Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: This one came out in slightly less time than the last chapter, but I'm still sorry for the wait. Thank you all for your patience and for your wonderful reviews, especially those of you who sign anonymously because I'm not able to personally respond! I hope you enjoy Chapter Five, as always. Fingers crossed for a speedy Chapter Six! ;)

Lisa awoke the next morning with a start. She was wet. That much was apparent by the water pooling at her side. She also had blood on her face. This discovery came about by the smearing of blood all over her pillow and the top of her bed sheet. And she was not alone. She knew this because 185 pounds of bleeding male was snoring beside her. The events of the previous night stumbled to the forefront of her mind, along with an all-encompassing headache.

Stifling a groan, she shifted slightly so that she was facing Jackson. His nose had started bleeding again in the night, evident by the blood that once more covered his face and now her bed and her self as well. She felt around the puddle at her waist until her hand clutched the empty Ziploc bag.

Great, she thought, cursing her stupidity. Somehow, in her haste to heal a murderer, she forgot that ice had a tendency to melt. After chucking the sodden plastic over the edge of the bed, she settled more deeply into the covers, unwilling to get up despite the uncomfortable nature of her bed. Instead, she regarded the murderer in question, curious to see how he looked in sleep. Expecting the vulnerable, softened expression that most would have while sleeping, she was a bit surprised to see tension infused in every feature, from his tightly clenched jaw to his drawn eyebrows. No peace for Jackson Rippner, even in slumber. The same feelings of pity that she'd had when she'd seen his scars welled up in her again. She unconsciously lifted her hand to sweep some falling hair off his bruised face.

Before her hand had even touched him though, he inhaled sharply and opened his eyes. Startled, she gasped slightly as his cold, blue gaze made direct contact with hers. They stared at each other for a moment before he groaned, low but loud, deep in his throat. He produced a hand out from somewhere under the covers and gingerly touched his face where deep, dark circles stood out under his eyes, then moved it over the bridge of his nose. He winced lightly at the contact and groaned again.

"I feel like I got hit by a plane," he rasped, shutting his lids once more.

She allowed herself a half-smile at his choice of words. "You look it."

He opened one eye half-mast, regarding her dryly for a beat before closing it again without a word.

She continued to watch him, trying to decipher the feelings that rumbled in her breast. There was the pity there, again, but her heart also no longer clenched in anxiety and fear at the sight of him. For once, she refused to shy away from this and actually think about it for a moment. She knew that there had been a part of her, a sick, twisted part deep down, that had made her peace with Jackson as he lay bleeding in her father's front hallway. Their eyes had met and an understanding had passed between them, attacker to attackee with neither one knowing which was which. While the reappearance of this man had caused a great many disturbances in her life, it hadn't been such an obstacle to accept him, in a way. To take him for who he was and to expand her mind into allowing him to become a part of her life. She wasn't as rigid and overbearing as people believed. She had been soft once, carefree. Most of all, she was desperate for something. Desperate to feel again, to break out of the monotony that she had allowed herself to fall into; the safeness in familiarity that had become all-too safe and all-too familiar. And, as was almost every woman's folly, she sought to break free from this ennui with the archetypal bad boy.

Although, her "bad boy" of choice was a ruthless, terrorist-assassin who had threatened her very life and the life of her family and friends in a plane thousands of feet in the air.

But then again, Lisa Reisert had never been known to do things halfway.

As deranged as it was, Jackson had been more helpful in pulling her out of her post-traumatic shell in the time she had known him than thousands of dollars in therapy had been over two years.

And, with dawning horror and startling clarity, she realised something that terrified her to her very core, moreso than anything the man beside her could ever personally inflict. Something she knew was going to happen, something inevitable, but still something she had wanted to avoid at all costs.

She'd fallen for him.

