Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 14

XANDER'S POV

The moment Jax turns back to face the shit head, I know something's about to happen...something ugly. That expression he wears isn’t just anger. It’s hunger. It’s that quiet, lethal kind of fury that looks carved into his bones. His boots crunch slowly over the gym floor like he’s stalking game in the wild, and the idiot still kneeling in front of him is too busy wheezing to know it.

Then Jax speaks.

“My God…” he drawls, voice like gravel dipped in honey. “Look at you. On your knees like you were fucking built for it.”

The guy mutters something, probably another insult, but Jax cuts him off with a tilt of his head and a smile that’s all venom. He takes a step closer, crouches just slightly...enough to loom, to assert.....and says it with the kind of lazy disdain that should terrify anyone with a survival instinct,

“What if I throw you a twenty? And you suck both our cocks. Bet that mouth’s better at wrapping around dick than it is at spewing shit.”

The guy snaps. “You fucking—”

He tries to push up to his feet, like that’s going to go well for him. Jax just presses a hand to his shoulder, and down he goes again, graceless and embarrassed.

“Apologize,” Jax says simply. No heat, no shout...just pure ice. “Now.”

“Fuck you,” the guy spits, eyes blazing.

Jax doesn’t respond with words this time. His fist does the talking. The guy’s head jerks back with a wet crunch, blood immediately blooming from his nose. Then comes the kick, fast and brutal to the gut. The sound he makes is something between a sob and a scream, but Jax doesn’t flinch. He’s calm. Still. Controlled in that terrifying way that says this isn’t rage....it’s pleasure.

He reaches down, lifts one of the dumbbells I dropped earlier. It's not light. Neither is the look in his eye.

“Apologize,” he says again. Calm as death. Like he’s just asking for the time.

He raises the weight, and my heart kicks into gear. He’s going to hit him. He’s actually going to bring it down.

“Jax,” I say. My voice isn’t loud. It’s not a yell. It’s not a demand.

It’s a warning.

And maybe he hears something in it, because he brings the weight down…just not on the guy. The dumbbell slams into the floor right beside the asshole’s leg, loud enough to make half the gym jump. Including me.

The guy flinches like he's been shot. “Jesus...okay! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Jax laughs. It's dark, twisted. Like it came from a place somewhere deep and broken and far too used to blood. The guy scuttles back on hands and heels like a crab, scrambling toward the exit. His hands slip in his own spit and maybe some of his own blood. I can’t even look away.

The gym is silent now. Everyone’s watching. And not in the way I usually like. Not in the flattering, admiring way. This attention? It’s cold. Heavy. I feel it settle on my skin like a chill.

I look at Jax....at the relaxed posture, the low set of his shoulders, and I remember.

That first time I saw him two years ago in that alley. A flash of red, the thud of knuckles on jawbone, the sick wet sound of a man crumpling. I'd stood there, frozen, watching this stranger break someone apart like it meant nothing.

And then there was him the other night at Ritual, beating the crap out of the guy who'd pushed Layla down the stairs. No remorse, no hesitation.

And him with Shawn before that....

That was Jax.

This is Jax.

And I’m only just now realizing… he likes it.

He likes the danger. The chaos. The way most people shrink back from him when he walks past. He likes being the reason they do. And God help me, a part of me still wants to taste that madness. Wants to touch the flame. But now an older, warier part is wondering just how long before I get burned.

I watch him grab my towel from my gym bag and drag it across his slightly bloody knuckles. None of the blood is his, he's wiping slow, eyes fixed on mine like he’s daring me to say something.

“Guess I need to start showing up more often,” he says, too casually. “You know, keep the assholes away. Crazy world out here. Full of creeps. Stalkers. Fucking psychos.”

I scoff sharply, because what else am I supposed to do? How should I react to that?

“Only creep here is you,” I mutter, grabbing my zip up hoodie. “And what you need is a damn filter for that mouth of yours.”

His smile sharpens like a blade. “May I suggest your cock?”

My brain short-circuits. Just, blank static for a full three seconds. I stare at him like maybe if I squint hard enough, I can see the part of his soul that isn’t completely deranged.

Too late. It’s there now. The image. Burned into the back of my skull like a fucking tattoo. What would it feel like? Something tells me I'm not ready for that answer yet.

He leans in a little, voice lower, all heat and menace. “You like that, don’t you?”

I blink at him. My brain should be focusing on the guy he nearly pummeled into a coma, on the blood still drying on his damn knuckles. But no...it's stuck on his mouth. His words. That low, smug rasp that coils around my gut.

He doesn’t wait for me to respond.

“Bet you’ve thought about it.” His lips curve into that slow, dangerous smirk. “Me, sucking you off so good you'd start showing up just to fight, hoping I'd do it again. Bet your dick’s getting hard right now just thinking about it.”

I hate that he’s not wrong. Hate it even more that he knows it.

He doesn’t stop.

“I’d make you come so hard, you’d swear I rewired your goddamn brain. And you’d probably still pretend you’re not into it.” He tilts his head. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

This is insane. He’s insane. I'm insane. Every part of this is wrong. Messy. Dangerous.

I throw the blood stained towel he placed back in my bag at his face and turn before I start thinking even dumber shit.

I grab my stuff and head for the door. I expect the usual routine, him glued to my ass like a horny shadow, throwing out lines just to get a rise out of me. Poking the bear and daring it to maul him.

But nothing. No footsteps behind me. No sleazy commentary trailing my steps.