Stillness pressed in first. Not the soft, soothing kind, but sharp, almost metallic, scraping against my nerves. I barely noticed the room anymore; its elegance dissolved into shadows at the edge of my vision. What consumed me was the frantic thud of my pulse and the gravity of Jaxon as he sank to one knee before me, his eyes steady, unyielding, leveled with mine.
I perched at the edge, the lace of my gown spilling over the sheets like water. My heart pounded so hard my hands shook when I tried to still them. His palms rose, deliberate and unhurried, cupping my face. Warmth spread through me as his thumbs brushed across my cheekbones with a tenderness that should have soothed me.
"You're trembling," he murmured, searching my eyes as though he could read every thought behind them. "Are you nervous?"
I tried to smile, but the corners of my lips faltered. Nervous wasn't the right word. Fear coiled low in my stomach—not of Jaxon, not exact, but of the perfection wrapped around him. Perfection that might one day crack, like my father's smile had, revealing something monstrous underneath.
He leaned closer, his breath soft against my skin, his voice almost a vow. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Brianna."
The words were gentle, but they landed like a stone. My heart clenched. I yearned to lean into him, to let his warmth burn the doubts away, but my body betrayed me—I flinched. A slight movement, barely noticeable.
Jaxon froze. His hands, once cradling my face, stilled as though I had turned to glass. His gaze, steady and unshakable until now, flickered with something raw—confusion first, then hurt.
"Brianna," he said at last, his voice quieter than before, tinged with steel. "Do you not trust me?"
The space between us tightened like a pulled thread. I swallowed hard. "I do," I answered quickly, too sharply, the words tumbling out like a defense, not a truth.
He rose, the grace in his movements edged with restraint. His jaw flexed once, his breath heavier than before, though his voice remained poised, like water before it breaks into waves.
"I married you because I believed you were ready to walk into this life with me," he said. His eyes lingered on mine, steady but distant now. "But if you're already doubting me…" His pause was deliberate, heavy. "…then what are we building here?"
I really desired to tell him. That it wasn't him I doubted—it was me, my past, the shadows that had followed me here. That his perfection scared me, not because I didn't love him, but because I did. My body seized up, and the words stayed buried.
The silence between us swelled until it filled the room. Jaxon's hands slipped from my face, his warmth fading quickly, leaving the chill of the marble floor to creep in. He straightened, his shoulders taut, his expression carefully smoothed into something unreadable.
I hated that look. I would rather he shouted, demanded, anything—but Jaxon was not my father. He did not explode. He withdrew.
He turned from me, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt, each button undone with the precision of a man channeling his temper into control. The faint rustle of fabric sounded louder than it should have. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost flat.
"I won't force you, Brianna. Ever. But I need you to understand—this marriage cannot survive if you see me as your enemy."
His words should have comforted me, but instead they pressed against the very fears I was trying to bury. Enemy. The word rattled through me, sharp and heavy, close to the memories I still carried.
I drew the gossamer from my lap and folded it; my fingers trembling with the effort to keep them steady. "I don't see you that way," I said, softer than a whisper, almost ashamed. "I just… don't know how to stop being afraid."
Because deep down, I was scared that if I gave in fully—if I handed him every part of me—he would change for some reason. And once he changed, I would have nowhere left to run.
Jaxon stilled at the dresser, his back to me, hands braced against the wood as though steadying himself. For a moment, I thought he might turn, close the distance between us, pull me back into his warmth. But he didn't.
Instead, he exhaled, the sound controlled but heavy, and reached for a glass of water. His reflection in the mirror caught mine, and though our eyes met in the glass, neither of us moved.
"Rest," he said finally, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "It's been a long day."
Then he crossed the room and lowered himself onto his side of the bed, every movement precise, restrained, as though his body was a map of discipline. He lay down without looking at me, one arm folded behind his head, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.