Chapter 2 - The Sanctum of the Beast
When Maren opened her eyes again, the smell of fryer grease and bleach was gone.
Instead, her senses were filled with the rich scents of cedarwood, soft lavender, and crisp white linen. She was lying in a king-sized bed inside a massive, dimly lit bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glowing skyline of downtown Charlotte.
A soft drip echoed beside her. A top-tier private surgical team had been brought into Jaxson Vance’s private estate high in the hills. Her ribs had been set, her internal bleeding stabilized, and a fresh IV was slowly pumping fluids into her vein.
Standing near the window, staring out at the rain with a glass of scotch in his hand, was Jaxson. He had shed his ruined jacket and wore a crisp, dark blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing intricate dark tattoos tracing his skin.
"You're awake," Jaxson said softly, turning around without making a sound on the thick rug.
"Where... where am I?" Maren asked, her voice raspy. She tried to sit up, but a sharp pang in her side made her wince.
"Don't move," Jaxson ordered, stepping to her bedside in two long strides. He placed a warm, steady hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her back down against the plush pillows. "You are at my private residence. You lost a dangerous amount of blood, Miss Solis."
Maren blinked in shock. "You... you know my name?"
"I know everything about you now," Jaxson replied coldly, though his touch on her shoulder remained remarkably gentle. "Maren Solis. Twenty-four years old. An orphan from Raleigh. Working sixty hours a week to pay off your late mother's medical debt while renting a basement studio in South End."
Maren turned her head away, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable. "I don't need charity, Mr...?"
"Vance. Jaxson Vance," he provided smoothly. "And this isn't charity, Maren. The men who attacked you committed a crime on my territory. In my world, an attack on an innocent worker under my sky is a direct challenge to my rule."
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. His dark scent enveloped her—expensive cologne, fine tobacco, and pure danger.
"I have my best doctors taking care of you," Jaxson whispered, his eyes locked onto hers. "Until you are completely healed, you do not return to that diner. You do not return to Queens or South End. You stay here, where no one can touch you."
"Why?" Maren whispered, her heart fluttering violently against her bandaged chest. "Why would a man like you care about a nine-dollar-an-hour waitress?"
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Jaxson reached out, his thumb gently tracing the faint, fading bruised cheekbone on her face.
"Because when I looked into your eyes on that filthy floor," Jaxson said softly, "I saw a fighter who refused to submit to death. And I never let go of something rare."
