Unholy Kiss
Please note, that this is just a bonus story, starting from a point in Breaking Free. If this goes well, I will write a full MM-only book that is a stand-alone with whole new characters.
A few messaged and suggested I use these two characters if I ever did it, so here it is.
Jackson walks down the stairs with deliberate steps, each one echoing faintly in the quiet house. He lowers himself into the chair across from Anaya, his gaze locking onto hers before flicking to Marcus.
“Before you shout, scream, or call me names, just listen. I deserve every bit of it for how I acted, but both of you, please, just hear me out.” Marcus and Anaya exchange a glance and nod in unison.
“I’m sorry for hitting you, Marcus, and for kicking you when you didn’t fight back, refusing to make it a real scrap. For pushing so hard this morning that it sparked an argument, I knew it would hurt him, Kitten, and I did it anyway. I wanted a reaction from him, craved it. I didn’t think it through, and I know what he said wasn’t true, so don’t hate Marcus or doubt for a second that this isn’t exactly what he wants.” Anaya nods slowly, her eyes softening.
“I wouldn’t—” Jackson shakes his head sharply, cutting her off mid-sentence.
“Just listen before I clam up and say nothing at all. I’m usually the one who’s fine.” Marcus lets out a low chuckle as Jackson rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean, I’m normally the steady one, the one who rolls with it. But every year, on Troy’s birthday and the anniversary of his death, the guilt eats at me. I walked away from my brother and let him die alone. And before you say I didn’t, in my head, I did. I left him without anyone there.”
Anaya stares at him, her lips parting as if to protest, but she holds back, sensing he’s not done.
“Today, I got jealous of Marcus. He didn’t seem wracked with guilt like I was, and that gnawed at me until I snapped. Why the hell do I carry this if he doesn’t? So I lashed out to hurt him, I swear, Kitten, I didn’t think. Then he said those words, and I saw the pain flash across your face. It made me feel even worse.” Jackson shakes his head, his voice dropping.
“I lied to both of you. Because in some twisted corner of my mind, it eased my own pain. I never messaged Marcus to check if he was okay. When he sent those texts—clear cries for help—I ignored them. I went to the hospital, saw how broken you were, Marcus, and I turned and ran. The guilt piled on, so I avoided you entirely. I was so wrapped up in Alena’s illness, in all that chaos, that I didn’t even confront you about the drinking when I noticed it starting. That just fed the guilt more, I watched you spiral and did nothing.”
Jackson shakes his head again, his shoulders slumping. Marcus opens his mouth to speak, but Jackson barrels on, cutting him off.
“So the guilt kept building. After everything settled, I convinced myself I was part of why you two fell apart. If I’d pushed on the drinking, really dug in, we might’ve caught it weeks earlier, saved your marriage. Instead, I stayed silent. This morning, seeing that table... I freaked. The guilt crashed over me like a wave. If you’d died, Marcus, I wouldn’t deserve to breathe. I ignored you when you were screaming for help—I don’t get to live with that clean.”
Anaya shifts closer, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. Jackson’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.
“We wouldn’t have stayed together anyway, Sir,” she says softly. “I told you back then, part of me would never fully trust him. I’d always wonder if today was the day he went back to Alena.”
Marcus frowns, confusion etching his features. “So you don’t trust me?”
Anaya laughs lightly, the sound warm and reassuring. “I do now, Marcus. Completely. I’ve seen everything Alena put you through, the pain she caused, it’s all laid bare, and that’s why I know I can trust you. But if it had ended that abruptly? No real closure? Your drinking wouldn’t have convinced me it was just the booze talking. I’d have doubted, wondered if you’d slip again. So...” She gently lifts Jackson’s chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You’d still be here with me today, because I would’ve walked away from him over that lack of trust. Don’t you dare carry guilt for noticing the drinking and not intervening.”
“You’re not my keeper, Jackson,” Marcus adds firmly. “You weren’t responsible for stopping me. If I drank, that was on me, you’re blameless.”
Jackson lets out a faint, bitter laugh. “You called me, Marcus. Left a voicemail, crying, saying you were falling apart, that everything hurt. I ignored it. Twelve hours later, I get the call you’re in the hospital. I could’ve spared MJ from seeing that horror!”
Marcus leans forward, his voice steady. “Like I said at Demitri’s, you’re the reason Anaya is the woman she is today. The reason she doesn’t drown in self-hate anymore. The reason my kids had those extra years of joy, real childhood memories. You didn’t save me, Jackson, and I wouldn’t have wanted you to if it meant letting Anaya or the kids suffer for it.”
