Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 66

I don’t know what to say to that. The words get stuck somewhere in my throat, too heavy, too fragile to push out. So I just nod. Slow. My gaze slides away because the relief that slams into me is almost too much....I want to smile, but I know if I do, I’ll unravel.

Instead, I reach for his other hand. The knuckles are bruised, skin raw in places, heat radiating off them. I cradle it carefully, like if I press too hard I’ll make him vanish. My thumb ghosts over his split skin as I whisper, “I'll go grab the first aid kit.”

I just need something to do, something else to focus on.

Jax shakes his head lightly, that crooked mouth tilting. “It’s fine. I’ll head home, shower, pop an aspirin.”

I look up, meeting his eyes, and it comes out sharper than I mean...“ They’ll get infected if you don’t clean them.” The thought of him walking away right now leaves a hollow ache in my chest. Something’s still hanging unsaid between us, and I’m terrified that if he leaves, tomorrow I’ll have to claw back everything from scratch. And now that I have him here, this close, the idea of letting go feels… impossible.

My pulse hammers. A reckless thought surfaces, dangerous and unnerving, and I don’t give myself time to argue it down.

“Jax,” I say, voice low, hesitant. “Do you… want to stay over tonight?”

He freezes. For a second, I expect the usual smirk, the immediate yes, the shamelessness that’s so him. But instead, I see him actually weigh it, his brows pulling together as if the question has weight. The silence stretches, taut, before he finally asks, “Are you sure?”

I swallow hard. My heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my ribs. “Yeah. I’m sure. As long as…” I try going for a stern look, even while my stomach knots, “…as long as you don’t think that staying over automatically comes with some kind of...payment plan of the sexual kind.”

His lips twitch, that almost-laugh flashing through his eyes before it burns back into something deeper, something unreadable. He studies me, long enough to make my palms sweat against his skin.

Then he nods. Small and careful. “Okay.”

Just that. And somehow the word feels like a live wire between us, humming with everything we said and didn’t say.

I shouldn’t feel this weird about leading him into my room. It’s just four walls and a bed, not like it’s sacred ground. But when we get there, and Jax's eyes drag over everything like he’s cataloguing my secrets, it feels… invasive. Like I’ve stripped for him without taking a single piece of clothing off.

I point to the washroom, avoiding his gaze. “You’ll find a towel in there. I’ll grab something for you to change into and leave it on the bed.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

I turn to leave, ready to breathe in air that isn’t thick with him, when his fingers close around my arm. Firm. Stopping me dead.

“Where you going?” His voice has that low, velvet-drag edge to it, sharp curiosity laced with something darker.

My brain short-circuits. I don’t know what to say. My pulse kicks, my face heating like an idiot teenager sneaking a crush past curfew. This really isn’t me. I don’t lose my tongue because some guy looks at me like he could burn the room down.

“I’m… uh… gonna go turn off the lights.” The excuse tumbles out, lame as hell.

His lips twitch, a ghost of a smirk he doesn’t bother hiding. He knows.

“ I think I need a hand taking these off,” he says instead, nodding down at his jacket. “Can’t lift my arms.”

I narrow my eyes. “They seemed to be working perfectly fine a few minutes ago.”

That gets me a look, molten and unbothered. His gaze dips to my mouth, then slides up slow. “Maybe I just like your hands on me better.”

My throat goes dry. There it is. The raw, unfiltered Jax...the one who doesn’t bother with masks or careful edits, who cuts straight to the bone and says exactly what he wants. That, I know how to handle. That’s the version of him I first met and somehow got to like, the one who doesn’t give a damn if his unfiltered honesty burns the room down. And God help me, I like him better this way.

Because the quiet, vulnerable Jax, the one who bleeds just under the surface....he scares the shit out of me. He makes me want things I’m not supposed to want. Fills me with unanswered questions and burning curiosity. But this version? I can spar with him.

Only problem is, both versions make my pulse stutter. And right now, with his gaze dragging down my body like he’s already got me mapped out, I don’t know which is more dangerous.

I run a hand through my hair like that’ll shake some sense into me. “Fine. I’ll pretend I believe that.”

He just stands there, expectant...smug.

I step in, closer than I want to admit I want to, and push the jacket off his shoulders. The heat of him seeps through my fingers as I tug it down his arms. He lets out the smallest breath, like he enjoys the attention, and it makes my stomach clench. I ball the jacket in my hand, toss it into the laundry basket, then hook my fingers under the hem of his t-shirt.

“Lift,” I murmur, though he just looks at me, eyes dark, daring. I don’t wait. I grip tighter, pulling the shirt up inch by inch, exposing a stretch of skin that makes my breath hitch. My eyes catch on the mottled bruises scattered along his ribs, ugly reminders of whatever fucking hell he put himself through. I wince before I can stop myself, a sharp tug of something I don’t want to name twisting in my chest.

The sight makes my movements slower, like if I’m not careful, I might make the marks worse just by looking at them. My fingers ease up, tracing with a gentleness I didn’t know I had, as if the act of touching might somehow erase what’s already there.

Muscles shift under my hands, ridges of scars I shouldn’t want to trace. I eventually yank the shirt over his head and throw it aside.

“There. That should do it.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean.

He kicks off his boots with lazy precision, then cocks a brow. “ Yeah...except this damn zipper's a little fussy." His voice drops with challenge. “Mind giving me a hand?”

“Right, of course it is.” I mutter sarcastically. Then I grit my teeth... but my fingers are already on the button of his jeans. Fucking traitors. I tell myself it’s just mechanical....button, zipper, slide down. Except nothing about it feels mechanical when his hips shift closer. My knuckles brush against him through the denim as I tug the zipper down, and I nearly swallow my tongue.

He doesn’t move, just watches me like this is some kind of performance.