She cared for Jackson Rippner. Was that even his real name? She had to stifle a hysterical laugh. This was exactly why she had refused before to think about what was happening between the two of them—she knew that she was going to draw insane conclusions, knew that these thoughts had been there, always lurking below the surface, waiting for the moment when they'd be realised. Now it had happened and there was no taking them back, there was only dealing with them. There was only allowing floods of memories and emotions from the past weeks to pour to the forefront. Of men she'd refused, Sunday nights she'd stared anxiously at the clock, questions she'd avoided from friends and family, the awkward silences with him, or worse, the meaningful ones. All the things they'd said, and even more what they didn't say. The kiss. The first one where he thought she'd been sleeping, the second where she had been wide awake. The times she'd wanted to kiss him. The times she'd known he wanted to do more to her. And the times she'd wanted it, too.

Twin tears streaked down her cheeks. Strangely, it felt as though a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders. This wasn't healthy, normal, or sane, but what was? Who was to say? If she was being completely honest with herself, she'd never been normal or sane. There was a certain level of insanity that came from being a field hockey player, anyway. And Lord knew Jackson didn't fit on any clean bills. Maybe, just maybe, they suited.

"What, exactly, were you thinking?"

His raspy voice broke her out of her reverie. She never really noticed before that moment just how rough his voice actually was. Certainly a change from the smooth tone that had tracked chills down her spine so many months ago. She had done that to him, to his voice.

It made her proud, in a way, to have left that kind of mark.

"Just now? That you got blood all over my sheets," is what she told him.

"I'll buy you new ones. And that's not what I meant. What were you thinking, taking care of me?" His eyes were open again now, and they flashed with something she couldn't discern.

She narrowed her own eyes at him. "What were you thinking, showing up at my door?"

"Lisa, don't you know it's impolite to answer a question with a question?" There was a sharpness to his tone that hadn't been there in a while. Her hackles were immediately raised.

"Don't you know it's impolite to bleed on people's sheets?" was her snarky reply.

"Forget the fucking sheets for a minute, Lise." He sat up in the bed without even a wince. "I asked you last night and you skirted the question. Why? Why did you help me?"

"You're one to talk about skirting questions," she retorted hotly, sitting up as well and swinging her feet off the bed. She walked to the foot of it and angrily began to strip off the soiled covers. Jackson was shirtless, apparently having taken off her brother's top in the night as it lay strewn on the floor, and almost all of his bandages had bled through. "Why are you even asking? Why do you even have to ask?" She snatched up her brother's shirt and ripped both blood-stained pillows off the bed, before stalking out to the laundry room.

Jackson was furious with her, absolutely livid, and trying to contain himself. He conveniently overlooked the fact that he had felt indebted to her just hours ago, trying to find ways to properly express his gratitude and always coming up short. Instead, the way she had taken care of him last night, coddled him, now infuriated him. Nobody saw him like that, least of all the slip of a girl who had already humiliated him once. He'd let his guard down, allowed himself to revel in the forgotten feelings of nurturing and care that he'd had too little of in his life, and exposed his weakness. He was disgusted with himself. He'd been acting like a child and she'd taken advantage of it. She probably loved seeing him so vulnerable, like a doll she could dress and have tea parties with. He looked caustically at the two full, untouched mugs she had left on her bedside table. His fingers itched to smash them into her cream-coloured walls.

Just then, she swept back into the room, avoiding eye contact as she made her way back to the bed. "You didn't even drink your tea and I took the time to make it for you. I even burned myself—" As she spoke, she picked up the tea mugs in question and turned to go back out of the room.

He couldn't stand listening to her and desperately needed to take control of the situation again, to be the one who was in charge, the one calling the shots. He swiftly stood up as she was talking. Ignoring the screaming protests of his body and being careful not to apply too much pressure to his damaged knee, he grabbed her forcefully by the arms, allowing his rage to seep through his fingertips and into her tender skin. He pulled her flush against his body and she gasped out loud, the tea slipping from her grasp. Both cups fell with a dull thud onto the floor, the tepid liquid staining her carpet. She gasped again as her eyes beheld the mess she had just created, this time with outrage instead of surprise.

