Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 122

I realize, in the thick of it, that I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to lose the heat of him pressed tight, or the way his heartbeat thuds steady against me like a rhythm meant to calm me.

He shifts just enough that I feel his mouth curve against my ear. His voice comes out low, teasing, but warm. “What’s this, huh? You want me to save the pet names for you?”

The words bite through the haze, send a jagged sound scraping up my throat.

“That it, sweetie?” he adds, dragging it out just enough to be smug.

I scoff, heat crawling up my neck, and shove at his chest harder than necessary. He stumbles back a half-step, laughing like he’s just peeled every nerve raw on purpose.

Smug bastard.

We step out into the night and I fall into stride ahead, hands shoved in my pockets, trying to keep my head down. Of course, Xander’s right behind me. His sneakers hit the pavement easy, unhurried, and I can feel the grin he’s wearing without even turning around.

“You really like me, huh?” he says, casual as anything.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, catching up so we’re shoulder to shoulder now. “I’ll keep your secret safe, sweetheart.”

I cut him a glare, but he’s unfazed, eyes dancing.

“No?” He tilts his head, pretending to think. “What about... darling?... Angel?”

“Christ.” I groan, pushing ahead of him, hoping the pavement swallows me whole.

He laughs again, light but rich, chasing me to the parked bike. “Okay okay, I'll stop....”

But he doesn't, he keeps tossing out ridiculous endearments like he’s auditioning for a part I never agreed to.

“Pumpkin? Honeybun?—”

I grab the helmet off the seat before he can finish the next one. “Here,” I mutter, stepping in close. I hold the helmet up and before he can dodge, slide it over his head. The motion is rougher than it needs to be, my hands brushing against his hair, my knuckles grazing his jaw. He laughs through it, muffled now by the shell, eyes bright behind the visor.

“There,” I say, fastening the strap with more force than finesse. “Finally shut you up.”

His shoulders shake with silent laughter, and I catch the curve of his mouth before the helmet hides it completely.

His apartment is familiar in the way a place becomes when you’ve spent too much time there without ever admitting you belong. I head straight for the kitchen, dropping my keys on the counter with a metallic clatter.

I’m halfway through grabbing the takeout bag from his fridge when his voice cuts from the living room, sharp and incredulous.

“Jax?”

I don’t even need to ask what it’s about. I already know.

I drag myself to the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’s standing by the couch, staring down at the duffel I left there earlier. My duffel. His brows knit, lips parted in confusion, like he’s looking at something that shouldn’t exist in his reality.

“This yours?” he asks, eyes lifting to me.

“It is.” My tone is flat and deliberate.

He frowns, glancing from the bag to the door, then back at me. “When the hell did you bring it over?”

“Earlier.” I shrug. “Just a change of clothes and a few things.”

His mouth parts like he’s about to argue, but his gaze flicks toward the front door again, realization dawning.

“You should really start locking the damn thing,” I tell him, pushing off the frame. Then I turn and head back to the kitchen.

I can hear his footsteps behind me.

“Wait...hold up. You broke in?”

“There was no breaking involved.” I tug open the fridge again, set the takeout on the counter. “The door was unlocked. I just walked in.”

He stops in the middle of the kitchen, still looking like he’s trying to compute the audacity. I ignore the weight of his stare as I unpack the bags, setting containers down in a neat line.

“You stock up my fridge too?” he finally asks, tone caught between disbelief and amusement.

I glance over my shoulder, smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I’ll save that for next time.”

He huffs out a low laugh while shaking his head.

“I got the food from the restaurant I visited,” I say, plating the takeout, sliding one dish into the microwave. “Like you asked.”

That makes him go quiet. He moves closer, until the heat of him is at my side. I lean back against the counter, arms crossing over my chest, waiting for the microwave’s hum to end.

Then suddenly, he’s in front of me....hands braced on the counter on either side, boxing me in. His chest is inches from mine, his eyes locked on me with that sharp, searching intensity that strips me bare.

“Now a good time to talk?” he suddenly asks.

The words drop heavy, and my gut clenches. I knew this was coming. I just hoped we’d skip it tonight. Pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend I could stay here, in this bubble, without it breaking.

“Can we wait until after we eat?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean, thick with the weight I can’t swallow.

His jaw tightens, his eyes never leaving mine. “No. Better to get it out of the way now.”

My arms stay crossed, but I feel the pull in my chest, the drag of inevitability. His closeness makes it harder to breathe, harder to think, but I don’t move.

I should’ve expected this. Xander’s not the type to stall, he doesn’t hesitate when it comes to honesty and shit. He’ll rip the bandage off without flinching, even if it takes skin with it.

When I finally look at him, he’s already watching me, steady and patient in his own sharp way.

“What Nate said earlier,” he starts, voice pointed. “What exactly was he referring to? You said it was a job. What kind of job exactly?”

My jaw tightens. I’ve spent my whole life moving without having to explain myself to anyone, never answering to anybody. And I realize, standing here with him pinning me with that gaze, that I don’t particularly like it. Not about this. Not about a part of my life I’d rather keep untouched.

“What do you think it is?” I throw it back, testing him.

He shrugs, lips twitching into the faintest frown. “I’ve got no idea. That’s why I’m asking. But—” his eyes narrow slightly, “it sounded dangerous and risky.”

I sigh heavily, dragging a hand over the back of my neck. He’s still staring at me like he’s got all night, and I know he does. I let the silence stretch until it hurts before I finally answer with the same thing I told Adam.

That It’s a fight club. I get paid to fight.

His eyes flick away for the first time, darting down like the words need room to settle.

He’s processing.

Then he looks back at me, gaze sharper now. “Those times you showed up injured…” His voice trails, but the end hangs heavy between us.

I nod once. “Yeah. That was mostly because of it.”

He studies me again, this time deeper, like he’s peeling back layers I’ve nailed shut. His brow furrows, and then the question lands, all raw and quiet, it guts me more than I want it to.

“Why?”