Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 24

XANDER'S POV

The knocking’s faint at first, soft enough I almost convince myself I imagined it. My head's foggy from finally crashing, and I cling to the warmth of the sheets like they’ll anchor me back into sleep. No way I’m getting up. Whatever it is, it’ll go away.

It doesn’t.

The knock comes again. A little louder. Persistent, but not aggressive. I groan, peel my eyes open just enough to squint toward my phone. No missed calls. No texts. Just a blaring 1:38 AM and the pit in my stomach starting to churn.

I sit up, slowly. The room’s a mess of half-thoughts and tangled blankets. I rub my face, drag a hand through my hair. I’m up now. Might as well find out who’s ruining my sleep cycle.

I flick on the bedside lamp, wince at the light, then stumble toward the living room, turning on more lights as I go. My heart picks up the closer I get to the door, and I don’t know why, but something buzzes under my skin.

It couldn’t be.

It shouldn’t be.

I lean in, peer through the peephole...and everything in me freezes. Dark blonde hair. Leather jacket. That sharp angle of a jaw even with his head bent.

Jax, no mistaking it. My heart launches straight into my throat.

I open the door a few inches, already mentally drained. “Are you serious? Do you know what time it—”

And then I see him.

The door swings open a little wider without meaning to, my brain short-circuiting mid-sentence.

He's bruised. Jaw darkened, one arm clutching his ribs like something's cracked in there. Blood at the corner of his mouth, dried and crusted. He looks like he went twelve rounds with a sledgehammer and kissed it goodnight after.

And somehow, somehow, he still manages to smirk.

His gaze sweeps me in that slow, deliberate way that makes me wish I’d thrown on a damn shirt. It lands square on my face, amused and sharp and completely unbothered by the fact that he looks like roadkill.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says, voice rough but still dipped in mock-sweetness.

I blink. “What the hell happened to you?”

He shrugs, then immediately winces like the motion rearranged a rib. “Bit of a disagreement. My face didn’t see eye to eye with someone’s fist.”

I cross my arms, the panic now fully replaced by something between exasperation and full-blown concern. “And naturally, you thought bleeding all over my welcome mat was the best way to deal with that.”

He doesn't respond, I stare at him for a second, just one, but it feels like a goddamn hourglass flipped in my chest. He looks like some bruised-up devil out of a noir film. I catch the wince he tries to mask when he shifts his weight. He’s good, too good, at hiding pain. But it’s there, nestled behind the sarcasm in his eyes like a landmine with a thin layer of charm over it.

“You gonna let me in?” he asks, quiet. Rough.

I glance over my shoulder at the apartment behind me. Letting him in feels like crossing a line I’ve been toeing for weeks. A line drawn in static and heat and every single unspoken thing between us.

But Jax just waits. No pleading. No pushing. Just... waiting. And damn it, I hate that.

I step aside.

He walks in like it’s not a big deal. Heads straight to the couch without a glance around and eases himself down with a grunt, muttering something under his breath. Then leans his head back and closes his eyes like he’s home from war. I shut the door behind me and lean on it for a beat, trying to figure out what the hell to do with him.

My gaze lands on his hand.

“Seriously,” I mutter. “You should’ve gone to a hospital.”

His eyes crack open, just barely. " And miss this quality time with you? I like my bruises with a side of sexual frustration. "

I roll my eyes so hard I practically sprain something. Then I shove off the door and head to the bathroom cabinet for the first aid kit. The thing’s dusty.

When I come back, he’s lighting a cigarette, because of course he is. I snatch it from his fingers without asking.

“That’s a really bad habit you've got,” I say, setting it aside on the coffee table.

“I’ve seen you smoke, ” he says, almost accusatory.

“No, you haven’t. I quit.”

He cracks one eye open. “Yeah. About four months ago. I know.”

That stops me. Mid-step, mid-thought, mid-breath.

I look at him. “How the hell do you know that?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Doesn’t matter.”

It matters. But I can’t make my mouth form the questions building in my throat. I can’t let him see what that just did to me. So I kneel in front of him instead and start patching him up. His knuckles are pretty much torn raw, and I hate how gentle I’m being.

I hate even more that he doesn’t flinch when I touch him.

“Why all the fighting?” I ask, dabbing antiseptic on the angry split in his skin.

“Poor social skills,” he says dryly. “And a face that invites punches. Apparently.”

I shake my head.

I tape up his hand, then the other, trying not to let my fingers linger too long on his skin. The room’s quiet except for the sound of my pulse doing double-time in my ears. I should ask him to leave. I should tell him I’m tired and I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for this kind of cryptic drama at one in the fucking morning. I should do something.

But instead, I say, “Why are you here, Jax?”

It hangs. Suspended between us like smoke.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then....softly, like it’s a joke wrapped in sincerity, he says, “I figured you’d be easier to convince when you were sleepy. And I looked pitiful.”

I raise a brow. “Convince me of what?”

He turns to me, entirely too casual for someone freshly bandaged and bruised. “Can I fuck you?”

“No.”

He shrugs. “Worth a try.”

It’s deflection. I see right through it, and he knows I do. That should make it easier to shut him down. To lock the door behind him and call it a night. But instead I stay there, still kneeling on the floor, staring at the worst thing I’ve ever been too curious about. I don’t know how the hell he's so calm.

He's looking at me. And it’s… intense. Uncomfortable. Because Jax doesn’t just look. Not at me. He usually smirks or runs his mouth, throws in a jab or a flirt, something to cut through the weight of him. But now? He’s just staring. Unmoving. Like he's trying to memorize the details of me or burn right through them.

“Stop that,” I mutter, not looking up.

“Stop what?” he asks, voice low and gravelly. I don't answer.