"Are you going to ruin everything in my house?" she fumed, ignoring the way he held her and the look in his eyes.

Her reaction was the final straw. She didn't even have the decency to be nervous around him anymore. He thought to smack her, once, hard, right across the cheekbone. He knew that feeling, of course. An explosion of pain, like your face had just erupted. Stars beneath your eyelids for hours and a throbbing that feels like it lasts for days. He wouldn't do it hard enough to break anything, just to leave an impression. To remind her who, exactly, she was dealing with, once and for all. He swiftly raised his hand, his other still holding her tightly to him, and was just about to bring it down when something stayed him.

Maybe it was the way she didn't make a sound, just tensed her entire body in horrified anticipation. Maybe the way she was already clenching her fist to give him a present in return. Or maybe it was the look in her eyes. Larger than usual, they registered surprise, dismay and a hint of betrayal. The betrayal is what did it, he was sure. Because, damn him to hell, he didn't want her to look at him that way anymore. She had done so once before, and even that time hadn't left such a foul taste in his mouth as this did. So for the first time in a very long time, eons it seemed, Jackson disobeyed every impulse that his "managerial" position had ever afforded him and slowly dropped his hand.

She was slow to comprehend that she wasn't going to be struck. She blinked once, twice, and opened her mouth to say something.

But just because Jackson had changed his mind on hitting her didn't mean he was going to relinquish control of the situation. Just as she went to speak, he pulled her roughly up against him once more and assaulted her in a different way, bruisingly covering her lips with his own. He was largely unsatisfied with gentle kisses. Those were the ones with intent to seduce, to numb the mind and make a person forget themselves. This was the kind of kiss that reminded the person of exactly who they were, and who they were with: Jackson fucking Rippner. And this was how Jackson Rippner kissed.

He expected her to shove him away and get him right in the injured knee, so even as he was kissing her he prepared for the attack. She surprised him by hesitating for only the briefest of seconds, before jerking her arms out of his violent hold and tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. And in one swift movement, God damn her, Lisa had gained the upper hand once more.

Their kiss wasn't romantic or sweet, or anything nice at all. It was rough, violent, and desperate, like a drowning person being swept under crashing waves. She moved closer to him still and he stumbled against the bed before sitting down heavily on it. His knee groaned in pain, but he ignored it because she was on his lap straddling him, and she was biting and sucking his neck, right below his ear lobe. He held her firmly to him by securely grabbing her hips and dragging her further up his lap.

"Jack," she breathed right over his lips and they tingled. They actually tingled. He captured her mouth again roughly, but she had something to say so she pulled away. "Jack," she repeated, still right over his mouth. When had she started calling him Jack like it was her name for him? Like she had the right? When had it stopped being an insult and become personal? Her lips hovering over his mouth drove him to distraction. He fucking hated her when she teased. She was such a goddamn tease she could make a living out of it. She was even a tease before she knew him, before they even spoke, when he used to watch her and want her and know that he would never have her.

"What?" His voice sounded rusty, like he hadn't used it in centuries.

She kissed him again, three more times, each time pulling away before he could respond properly. He dug his fingers more deeply into her. Then she pressed her lips to his ear, and finally said her piece: "Get the fuck out of my bed. I need to change the sheets."

He froze for a beat. That was what she wanted to tell him? Disgusted with the both of them, he shoved her off of him roughly and she tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on her bottom a couple feet away. She said nothing, not even a squeak of indignation, just sat there looking at him through the veils of her hair, her eyes flashing, her face raw and scraped from his morning stubble.

"You're a stupid bitch," he told her pleasantly, regaining some of his composure.

