Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 76

I slip the card back, slide the folded paper free. It’s worn, edges frayed, soft like it’s been handled too much. I expect it to be nothing....a receipt, maybe, or some old note. But as I unfold it, my chest tightens.

It’s a photo.

And the second I see him, my breath sticks.

Jax smiling. Not the rare twitch of his mouth I sometimes manage to wrestle out of him, not the sarcastic smirk...no, this is wide, open, reckless joy. A younger version of him, eyes bright, shoulders loose. Holding up a beer bottle like he’s in the middle of a toast.

And he’s not alone.

Four other guys crowd the frame, table buried under food. My eyes skim over three of them, nameless, faceless background noise. But the last one...my gaze stutters there.

He’s pressed close to Jax. Real close. His arm hooked around Jax’s shoulder, hand resting with easy ownership. And the way he’s looking at him…. That’s not friendship. That’s affection carved right into his bones.

Something ugly stirs in me. A sharp, stupid jealousy I’ve got no right to feel. It claws up before I can choke it down, because the fact that Jax carries this around...folded, hidden, protected...has to mean something.

And I’d been so sure he’d always been this way. Closed off, cold, untouchable. But here’s proof. He wasn’t.

I don’t hear footsteps or the door opening until it’s too late.

“ Do you happen to own a chopping board or—”

His voice cuts off.

I look up. Jax stands frozen in the doorway, eyes locked on my hands. And then, in a flash, the mask slams down....hard, dark, deadly.

He’s on me before I can speak, crossing the room with a violence that doesn’t need sound. He snatches the photo, the wallet, both ripped clean from my fingers.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice is low, sharp enough to cut.

“I...I’m sorry, I just—”

But he doesn’t wait for excuses. Doesn’t let me scramble for air. He’s already halfway to the door, shoulders coiled, fury radiating off him in thick waves.

“Jax—”

The slam of the door is louder than my voice.

And then he’s gone.

I run a hand through my hair, tugging hard enough at the roots that it stings. This can’t be happening again. Not when we were finally finding some kind of rhythm. Not when it felt like we were moving toward something steady, something that could last if we didn’t fuck it up.

I wait for the inevitable slam of the front door. For the sound of him storming out of my life like a ghost that never wanted to be seen in the first place.

But it doesn’t come.

I step out of the bedroom, heart lodged somewhere between my throat and chest, and stop dead.

He’s in the kitchen.

Relief hits so sharp it’s almost painful. But the sight of him takes the edge off immediately. He looks strung tight, coiled with a kind of anger that simmers more than it explodes. He’s at the sink, scrubbing his hands like he’s trying to scrape something off more than just skin. Then he shuts the water off, grabs a peeler, and sets into a potato with single-minded ferocity.

I hover in the doorway. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even acknowledge I exist. Just keeps peeling, movements sharp, every muscle in his arms taut like wire.

“I shouldn’t have pried,” I say finally, my voice rough.

“No. You shouldn’t have.” His answer is immediate, sharp as broken glass.

It slices through me. Normally, the sight of Jax pissed-off or frustrated is a dark sort of turn-on. The kind that does wicked things to me. But not now. Now it just makes me feel guilty, off-balance and unsure.

“I’m sorry,” I try.

Nothing. Not a flicker.

I move closer, crossing to the counter. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t pause, just keeps shaving thin ribbons of potato skin that curl and fall away like he wants to skin the damn thing down to its bones. Every motion brimming with anger.

“I was just curious,” I say, softer. “Can you blame me?”

That makes him stop.

Finally, he looks up.

The weight in his eyes is so intense it makes me want to step back, but I don’t. I plant my feet. “Quit glaring at me like that,” I mutter, though my chest feels too tight and my voice comes out rougher than I mean it.

He doesn’t answer. Just drops his gaze and goes back to peeling, harder this time.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Heavy enough to press on my ribs. I watch him for a beat...watch the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens, and the whole vibe makes me itch. I don’t want this. I don’t want a wall growing between us, not when we’d finally torn a few down.

So I move.

Around the counter. Walking slow enough so he knows I’m coming. I can see the tension coil tighter in his shoulders the closer I get, his body bracing.

I step in behind him and slide my arms slowly around his torso, pulling him back against me. Cautious at first, then firmer.

He freezes. “What are you doing?” His voice is low and even, but there’s a strain beneath it, something wary.

“I shouldn’t have done that. Curiosity got the better of me.“ I murmur against his shoulder.

He huffs something that isn’t quite anything.

"I won't ask. So don’t take it out on the potatoes....you’re gonna skin them alive before they even hit the pot.”

I press my lips to the back of his neck, soft and steady. Then another, lower. He’s still tense, but I feel the shift in him...the slow, reluctant uncoiling.

He sets the peeler down and finally turns until he’s facing me.

His eyes still carry weight, something dark and unspoken clinging to the edges, but he looks at me....really looks. I brace for words that don’t come.

Instead, he presses his forehead to mine. His breath ghosts warm across my skin. And then, like a sucker punch wrapped in tenderness, he kisses me there, right between my brows.

It’s so gentle it knocks me off balance, steals the air from my chest. Fond in a way I didn’t think he knew how to be.

It leaves me staggered, gutted in silence.

And then he pulls back like nothing happened, turning smoothly toward the counter again. Like he didn’t just crack my ribs with a gesture that quiet. His voice is steady, neutral, but the moment lingers in my bones like an echo.

“Can you rinse the pots I put over there?”

I swallow, throat dry, and force myself to nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

My hands move, but my chest is still buzzing where his lips touched, like he left a mark no one else will ever see.