Unwanted feels

Rory's POV

I can’t sleep. I don’t even try anymore. I just lie here, curled on top of the silk sheets that don’t feel like mine, in a room that echoes too much like a museum. My thoughts feel like static, humming against the walls of my skull. Every time I close my eyes, I see blood. The silver flash of a knife. The haunting stillness on Damien’s face.

And then, right after that, Indi’s flushed cheeks. Jaxon’s smirk. Damien’s silence.

Everything in this house is cold. Not just the air. The people. Even my own mother feels like she was sculpted from glass.

My hands tighten around the pillow I’ve been hugging for the past hour. My legs are tucked underneath me, one knee slightly sticking out from the oversized hoodie I threw on after the bizarre-like breakfast. The hoodie doesn’t even smell like me. It smells like detergent and unfamiliar drawers.

I hate it here. I hate how I feel in this place. Powerless. Watched. Too visible and yet invisible all at once.

I exhale. Then the door swings open with no knock nor hesitation.

I jolt upright like someone lit a match under my spine. My pulse skitters before I even see him.

Jaxon. Of course.

He walks in like he owns the place because he probably does. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. That same damn half-smirk on his face like he’s perpetually in on a joke I’m not allowed to hear.

“What the hell?” I snap, instantly sitting straighter, my voice cracking the silence. “Do you not know how to knock?”

He shrugs, strolling closer without apology. “Doors are symbolic around here, they're not barriers.”

“Translation, you’re rude.” I say back back to him, obviously annoyed.

“Or maybe just curious.”

I narrow my eyes. “Curious about what?”

He doesn’t answer right away but just stares. And that’s somehow worse. The silence stretches between us, slow and deliberate.

Then he says, “You’ve got a sharp tongue.”

I arch a brow. “Gee. Thanks.”

“That’s not a compliment,” he says, grinning now. “It could get you killed.”

I blink. “What?”

He leans against the edge of my dresser like he’s giving me a casual lecture and not issuing a freaking death warning. “Crescent Hills isn’t like your world. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Aurora. Some of the wolves at the academy won’t take kindly to your little attitude. You’re human. You’ve got no strength. So maybe don’t go around slicing people raw with your words.”

He pauses. His gaze flickers, his tone sharpening slightly.

“And maybe don’t be too curious either,” he adds, his eyes locking on mine now. “Yesterday... if Damien hadn’t been there, things might’ve ended differently for you.”

“What does that mean?” I ask slowly, my chest tightening.

He exhales through his nose. “It means my father’s men wouldn’t have recognized you. They’d have seen a human sneaking around a restricted part of the house, probably assumed you were spying. And they don’t ask questions when they think someone’s a threat.”

I blink. “So they just kill people? Innocent ones? Butcher them like that?”

He doesn’t flinch. “If they have to then yes.”

A hollow feeling spreads in my chest, slow and sour. “That’s what you all do here?”

He tilts his head. “This isn’t your little safe world, Rory. People don’t play by your rules here. So if you want to survive it... you better learn ours.”

I shake my head. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, grinning again. “But I’m not wrong.”

My jaw clenches. “Why do you even care?”

“Who said I do?”

He pushes off the dresser and takes a step toward me.

My breath falters. “Am I affecting you, Jaxon?” I ask, half-mocking, half-nervous.

His smirk deepens. “Absolutely.”

He closes the gap between us slowly, like a predator who enjoys the chase more than the kill. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow casting over my lap.

“What are you doing?” I ask. My voice has lost its edge.

He leans down, his hands still in his pockets, his eyes burning with something dangerous. “You actually have no idea how hot you are, do you?”

His eyes flicker down. Down to my bare thighs, the oversized hoodie bunched just above my knees. His gaze lingers slow and unashamed.

I shift, suddenly aware of everything, my breath, the heat crawling up my neck, the wrongness of how close he is and how little I want him to move away.

I reach up to push him, but he’s faster.

He grabs my wrists gently but firm and pins them to the bed beside my head.

My heart stutters. Hard. His face is inches from mine now. I can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell the leather, mint with cigarettes, wood smoke, the hint of something wild underneath it all.

My chest rises and falls too fast. “Jaxon—” I call, suddenly not knowing what I was going to say.

He tilts his head, eyes dark and glittering. “Forbidden fruits always taste better, dear sis.”

My stomach knots. It’s the way he says it, low, slow, dangerous. Not mocking, not even flirtatious. Just… real. Like he means it.

Our eyes lock and my breath hitches again, and I hate the way my skin reacts. Goosebumps. A deep, pulling ache low in my belly. Something I don’t want. Something I don’t understand.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t okay. And yet, I don’t move.

He studies me for another long second, then releases my wrists with a soft laugh, stepping back as if nothing happened.

“Goodnight, Rory,” he says smoothly, already turning toward the door.

I sit there, my pulse screaming, his wrists still tingling where his fingers were.

When the door closes, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

My whole body is buzzing. Confused. Angry. And worst of all… curious.

I bury my face in my pillow and scream. The silence returns like a tide after a storm.

But I’m not the same girl from an hour ago. Something in me has changed. Hormones? Whatever it was sure wasn't something I liked but found myself wanting.

I feel watched. I feel peeled back like he saw something I’ve spent years hiding behind sarcasm and bitterness.

And I don’t know what scares me more, what he said. Or the part of me that liked hearing it.