Anaya smiles at Marcus, then turns back to Jackson. “How are you feeling now, Sir? Now that it’s all out?”
Jackson manages a small smile. “Fine, Kitten.”
Anaya fixes him with a mock-stern glare. “Not allowed. ‘Fine’ and ‘okay’ are banned, just like with me.”
He rolls his eyes, chuckling softly. “I feel better, Kitten. Lesson learned, I suppose. I’m sorry for making you think I didn’t want this, any of it. And if I ever made you feel at fault? I’d never have agreed, let alone suggested it, if I had a single doubt.”
Anaya pulls him into another hug. “I’ll be fine, Sir. You explained, that’s all I needed. Now eat. I won’t shout or lose it over the early drinking, the amount, or you hitting Marcus when he wouldn’t hit back. You were punishing yourself more than enough already.”
She presses a quick kiss to his lips, then slides into her chair. “Eat up. I think we could all use a quiet, lazy day.”
Anaya beams at them as they nod in agreement.
“Good. Since you agree, I’m picking the film.” She rises and heads into the living room, Jackson rolling his eyes with a fond grin as he watches her go.
“You’re a cunt, Jackson. Just so we’re clear. Forget me—forget how you could’ve stopped all this shit. What I did to Anaya for years, how I broke her, broke us—I deserved every second of you walking out, vanishing, never telling me where you went.” Marcus’s voice cracks, raw and ragged.
Jackson nods, throat tight. “I ignored you. Walked into that hospital, saw you half-dead, saw MJ’s face… and I ran. The guilt choked me. I’m sorry, Marcus. If you’d died—”
Marcus surges forward, pulling him into a fierce hug. “If I’d died, it was on me. Only me. Stop carrying this guilt, I don’t deserve it. Look what I did to you. I wrecked your marriage. Don’t waste guilt on me.”
Jackson pulls back, swiping at his eyes. “Quit crying. You’re making me feel sorry for you, and that’s just wrong.” He forces a laugh; Marcus snorts through his tears.
“Sorry,” Jackson mutters. “I was so sure we’d lost you, the real you.”
Marcus shakes his head. “You and Anaya keep dragging me back. Don’t hide shit from me, Jackson. You’re always on my case about it.”
“I was a prick. Running from you, avoiding you, I don’t even know why. You’ve been here since day one, and the thought of you walking away because I fucked up? It gutted me.”
“Never,” Marcus says, voice low. “No matter how bad we tear into each other, we can’t leave. We’ve tried. We can’t breathe without the other. We’ve proved it.”
Their eyes lock. Marcus leans in, slow and deliberate. His lips brush Jackson’s, soft and desperate. A broken moan slips from Marcus’s throat. Jackson groans, hands flying to Marcus’s chest, shoving him back.
“What the fuck, Marcus?” Shock slams through him. His pulse hammers; his cock twitches, traitorously hard. He stares, stunned.
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” Marcus bolts upright, stumbling toward the door.
“Shit.” Jackson snatches his keys, heart racing.
Anaya’s voice cuts through from the living room. “Seriously? Sitting in here getting all soft and weepy? Save it for when I’m asleep.” She laughs, then glances out the window. “Why’s he peeling out like that?”
Jackson’s stomach drops. She didn’t see. “Nothing, Kitten. I’ll catch him.”
He heads for the door; Anaya blocks him, hand out. “Keys. You’ve had too much—you’ll crash.”
“Kitten, no. If he sees you, he’ll spiral worse. Trust me. It’s not bad, but he’s freaking out. You’ll make it heavier.”
“I’m driving. I’ll stay in the car. Promise me, Jackson, you’re not safe behind the wheel.”
He relents, handing over the keys. They climb in and Anaya guns it after Marcus. “Bar,” Jackson mutters. “He’s at the bar.”
She pulls up beside Marcus’s car. Jackson exhales, tension easing a fraction.
“Sir, what happened?” Anaya’s eyes search his.
“Don’t ask. Promise me—whatever it is, you won’t ask him. He’ll bolt and never come back.”
“You’re scaring me. Something’s off.”
“I’m fine. Stay here. Or go home. Do not come in. Promise me, Kitten.”
She nods, worry etched deep. Jackson strides inside.
Marcus is hunched at the bar, shoulders shaking. He stands as Jackson approaches; Jackson shoves him gently back onto the stool.
“Don’t run. What the hell were you thinking? You kissed me.”
“I didn’t—”
Jackson huffs a laugh. “Fine. We ignore it. I was drunk, you were comforting me. Done. Now let’s get our asses home.”
Marcus’s eyes are wild. “I can’t.”
