Chapter 151: Jaxon

Chapter 151: Jaxon
The line inches forward, the steady murmur of voices filling the space around us, but my focus is on her. It’s always on her.

Paige stands beside me, arms folded, shifting her weight slightly, still favoring her injured leg. She’s doing better, but not as much as she’d like. I know it frustrates her. The way she bites the inside of her cheek when she has to move slower. The way her hands twitch when she wants to be able to do things on her own. She hates feeling like a liability. But she isn’t. Not to me. Never to me.

We’re full. More full than we’ve been in weeks. The meal we had before boarding sits warm in my stomach, but it’s not just the food that has me feeling different. It’s the certainty in my veins, the knowledge that this is real. That in a few hours, we won’t be looking over our shoulders anymore. No more Alderstone. No more gangs. No more threats looming over us.

I glance down at Paige, watching as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. She looks lighter already.

"Next."

Paige moves forward first, pulling out her fake passport. I watch every second as the flight attendant takes it, glances down, then up again.

A pause.

The kind of pause that puts my entire body on edge.

The woman studies her, her brow furrowing just slightly, lips parting like she might ask something.

My fingers curl into the strap of the duffel bag, my muscles tensing. If she questions her, if she makes a call, if she hesitates for a second too long—I’ll end this before it starts.

But then, she nods.

She scans the pass, hands it back.

Paige exhales, giving a polite smile before stepping through.

I step up next, keeping my expression blank as I pass my documents over. The same pause. The same flicker of hesitation.

Another nod.

Another wave through.

Just like that, we’re in.

We move down the jet bridge, the hum of the engines vibrating beneath us, the faint scent of jet fuel mixing with the cool, processed air. My eyes sweep the area, a habit I don’t think I’ll ever shake.

Always watching. Always checking.

Paige walks ahead of me, a little slower, and I resist the urge to reach for her, to keep my hand at the small of her back, to touch.

We find our seats—window for her, aisle for me. She lowers herself carefully, adjusting until she’s settled, her head leaning against the window as she exhales slowly.

I slide the duffel bag under the seat, pressing it in place before sinking into my own.

This is it.

This is so fucking close.

I let out a slow breath, raking a hand through my hair before turning to look at her.

Paige is staring out the window, her fingers absently tracing along the cool glass. The dim cabin lights soften the edges of her face, highlighting the delicate slope of her nose, the faint freckles on her skin.

She’s here. With me.

For the first time in forever, something about this life feels like it actually belongs to me.

I’ve wanted to leave this world behind for years.

Long before Paige.

Long before I realized that the only thing worse than staying in this life was dragging her into it.

But since meeting her? Since saving her, time and time again? Since watching her fight and refuse to fucking break? Since holding her while she bled out in my arms, gripping her hand like my own goddamn life depended on it?

I’ve wanted to take her away.

Not just from Alderstone.

Not just from the Black Vipers.

From everything.

Because my entire life, I’ve been owned.

By the gang. By blood debts. By rules I never got to make.

But Paige?

She’s the first thing I’ve ever wanted to claim for myself.

I tilt my head back against the seat, but my mind is already dragging me into memories.

The first time she mentioned Portugal.

It was at Tobias’ mansion. A prison made of marble and glass, dressed up to look like a home. One of the many guest rooms, locked from the outside, trapping her inside its elegant walls. There was nothing in there that screamed captive—a king-sized bed, luxurious furniture, a balcony that overlooked the manicured gardens—but it didn’t matter. It was still a cage. And Paige wasn’t the type to be kept in one.

She didn’t know I was watching her. She never knew.

A camera sat in the corner of the room, hidden in the molding near the ceiling, its lens fixed on her every move. I wasn’t supposed to be monitoring it—Silas had assigned someone else for that. But the second I knew she was in there, the second I saw her storming through the halls, wrists bound, fighting against the guards like a wild fucking animal, I found a reason to take over.

And so I watched.

For hours.

Watched her pace the room, muttering to herself, eyes blazing with anger. Watched her throw herself against the locked door more times than I could count, her fists pounding until her knuckles turned red. Watched her tear apart the room, knocking over lamps, yanking books from shelves, like maybe—just maybe—if she destroyed enough of their shit, someone would get so pissed off that they’d be stupid enough to unlock the door and come inside.

It never worked.

But she never stopped trying.

Then Silas had come in, all cool confidence, that fucking smirk on his face, holding a plate of food like he was doing her a favor.

"Thought you might be hungry, sweetheart."

She hadn’t even hesitated.

She threw the plate back at him.

It shattered against the wall, the food splattering onto the expensive carpet like a statement.

And then she started yelling.

Yelling like she wanted to tear the whole mansion down.

"You think this life is something to be proud of?! You think locking people up makes you powerful?! You’re all fucking pathetic! If I could leave tomorrow, I would! I’d go to Portugal, or Thailand, or any place where I’d never have to see any of your faces again!"

Back then, it had pissed me off.

Her screaming, her defiance, the fire in her voice.

It had grated on my nerves, made my jaw clench, made my pulse race with something I couldn’t put a name to yet. I wanted her to shut up. Wanted her to stop pushing.

But now?

Now, I realize it had pissed me off because I wished—for the first time in my life—that I could make it happen for her.

That I could be the one to get her out.

That I could pull her away from all of it, from Tobias, from Silas, from the kind of life that would chew her up and swallow her whole.

And then there was the motel.

Weeks later.

The two of us tangled in sheets, her body warm against mine.

We weren’t captor and captive anymore. We weren’t enemies.

She had been softer that night, the sharp edges dulled, the walls she kept around herself not quite as high. We had been talking about everything and nothing, her voice sleepy, her fingers tracing nonsense patterns against my chest.

"Portuguese food is my favorite," she had murmured. "I could eat it every day."

And now?

Now she’s going to.