs of my thighs—just a little, but enough to make me feel the strength he’s not using.
“I—yes,” I stammer. “I’m fine.”
He watches me a beat longer, then nods once, thoughtful. “Good. I don’t like the idea of you being somewhere you don’t feel safe.”
My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “If they find me dead, it was Sloane.”
That earns the faintest smirk, a quick flash of teeth. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, but it shifts the air between us again—thicker now, more charged.
He doesn’t move his hands.
I can’t take the stillness anymore. My fingers twitch, and before I can stop myself, I lift one trembling hand.
“May I?”
The corner of his mouth curves again, slower this time. “Yes.”
I press my palm to his chest.
It’s startling—the heat, the weight beneath the fabric. His body is all strength and tension, like he’s carved from something alive but unyielding. His breath moves against my hand, steady and deep, and the sensation runs straight up my arm.
I pull back on instinct, startled by how solid he feels.
He catches my wrist before I can retreat, fingers wrapping around it, steady but gentle.
Without breaking eye contact, he guides my hand back where it was, pressing it flat against his chest again.
Jake exhales then, a sound that feels more like surrender than breath, and gives a small shake of his head.
His hands start to move—slowly, deliberately—tracing up and down the backs of my thighs.
It isn’t rough. It’s measured, careful, like he’s remembering that his strength could bruise and choosing instead to be soft.
He studies my face while he does it, the kind of look that sees too much.
When he finally speaks, his voice has gone quiet, almost thoughtful.
“You really are Trouble.”
The words hang there between us.
It’s what Reid has been calling me since Day one—half a warning, half a nickname.
I never understood it then.
I don’t understand it now.
But hearing it from Jake, softer, heavier, like he’s not sure whether he means it as a threat or a confession—it lands somewhere deep and unfamiliar.
“Jake…”
His name slips out before I can stop it.
His gaze is already on mine—steady, dark, unflinching.
Then, slowly, it drops.
From my eyes to my mouth.
“Yeah?”
The word vibrates between us, rough and low.
My pulse stutters; I can feel it in every part of me.
My throat tightens.
I don’t even know what I'm going to say. Something—anything—to break this pull, to make sense of it.
But before I can breathe, the world below us erupts.
A scream—sharp, panicked—cuts through the house.
Then another.