Chapter 123
Jackson's POV
Morning light filtered through the pale curtains, casting soft patterns across Ellie's childhood bedroom. I woke on the makeshift pallet, every muscle protesting the hard floor, but none of that mattered when I turned my head and saw her.
Ellie was still asleep, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, dark hair spilling across the pillow like silk. The sunrise painted her face in shades of gold and rose, and her breathing was slow and even—the kind of deep, peaceful sleep that told me she felt safe here.
Our mate, Orion rumbled with deep satisfaction. Safe. Perfect.
I couldn't resist. Moving carefully to avoid making the floorboards creak, I leaned up and pressed the gentlest kiss to her forehead. Her skin was warm, and she made a small sound in her sleep, something between a sigh and a hum that made my chest ache with tenderness.
I needed to get up, to shower before her parents woke, but for just a moment longer, I let myself watch her. Let myself feel the weight of what we'd started last night—the trust, the restraint, the promise of something more when the time was right.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I grabbed it quickly, silencing it before the sound could disturb Ellie. The screen showed a message from Miles, sent half an hour ago: "Had fun playing house with your mate? Call me when you remember you have responsibilities beyond your hormones."
The warmth in my chest evaporated, replaced by cold tension. I glanced at Ellie—she stirred slightly. I forced myself to breathe slowly, to calm down before my agitation somehow woke her.
Not now, I thought grimly. Not here.
I slipped out of the room and made my way to the small balcony off the upstairs hallway. December air hit me like a slap, sharp and clean, clearing my head instantly. My breath formed white clouds as I dialed Miles's number.
He picked up on the first ring. "Finally. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how to use a phone."
"It's barely eight in the morning," I said, keeping my voice low. "What do you want, Miles?"
"What do I want?" His laugh was bitter. "I spent yesterday smoothing things over with the Frost family—you know, the ones you embarrassed me in front of when you rejected their daughter sight unseen? I had to practically grovel, Jackson. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?"
I stayed silent. Miles was venting, and I knew from experience that interrupting would only make it worse.
"But that's not why I called." His tone shifted, became serious. "I need to tell you something about what happened to your mate. The drugging incident."
My hand tightened on the phone. "What about it?"
"It wasn't my people."
The words didn't register at first. "What?"
"The person who drugged Ellie—it wasn't anyone I sent. Dylan just reported something that changes everything."
My heart was pounding now, each beat echoing in my ears. "What do you mean it wasn't—put Dylan on."
There was a rustling sound, then a new voice—Dylan's voice, which I immediately recognized as the one that could turn a simple mission report into a three-act drama.
"Oh, Mr. Jackson! Good morning, sir! I hope you slept well!"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Dylan. The report. Now."
"Right! Yes! Of course!" He cleared his throat dramatically. "So, as I was telling Mr. Miles—and I really should have mentioned this sooner, but you know how it is when you're just trying to get the job done efficiently, and details seem unimportant at the time, though in retrospect everything is important, isn't it? My grandmother always said—"
"Dylan."
"Right! So we arrived at the Moonlight Lounge—beautiful place, by the way, really classy establishment, you could tell Miss Green and her friends have excellent taste in venues, though the security situation left much to be desired, not that I'm complaining because if the security had been better we probably wouldn't have gotten in so easily, which would have made our job much harder—and we went to retrieve Miss Green, just as Mr. Miles instructed. Very clear instructions, I might add. Mr. Miles is always so precise, which I really appreciate because ambiguity in orders can lead to—"
"Get to the point," Miles's voice growled in the background.
"Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" Dylan's voice picked up speed. "Miss Green was already unconscious when we found her. Already! Can you imagine? There she was, lying on this absolutely hideous bedspread—seriously, who chooses lime green floral patterns?—and standing over her was this young man. In his twenties, I'd say. Average height, maybe five-ten? Brown hair, needed a haircut. Had this look in his eyes like a puppy that knows it's done something wrong and is about to get swatted with a newspaper. You know the look I mean?"
Despite everything, I felt a flicker of—something. Not quite amusement, but Dylan's rambling was so absurdly detailed that it cut through some of my tension.
"Describe what happened," I said, my voice still hard.
"Well, he kept looking at the door—like every three seconds, swear to God—and wringing his hands. Literally wringing them! Like some Victorian maiden in distress! And when I walked in and said we were there to, you know, 'teach her a lesson' as per our cover story, his whole face just—" Dylan made a whooshing sound. "—lit up like Christmas morning! He practically shoved Miss Green into Raphael's arms—Raphael wasn't happy about that, by the way, he'd just gotten that shirt cleaned—and said, and I quote, 'Thank God, I didn't want to do this anyway.'"
My blood ran cold. "And then?"
"And then he bolted! Just—gone! Down the stairs like his pants were on fire! We didn't think much of it at the time because, well, mission accomplished, right? We had Miss Green, we got her out safely before anything worse could happen, and honestly, sir, I thought we'd done a pretty good job considering—"
"Why didn't you report this before?" The words came out sharp, cutting.
Dylan's voice became very small. "We... we usually only report results, sir. Not every tiny detail of acquisition. Mr. Miles never asked about the specifics of who had her, just whether we retrieved her successfully, and we did, so I thought... I mean, I didn't think..."
His voice trailed off, and I could practically hear him shrinking under my anger.
"Jackson." Miles's voice cut through, sharp with authority. "Dylan. Explain why you're bringing this up now."
"Well, sir—Mr. Miles, I mean—" Dylan's words tumbled out in a rush. "You've been sighing a lot this week. Like, a lot a lot. Big, heavy sighs. The kind my mother makes when she's disappointed but trying not to say anything. And you kept looking at your phone like you were waiting for Mr. Jackson to call, and when he didn't, you'd sigh again, and then you'd stare out the window all brooding-like, and Raphael said—"
"Dylan."