Chapter 6: Breaking point

Chapter Six: Breaking Point

Morning came like a slap gray light leaking through the blinds, phone buzzing somewhere on the floor like an angry hornet.

Jax hadn’t moved from the bathroom tile in hours. Back stiff, ass numb, legs cramping from being folded too long. The waves had merged into one long, grinding ache that never peaked but never let up either. Like being stuck on a bad shift on the ice, waiting for a line change that never came.

He dragged himself upright using the tub edge. World tilted. Caught himself on the sink, stared at the reflection again. Eyes bloodshot. Lips chapped. Neck gland swollen, pulsing, sticky. Fresh slick was already seeping through his sweats.

He splashed cold water on his face. It ran down his chest, mixing with sweat. Didn’t cool anything inside.

The buzzing started again. He fished the phone out from under the towel rack.

Missed calls: Coach Ramirez (3), Team Trainer (2), Unknown Number (1).

Texts stacked like bad news:

Coach: Hospital. Now. No arguments.

Trainer: Doc wants blood work ASAP. League’s pushing.

Unknown: I’m not coming over. Just checking. Answer if you’re alive.

Jax’s thumb hovered. He almost typed something snarky. Almost.

Instead, he messaged the trainer.

Jax: Coming in at 10. Don’t tell Coach yet.

Sent.

He leaned on the counter until the next cramp eased enough to breathe.

Shower again. Hot this time couldn't’t stand cold anymore. Water pounded his gland. It throbbed in protest, then settled into a duller pulse. For a moment, he thought maybe it was fading.

Then it hit.

Not a wave. A fucking tsunami.

He doubled over, hands braced on the wall, breath punched out of him. Slick poured hot, relentless, running down his legs faster than the shower could wash it away. His cock throbbed, painfully hard, untouched. Inside, the emptiness clawed, clenching around nothing, demanding. Knees buckled. He slid down the tile, arms wrapped around his middle like that could hold him together.

A low, broken sound slipped out—half growl, half whine. He hated it. Hated how small it made him feel.

He rocked forward, forehead to knees, trying to breathe through it. Lukewarm water didn’t matter. Heat rolled through him in pulses, syncing with his heartbeat. Every throb pulled his mind back to the same place: broad shoulders, gray eyes, that low voice promising not to touch unless asked.

His hand moved on its own. Slid between his legs, fingers circling where the slick was thickest. One finger pushed in slow, testing. The stretch burned sweet. He added another. Shallow thrusts. Not enough too thin, too dry compared to what his body demanded but it took the edge off for a moment.

He fucked himself like that, clumsy and desperate, water splashing around him. Imagined it thicker. Hotter. Knotted. Locked deep while a rough voice growled in his ear.

He came with a shudder, spilling over his fist again. Relief lasted thirty seconds before the next contraction hit harder, deeper, leaving him gasping.

Tears pricked his eyes. Not from pain. From frustration.

He couldn’t do this alone anymore.

He knew it. Hated it. But knew it.

He turned off the water. Crawled out, towel wrapped around his waist, legs shaking. Stumbled to the living room.

Phone on the counter. Hands trembling. Picked it up. Opened Kane’s last message. Stared at it. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Jax: I can’t.

Two words. Sent before he could overthink.

Reply in seconds.

Kane: Where are you?

Jax: Apartment. 10th floor. Don’t know if I can buzz you up.

Kane: I’m already in the lobby.

Jax froze. Of course he was. Fucking alpha.

He dragged himself to the intercom. Pressed the button with his forehead because his arms felt like lead.

“Door’s open,” he croaked. Voice wrecked. “Just… get here.”

Silence. Then: “On my way.”

Jax slid down the wall next to the door, sitting on the floor, towel loose around his hips. Fever burned hotter. Ache sharpened. Every second stretched.

Footsteps in the hall heavy, deliberate.

A knock. Soft. Careful.

He reached up. Turned the knob.

The door swung open.

Ronan Kane stood there coat dusted with morning frost, hair damp, eyes dark and steady.

He didn’t step inside immediately. Just looked down at Jax curled on the floor, flushed, shaking and something in his face cracked. Not pity. Not triumph.

Need. Raw. Mirrored.

Jax met his gaze. No fight left.

“I’m asking,” he whispered.

Ronan exhaled sharp, like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

Then he stepped inside.

Closed the door behind him.

And the room filled with pine, smoke, and everything Jax had been fighting since the hit.