“Don’t you fucking dare run scared. It was nothing. Anaya’s outside, she didn’t leave. She won’t hate you. She doesn’t need to know. Look at me.” Marcus lifts his head. “Feel whatever shame you want, but Anaya wouldn’t care if you told her you liked men. She’d hug you and move on. I won’t tell her. I swear.”
Marcus’s breath hitches. Jackson softens. “It was a mistake. You were wrecked, trying to fix me. Hell, I kissed back, why the fuck did I do that? Let’s just go home. We all need a quiet day. I won’t say a word.”
Marcus nods, shaky and they head out, Marcus to his car, Jackson sliding in with Anaya.
“Something happened, Sir,” she says, pulling away.
“Yeah. But drop it. If you push him, he’s gone for good.”
She glances at him, alarmed, but says nothing. They roll up to the house in silence. Inside, the air is thick. Anaya keeps flicking looks between them.
A sharp knock snaps their heads up. Jackson peers out the window and swears under his breath. “Police.”
He opens the door. Two officers step in, eyes on Marcus. Anaya and Marcus disappear into the office with them. Jackson paces the kitchen, chopping vegetables he doesn’t see. Why the hell did Marcus kiss him? Why did it feel like lightning?
Nearly an hour later, the office door creaks. Anaya walks the officers out, face pale, eyes glassy. She shuts the door and leans against it.
“Whiskey, Sir.” Her voice is steady, but he hears the tremor.
He grabs the bottle and three glasses. In the office, Marcus sits crumpled. Jackson sets the glasses down.
“You’re going to drink,” Jackson says. “I see it. So we drink with you, no hiding, no waiting till we crash out alone.”
Anaya curls beside Marcus, hand on his knee. Jackson follows her out to the kitchen.
“You okay, Kitten?” He pulls her into his arms.
“I’m fine. He needs us more right now.”
“Bullshit. You’re always more important. I shouldn’t have let you sit through that.”
“It helped,” she whispers. “Explains why he stayed away, why he was… him. He tried reaching out to me years ago, begging to explain. I needed to hear it.”
Jackson kisses her forehead, grabs two plates. Back in the office, he hands one to Marcus.
“Eat. You’ll need it if you’re drinking.”
“I won’t,” Marcus mutters.
“Still eat.” Jackson pours himself a drink and slides the bottle over. “Whatever you need, Marcus, we’re here. Anaya switches sides, you drink, she’s your brat only, we’ll make it work. I push you, test you, yeah. Not today. If you need the bottle, take it.”
Marcus stares at the whiskey, tears spilling. He fills his glass, hand trembling. Anaya’s palm rests warm on his thigh. Jackson downs his in one, the burn grounding him.
Silence wraps the room, heavy but not hostile. Marcus lifts the glass, eyes on the amber liquid, and drinks.
Anaya’s eyes flick to Jackson, brows knitting in confusion. He gives a helpless shrug.
Marcus stares at the whiskey glass, knuckles white. The room is tomb-quiet except for the ragged hitch of his breathing. Then the memories crash in, wave after wave, and his shoulders start to shake.
“Marcus, easy,” Jackson murmurs, shooting Anaya a warning glance.
Marcus’s face crumples; tears spill as fury boils up. “Kitten, move,” Jackson says, voice low but urgent.
Anaya blinks, confused. “Marcus, you’re safe—”
Jackson stands, hooks an arm around her waist, and hauls her gently but firmly toward the door. “Out, Kitten. Now.”
“No, I’m not leaving him—”
He shoves her into the hallway, slams the door, and flips the lock. Her fists pound the wood, her voice cracking. “Jackson! Open this door!”
He plants his back against it, eyes on Marcus. “Whatever’s in your head, spit it out. Calm the hell down.”
Marcus’s hand trembles; the glass shatters in his hand and falls to the floor. “Everything was a fucking lie!”
“Marcus—”
The whiskey bottle flies, explodes against the wall. Marcus roars, upends the coffee table, grabs a lamp and smashes it. Glass rains. Anaya’s muffled screams leak through the door.
Jackson stays rooted, arms loose at his sides. “You’re fine, man. You’re fine.”
Marcus keeps wrecking, fists bleeding, until the room is carnage. The banging outside stops; Anaya’s sobs fade to whimpers.
Jackson edges forward, palms up. “You’re letting her win, Marcus. Look at me. Your hand’s torn to shit, Anaya’s crying in the hall. Beat me if you need to, there’s nothing left to break but me.”
Marcus spins, eyes wild. “You caused it! All of it!”
Jackson nods. “Okay. I caused it. Take it out on me.”
