Chapter 152: Jaxon

Chapter 152: Jaxon
The flight is long. Eight hours of nothing but dim cabin lights, the occasional rattle of turbulence, and the low hum of the engines filling the air.

Paige had been mesmerized when we took off. She had stared out the window, her breath fogging the glass slightly, watching Alderstone shrink beneath us. The roads, the buildings, the streets she had walked on her whole life—all of it fading into something small. Something distant.

I watched her instead.

Watched as her lips parted slightly in awe. Watched as the tension in her shoulders loosened bit by bit. Watched her breathe.

And then, just as the plane broke through the clouds, she turned to me, her green eyes bright, her smile so fucking wide it almost hurt to look at.

"We did it."

Her voice had been soft, a mixture of disbelief and relief, like she hadn’t really let herself believe it until now.

I cupped her face, stroking my thumb over the freckles on her cheek, and pressed my lips to hers.

"Yeah, princess. We did."

And then, just like that, she was out.

She barely even tried to fight it, barely muttered a single protest before she curled into my side, her head resting against my shoulder, her breathing slowing into the steady rhythm of sleep.

I didn’t follow immediately.

I spent a good hour just watching. Watching the rise and fall of her chest. Watching how her fingers curled slightly in her sleep. Watching, always watching.

I didn’t let my guard down.

I never do.

I observed the crew. The passengers. The guy in 14B who had asked for too many refills of whiskey. The woman in 22A who kept checking her phone even though there was no service. None of it seemed off.

Only then did I let myself close my eyes.

Now we’re two hours away from landing in Portugal. Paige is awake. So am I.

She’s got her tray table down, a half-empty can of soda sitting on it, her hand buried in a bag of pretzels as she watches some stupid-ass movie on the tiny screen in front of her.

Some chick flick.

Something about a woman who wants to be a writer but ends up working at some fashion magazine.

I don’t get it.

But Paige?

Paige is eating this shit up.

She mouths along to half the dialogue, her lips forming the words before they even come out of the actors' mouths. She laughs every few minutes, the kind of carefree, genuine laugh I don’t think I’ve ever heard from her until now.

Not Paige, the translator.
Not Paige, the negotiator for the Crimson Circle.
Not Paige, the girl I once threatened to kill before I figured out I fucking loved her.
Not Paige, scared and on the run.
Not Paige, unconscious in a hospital bed.

Just Paige.

Paige, watching her favorite movie, in a seat next to me, on a plane taking her to her dream country.

And fuck.

I’d sit through a thousand of these dumbass movies if it meant seeing her this happy.

The movie ends with some dramatic, heartfelt moment—some shit about dreams coming true and believing in yourself. I don’t really know. I wasn’t paying attention.

I was watching her.

The way her face would light up in certain scenes, the way she bit her lip when she knew her favorite part was coming up. The way she looked so fucking alive in a way I haven’t seen in a long time.

Now, there’s less than an hour left before we land, and I can feel the shift in her energy.

She’s fidgeting, playing with the hem of the hoodie I bought her back at the hospital. Her knee bounces slightly, even though I know it must still ache from all the running we did. She glances at the window every two seconds, like maybe the view will change if she just checks fast enough.

She’s excited.

Restless.

To be honest, so am I.

For the first time in my life, I feel like I can actually breathe. Like the weight of Alderstone—the weight of everything that’s happened there—isn’t crushing me anymore.

Paige turns to me suddenly, eyes bright, lips curling into a soft, curious smile.

"What are you gonna do?"

I blink. "What?"

"You know. When we get there." She tilts her head slightly. "We have to figure something out. We can’t just… exist forever without a plan. We’re young, Jax. We’ll have to work. And—this time—work that doesn’t involve killing people."

I smirk at that. Fair point.

She nudges me lightly. "So?"

That’s a good fucking question.

I lean back in my seat, exhaling slowly, letting myself actually think about it. I’ve never had to before. My entire life was set up for me. I was trained, conditioned, made to do one thing: kill.

Everything I am—everything I’ve ever been good at—has been violent.

But now?

Now, we can be anything.

"I’m a decent cook." I finally say.

She stares at me. Stares.

Then she laughs.

"Wait—what?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"No, no," she says quickly, biting back a grin. "It’s just—I never pictured it."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Yeah, me neither. But we can do anything now, right? So why not?"

She hums in thought, tucking her legs up slightly in the seat, facing me fully now. I love how comfortable she is with me now, how natural it feels.

"I’d love to work in a library or something," she says finally. "Something with books. I mean—I love to read, and I can read in twelve different languages, so I feel like that has to count for something."

I smirk. "That’s actually a great idea."

And it is.

I can picture her there, surrounded by books, completely in her element. I can see the way she’d get lost in them, the same way she gets lost in movies, in stories, in things that make her feel something.

And maybe, for the first time in my life, I actually feel hopeful.

A new life. A new start.

With her.