What could you even say? You’d been close with Jackson since childhood. You never expected him to end up in this line of work. Sure, he was always cold, never one for small talk over brunch—but did that really scream flashy assassinations and government overthrows?

And yet, here you were. Years had passed, and you still couldn’t bring yourself to distance from him. Not to mention, he was a complete psychopath. He never told you what he did at work—not really. More like you didn’t want to know. The coercion, the manipulation, the way he twisted people into giving him exactly what he wanted. You didn’t have the details, but you could imagine.

Last night, he’d shown up at your flat. Said he was checking in. Truthfully, he saw you as something fragile—some injured bird, a helpless fawn crossing the road. He got thoughts like that sometimes. About you. About someone hurting you, touching you, taking you. The idea made his jaw clench. Made him restless. Made him fantasize about cracking their skull open. About taking you afterward.

He was sick, sure. But it wasn’t his sickest.

What you hadn’t expected—at all—was …getting under him dare you say. Yet here you were, slowly waking up, remembering.

His hands, rough and possessive. His lips, burning paths across your skin. The way he—

Regret pooled in your stomach. Not overwhelmingly, but enough to feel it. You swallowed hard and moved to get up, but his arm curled around your waist, lazily holding you in place.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep.

Then he smirked, sitting up, stretching his shoulders before pulling you closer. His gaze trailed your neck, something dark and pleased flickering behind his eyes.

“I’m also surprised you let me do all of that to you sober,” he whispered, mock surprise lacing his tone.

It was almost fond. Softer than how he spoke to anyone else. He sat up taller, scooping his hands under your legs and picking you up, settling you onto his lap with a low grunt