Marcus lunges, fists swinging. Jackson catches his wrists and slams him against the wall. “Enough.”
Marcus thrashes. “Just leave me to die!”
“Not happening.” Jackson’s grip is iron. “Calm down, or I'll hold you here all night.”
Marcus’s chest heaves. Their faces are inches apart. Something flickers in his eyes—panic, desperation, something darker. His head jerks forward, lips crashing into Jackson’s.
Jackson freezes. Then his mouth moves, answering on pure instinct. Marcus moans, hips pinning Jackson to the wall. Heat flares; Jackson’s cock stiffens, traitorous and immediate. A helpless groan tears from his throat, hands fisting Marcus’s shirt, yanking him closer.
Marcus’s tongue slides against his, hungry and frantic.
Jackson’s brain screams. He shoves Marcus back hard. “What the fuck—”
Marcus bellows and hurls a chair. It splinters against the wall. Jackson rips the door open, steps into the hallway, and slams it shut behind him.
Anaya’s on the floor, with her knees drawn up, face streaked with tears. She looks up, eyes wide. Jackson’s chest rises and falls like he’s run miles. Blood from Marcus’s knuckles smears his shirt.
“Sir—” Anaya reaches for him.
Jackson jerks away like she’s fire. “Don’t. Don’t fucking touch me.” He bolts up the stairs, two at a time, and slams the bedroom door. The lock clicks. Then the bathroom. The retch echoes—violent, unstoppable. He strips, staggers into the shower, and cranks the heat until the room fills with steam. Water pounds his back; he slides down the tile, knees to chest, sobs wracking him. Not men. I don’t want men. What the hell is happening to me?
Downstairs, glass keeps shattering. Anaya creeps to the office doorway. Marcus is on his knees in the wreckage, palms bleeding, face streaked with tears and sweat. “Marcus, stop—” She steps over broken lamps and splintered wood.
He crumples. “Leave me. Go to Jackson. I hurt him.”
“You’re bleeding,” she whispers.
“I’ll clean it. Please, Kitty—just go.”
She hesitates, then runs upstairs. The shower’s still running. Jackson sits under the spray, arms locked around his head. She strips, steps in and kneels. “Sir, talk to me.”
He can’t look at her. The memory of Marcus’s mouth floods back, hot, desperate, and his cock jerks, half-hard again. Shame burns hotter than the water. “Kitten, don’t touch me right now.” He stands quickly.
“You’re hard,” she whispers, confused, before reaching for him.
“I said no.” His voice cracks. “You don’t know why. Just—go.”
But she presses closer, her hands sliding down his chest. “I don’t care who put you there. Use me. Please, Sir, I need you.”
He spins her back to his chest, one hand over her mouth before she can speak again. The other guides himself in—slow, deliberate—into her ass. Focus on her. He tries and fails. Marcus’s face overlays everything: the scrape of stubble, the low moan. Jackson’s hips snap faster, chasing the image, hating himself for it. “Quiet,” he growls against her ear. “Just—fuck—don’t talk.”
He comes with a strangled groan, buried deep, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. “God, I love your ass,” he breathes, then the words curdle. He pulls out, stumbles back. “Get out. Please, Kitten. Get out.”
She turns, eyes wide, but he’s already sliding down the wall again. She leaves without a word.
Hours later, the water’s cold. He shuts it off, towels dry and pulls on sweats. Anaya’s curledup on the bed, pretending to sleep. He slips past, downstairs. Pours whiskey, takes one gulp, then two. The glass shatters in the sink.
“Jackson.” Marcus’s voice is soft behind him.
Jackson spins. “Stay the fuck away from me.” “I’m sorry. My head’s wrecked—I don’t know why I—”
“You got in my head,” Jackson rasps. “I told her no. She wouldn’t listen. I fucked her and saw you. Every thrust. I came picturing you.” His voice breaks. “I cheated. In here—” he slams his temple—“I cheated.”
Marcus steps closer, his hands open. “You didn’t. It was me. I started it.”
“I should’ve stopped. I wanted it.” Jackson’s shoulders shake. “I need to leave. Before I ruin her.”
Marcus grabs his wrists. “Don’t. She loves you. Tell her the truth and she’ll still choose you.”
Jackson laughs, bitter. “What truth? That I’m broken? That I want—” He can’t finish.
Marcus pulls him into a hug, fierce and grounding. Jackson fights for a second, then sags, face buried in Marcus’s neck, tears soaking the collar. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he whispers.
“Me neither,” Marcus murmurs. “But we’ll figure it out. Together. Just don’t run.”