She said nothing until after she'd stood up and collected the empty mugs from the carpet. Calmly, she swung her hair out of her eyes and regarded him steadily. "And you love it." Before he could respond, she'd left the room. He fell back onto the bed and breathed out a quiet laugh. There was no way he could possibly unite the two warring emotions that he had for her at the forefront of his mind, so he merely allowed them both to continue their fight.

Sitting up with a grunt, he inspected his various and sundry chest injuries. The smaller cuts had closed for the most part, being merely scrapes, really. They stung like hell, but he was a big boy, he could take it. The larger ones, though, particularly the nasty one on his arm, were visible through the self-made dressings. They were actually applied fairly decently. Amateurish, but decent. None had come unstuck throughout the night or been wound too tightly or too loosely. And his nose… He cautiously probed the swollen flesh. It still hurt, but it seemed as though the blood had finally clotted. She'd done a damn good job getting it back in place. For as annoying and self-righteous as she was, she could certainly take care of business. He was impressed.

Taking his gaze from his body, he surveyed the damaged room. His inner desire for order and cleanliness was made askew by what he saw. He had to move his foot gingerly to the side to avoid stepping in the puddle of tea. Lisa returned then, and began to strip the bed while he still sat on it.

"Up," she ordered, not looking at him. "The stains have sat there long enough, I don't want to make them any worse." Finally she drew her attention to him, and gave him an assessing look. "Maybe you should take a shower."

"I already had one," he reminded her, satisfied with the colour that rose in her cheeks.

"You need another," she told him bluntly, ripping the sheets out from under him and gathering them up in her arms. "You look disgusting. I'll have fresh clothes ready for you when you come out. You might want to take care of your little cuts and bruises, too." She was purposely making his injuries seem paltry and he knew it. Granted, they were hardly life-threatening, but he didn't want her to think he was crying over a paper cut, either. Again though, she was gone before he could say anything.

Chicken, he silently taunted, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth.

He had to admit, he was sorely tempted by the prospect of a shower. Although he was famished, he was well-rested at least, and felt much better that morning than he had last night. He also knew he should leave. But, he couldn't exactly go anywhere looking the way he did, anyway. Common sense won over his better judgement. He stripped off the track pants.

Lisa heard the shower water running and let out the breath she'd be holding all morning. Dumping the sheets in the washing machine, she put in extra detergent for good measure and ignored the fact that whites were mixed in with darks and her life was a mess. Sighing heavily, she trudged back to the kitchen and put soap and water on a washcloth before going to scrub tea off her bedroom carpet. She refused to think about anything, as she'd learned her lesson from the last time she'd let her mind wander. Of course now there was a third kiss to contend with that had pretty much blown the other two out of the water. She shook her head to clear it. As she scrubbed, she caught sight of her bloody hand, which led to her wet and bloody clothes, which she supposed were complemented by her haggard and bloody face. She quickly finished scrubbing the floor—she'd been meaning to get hardwood in the bedroom, anyway—and got up to change before Jackson finished his shower. She had things to take care, after all.

Jackson turned off the hot water, reluctant to step out. His knee throbbed and his cuts were on fire, but it felt good. Pain had always made him feel alive and this was no different. He'd heard Lisa shuffling in and out, and now he opened the shower curtain to see what she'd been busying herself with. There greeting him was a fresh body towel, courtesy of the Lux Atlantic, and clothes that quite clearly didn't belong to her. She'd also left the bandages and tape in there, as well as a tensor bandage for his knee. There was a tightness in his throat and chest that gave him pause. He kept doing everything in his power to push her away, and still she persevered.

What a little idiot, he thought, but his typical malice was notably absent. He dried himself off quickly with the towel and expertly tended to his injuries. Years and years of practice had allowed him to perfect the art of taking care of himself. It was things like that which made him even more convinced of the fact that he truly didn't need anyone else in his life. Only recently, however, had he been questioning what he wanted. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he inspected the clothes she'd left out for him. A soft dress shirt and comfortable slacks, as well as the necessary underclothes. Even socks. Where had she gotten these things? There was no way she'd left the apartment complex, he would've heard her. Plus, these clothes weren't new. Perplexed, he dressed anyway, revelling in the feel of nice clothing that actually fit.

