Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 188

JAX'S POV

The thing I’ve come to realize about Xander is that he’s smart. Not just clever-smart, not the kind that flashes and fades. He’s the kind of smart that sinks in slow. Everything he says, everything he does, there’s meaning behind it. A thread you only notice when you’ve already walked too far to turn back.

Add that to his patience, that calm, deliberate way he listens, and his maddening directness......and I’ve got nowhere to run. It’s something I’ve gradually come to learn about him, but lately it’s been louder. I can feel it pressing at the back of my skull, waiting for the moment he decides to push. He’s building toward something. I can tell.

He’s not obvious about it, that’s the thing. He’ll make a passing remark, a soft nudge disguised as concern. Drop a suggestion he already knows I won’t go for. Then he’ll leave it alone, like he’s giving me space. But it never really leaves the room.

I had that call with Albert on Sunday. It’s Tuesday now. We agreed I’d go by tomorrow, check out the land, see how I feel about helping out. I said okay.

I’m still not sure what exactly made me offer to help. It’s true, I’m both interested and curious. But that’s not usually enough to make me volunteer myself into someone else’s world. The old me wouldn’t have.

That phrase sticks in my head ....the old me.

Because there’s truth in it. I’ve changed. I can feel it in the way I think, the way I breathe through things that used to send me spiraling. But the problem is, it’s not enough. Not enough to quiet the worry behind Xander’s eyes. Not enough to make him stop trying to mend what’s left of me.

I’m sitting on his couch now, I suggested we come back to his place so I wouldn't constantly worry about those guys coming back.

He’s at the gym, I lean back and cross my arms....when things are still, my head starts working again.

Two days ago, he sent me a link. No text, no explanation ...... just a blue line under black words: “*Facing What You Fear: Understanding Emotional Suppression and Deferred Grief.”*

I didn’t open it. Didn’t even click. I just stared at the title long enough to feel that familiar pull in my chest, the one that says he’s trying again. Then I locked my screen and went on pretending I hadn’t seen it. He never brought it up. Didn’t ask if I’d read it. Didn’t nudge, didn’t hint. That’s his style......quiet persistence, patience that feels like pressure dressed as kindness.

Later that night, when the apartment had gone still he’d been on me, kissing me like he was trying to pull every answer straight from my mouth. His hands in my hair, his breath against my jaw, the kind of closeness that makes you forget where you end and he begins.

And then he’d asked about Andrew.

“Tell me about him,” he said, voice low.

I looked at him, those steady brown eyes that don’t flinch, and asked, “Why?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Because I want to know about him. What he was like.”

But I didn’t play along. I let the silence stretch until it became the answer, and eventually, he let it be.

This morning, before heading out to the gym, he’d been leaning against the counter, an apple in hand, biting into it slow while watching me cook. He said it casually, but not really.... “I asked Layla for her therapist’s number.”

That got my attention.

“She said she’s good,” he went on, watching me carefully. “Thought maybe you could try. Just once a week. You don’t have to, obviously. It’s just—” he paused, pinned me down with that look that always strips me raw, “....I think it’d be good for you.”

He said it like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just touched something I've worked years to not think about.

I didn’t answer, didn’t trust myself to. And he gave me that soft nod he does when he’s pretending to accept my silence, then grabbed his keys and left.

I tell myself it’s not defiance. It’s not pride.

I just don’t know what good it would do to talk about something I can barely name. But Xander doesn’t give up, not when it’s me. He’s the kind of stubborn that wears you down without raising his voice. He’ll keep at it until I’m the one who caves, until I’m the one who brings it up just to make it stop. And that’s when he’ll strike..... calm, sure and gentle, but cutting in all the painful places.

And clearly, it’s working.

Because I’m here, waiting for him to come back from the gym just so I can finally say it.

Stop.

Stop poking at things I’ve spent years learning how to bury. Stop asking questions I don’t have the answers for. And the frustration’s been crawling under my skin for days... that low, humming restlessness that doesn’t go away no matter how many hours I spend pretending to focus. Ever since I told him what happened, that itch has been there. It’s like cracking open that memory let something else slip through, something wild and uncomfortable that refuses to quiet down.

And then there’s Sam.

Calling. Texting. Voicemails piling up warning that if I don’t show up this week, we’re done. I shouldn't bother going back. I know that’s bullshit. Sam couldn’t afford to lose me even if he wanted to. But that’s not the point.

I want to go back.

Because I need it the sharp, physical focus of it. It keeps me steady. Everything else lately feels like it’s slipping somehow, like I’m slipping.

I hear him before I see him..... the slow, steady rhythm of his footsteps down the hall, the soft scrape of the key in the lock. Then the door swings open and there he is. Shirtless and sweat-slicked. Headphones hanging loose around his neck, gym shorts riding low on his hips.

He freezes when he sees me sitting there. Just a flicker, a brief pause before his eyes skim over me, reading me the way he always does. Quiet and so fucking precise. Then he shuts the door, slides the headphones off and holds them loosely in the same hand as his nearly empty protein shake.

My eyes betray me immediately.

They rake over him, slow and hungry. My pulse spikes. That hunger in me.....it’s not new, but right now it feels like a wild, restless thing I’ve been trying to cage all week. We haven’t fucked in days. Which might not sound like much, but for us?

It’s a lifetime.

And I'm guessing that’s the point. It's part of whatever mind game he’s been playing lately. Because it’s him who’s been pulling back like he’s testing me. Turning over my advances with a smirk or a flirty deflection, pretending not to notice the tension he leaves behind. And I can tell he’s doing it on purpose. Even though I don't get what he stands to win by doing so.

And standing here now, he’s almost painful to look at. So damn sexy it borders on cruel. He slowly walks over until he’s a couple of steps away from the couch. His eyes stay on mine.

“Everything okay?” he asks calmly.

I almost scoff, of course it’s not. My arms stay crossed, jaw locked tight. There's that faint glint in his eyes. He’s bait, and I’m the idiot still pretending not to bite. I ignore the pull in my gut that wants to grab him, drag him down to the couch, and remind him who the hell he’s playing with. Instead, I lock eyes with him and say, flatly, “You need to cut it out.”