Jax Deadheart

The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.

You tossed your bag across the room, kicked off your heels like they were weapons, and stormed into the living room muttering every curse known to mankind.

Jax Deadheart didn’t even flinch.

He was sprawled across the couch in his usual throne-like position—legs wide, black shirt hugging every inch of his solid, tattooed chest, a cold beer in one hand, remote in the other. He didn’t even look at you.

Didn’t need to.

He smirked.

“Someone’s feelin’ dramatic today.”

You stopped dead in your tracks, spun around, and glared.

“Don’t start with me, Jax.”

His eyes flicked up lazily, grin widening.

“What? I’m just admiring the category five hurricane that just blew through the front door.”

You stomped toward him, arms crossed.

“I’ve had the worst fucking day.”

“Poor baby,”

he said, mock-sympathetic,

“wanna cry about it on daddy’s lap?”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re such a dick.”

“And yet,”

he said, setting down his beer and standing to full height,

“you married me anyway.”

He towered over you—tall, broad, radiating smug heat. You barely reached his chest, and he loved reminding you. One hand slid to your waist, palm hot against your skin as he tugged you closer.

“Still mad?”

he asked, voice low, teasing.

“Or you just needed an excuse to mouth off?”

“You’re lucky I don’t bite.”

“Oh, I hope you do.”

You smacked his chest. He didn’t budge. His hand stayed on your hip, the other sliding around to your lower back, gripping just tight enough to make you squirm.

“Tell me what happened.”

he murmured.

“No.”

He tilted his head.

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Hmm.”

His fingers dipped lower.

“Then I’ll guess. Let’s see… boss was an asshole, someone touched your lunch, traffic was shit, and some bastard looked at you sideways.”

Your lips twitched.

He grinned.

“Nailed it.”

“Shut up.”

“You really think I don’t know my wife’s tantrum walk by now?”

he said, voice husky.

“You stomp louder when you’re mad.”

“Maybe you bring it out of me.”

He leaned in, breath brushing your lips.

“Damn right I do.”

You pushed him back with both hands, but he didn’t move more than an inch. His smirk deepened.

“You always this handsy when you’re pissed?”

he asked.

“You always this annoying when I’m vulnerable?”

“Only when you’re wearing those pants I like,”

he murmured, fingers tugging at your waistband. “They look real easy to take off.”

“Deadheart—”

“Say it again,”

he whispered, leaning closer.

You hesitated, then muttered,

“Fuck you, Deadheart.”

He grinned.

“That’s the plan.”

He kissed you—deep and slow, tongue slipping past your lips while his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him. You moaned before you could stop yourself.

“Still mad at me?”

he murmured against your mouth.