Clothed, bandaged, and feeling better than he had in years, Jackson sauntered into the kitchen. Lisa was sitting on a stool by the counter island in her kitchen. She had cleaned up as well, dressed smartly in her work clothes which consisted of a fitted blouse with a ridiculously frilly, high-necked collar and a knee-length black skirt. She was drinking a cup of coffee and reading yesterday's newspaper. Two plates of scrambled eggs and toast were prepared, one in front of her and half-eaten, another directly across. A steaming mug sat beside his plate as well.

He wanted to kill her, then himself, because frankly, he didn't know what else to do. When she was screaming, crying, and beating him—that, he could deal with. This, however, unnerved him to no end. He'd much rather she killed him with knives than kindness. Knives he could handle.

"It's getting cold," she remarked casually, turning a page of the newspaper and taking a sip of her coffee.

He joined her without a word. His stomach grumbled embarrassingly loud at the promise of fulfilment as soon as he smelled the eggs. She looked up and raised an eyebrow, a smirk on her lips, but said nothing.

He sneered in her general direction, then sat down and dug in without pretence. They ate together in silence for a while.

"Whose clothes am I wearing?" he wondered once he was halfway done, speaking around a bite of toast.

"My neighbours'," she responded, turning another page of the paper.

"Interesting story?"

"The very best." In actuality, David had hardly asked any questions. He'd seen Jackson once before, slipping into Lisa's apartment, and had assumed he was her boyfriend since he apparently had a key. Lisa had choked on her scoff. He merely gave her a sly look and lamented the fact that Jackson was taken, before graciously handing over the clothes with a wink. She could only hazard to guess what he assumed had happened to Jackson's other clothes.

There was more silence between the two of them as Jackson finished his plate. He then downed his coffee, black. Still silence. He was horrified to find himself fidgeting, tapping his fingers impatiently on the countertop, and quickly stopped. Lisa continued to leisurely sip her coffee, scanning the newspaper still. Frustrated, he stood suddenly.

"I'm leaving," he announced.

She barely spared him a glance. "Goodbye."

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you angry about?"

This time she actually looked up, her eyes registering slight surprise. "I'm not angry."

"Then why are you acting this way?"

"What way?" There was genuine confusion in her tone.

Jackson realised that he was sounding like a girl, so he stubbornly kept silent on the matter. "I'll return these," he said, motioning to his clothing.

She turned back to the paper. "Whatever you say."

His mood got fouler by degrees. "You don't believe me?"

"Of course I do. You never lie—you're Jackson Rippner. If that is your real name."

He was certain his teeth were going to shatter from being clenched so hard. "You just said I never lie, now you're questioning my name?"

She merely gave him a sweet smile and a shrug. Then took a bite of eggs.

He'd worked with people too long to not know what she was doing. She was purposely baiting him, because she was angry about the shit he put her through. The little passive-aggressive martyr. He had to leave, right then, before she made him even more ill at ease. He was limping for the door, when she spoke again.

"You talk in your sleep, you know."

He froze. Literally froze, in that he could feel ice coursing through his veins and was certain his heart stopped beating. He tried very, very hard to not expose this reaction. "Oh?" His voice was even raspier than usual due to the tightening of his throat.

"Mm-hmm."

Oh, he was going to murder her. He stalked back over to her as heavily as his injured leg would allow and spun her around on the stool. She gasped, the first actual emotion she'd displayed in the last half hour or so. Still not satisfied with that response, he fulfilled another urge he'd had all morning by tearing her half-full coffee cup out of her hand and throwing it against the wall in one fluid motion. It shattered with a magnificent crash, raining porcelain and coffee all down the wall. All she could do was stare at it, stunned.

He berated himself for revealing just how much the sleep-talking issue had affected him, but he had to admit, he enjoyed her reaction. Until she smacked him, right on the slash on his arm. He let out a shout of pain before he could help himself. Then she shoved him back, hard.

"You're deranged, you know that?" she raged, going to grab a broom from the closet. "Ungrateful pig. Why don't you inconvenience me a little bit more? I swear to God." She shoved past him and went to clean up the mess. "You stain my carpet, stain my walls, my pillows, my bath, and my bed because you can't control your little psycho violent urges and you do God knows what and get stabbed at by God knows who. You know—" She turned on him to berate him even further, fire in her eyes, but only silence and an empty room greeted her.

He was gone.

A week went by, including the Sunday. A Monday and a Tuesday passed, too, with no sign of him. Wednesday and Thursday, she'd stopped waiting in anticipation. Friday she tried not to think about it at all. On Friday night, she lay in bed, reading. It was a full moon, and she purposely kept the curtain open wide in her bedroom so that the light could shine in and illuminate the page. The TV played quietly in the background, affording her more light to read with. She was immersed in the story, when she suddenly heard a rattling at her front door. There was a moment where panic welled up in her chest, before she heard the door open smoothly and then shut with an almost inaudible click and knew who it was. She marvelled at the number of times he'd come in without her even detecting him, from places she'd forgotten about or didn't even know existed. He certainly was good at what he did.

Speaking of the devil, a lone figure emerged in the doorway and leaned casually against the wall. She was about to ask him about his knee, when he spoke.

"What do I say?"

Surprise kept her silent as she took off her reading glasses and regarded him for a moment. "I'm sorry, what?"

"In my sleep. What do I say?"

Immediately she understood. "Nothing," she responded, honestly. "Nonsensical things that I could barely understand. You spoke Russian. And maybe Greek, or Italian, or something like that. You named people I didn't know and dates that meant nothing."

"I speak twenty-seven languages," he admitted, the first fact he'd freely and willingly given of himself other than his name.

"That's unbelievable," she said in genuine awe.

Something akin to pride rose in his breast at her tone. "And I've never spoken in my sleep before."

"How can you be—?"

"Ever." He sauntered over to her bed, his movements sleek and predatory. A chill went through her that raised gooseflesh all over her body. He paused at her side. "What do you do to me?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.

She said nothing, merely watched him.

"I want you," he said simply, and she wasn't surprised.

"I know."

"From before you even knew me, I've wanted you."

"I know."

He nodded, accepting. "You have to say it back, Lise. The only way I'll touch you ever again is if you tell me to."

She knew his intent. He wanted to make her admit it, now. Not in the throes of passion, but when she was cool and clearheaded, so that it would be one hundred percent her decision. So that she would choose him and not be allowed to play the victim, like she'd been coerced in any way. The unbelievably clever, heartless bastard.

Still, she said nothing. Just closed the book and put it and her glasses on the bedside table. She contemplated him, her hands tightly clenched. Then she cleared her throat.

"It'll be the first time since—"

"I know."

She gave him a wry smile that lifted only the corner of her mouth and didn't reach her eyes. "And you're up for it?"

He smiled slyly in return. "Oh, I'm up."

She regarded him seriously. "Jack…" she began.

Jackson sat down on the bed and cupped her face with his hand, running his fingers through the curls. "Yeah, Lise?"

She forced her own hands to unclench and took a deep, shaky breath. She could hear her pulse thundering in her ears. Leaning into his hand ever-so-slightly, she met his steady gaze, those ever-present blue eyes striking her in the heart. "I want this," she whispered finally, her voice anything but even. She closed her hand over his and closed her eyes. He was silent, waiting for her to finish speaking. Lisa opened her eyes and met his once more. Her voice was much steadier when she spoke again. "I want you."

Something indiscernible flashed in his eyes. She hated how she couldn't discern anything that flashed in his eyes.

And he pulled her to him.