“It was nice to meet you, Jack.”

As soon as the words leave the guard’s mouth, I feel the world tilt. Everything around me seems to go slightly off-kilter, like some carnival funhouse, and I can’t seem to figure out why.

And then I realize what’s happening. I see the look on Jaxon’s face and realize my sudden chills are all a reaction to his expression.

Jaxon has launched himself at the guard, even though the man is easily twice his size and built like a has-been prize fighter. It doesn’t matter. After a brief tussle, Jaxon’s arms are around the larger man’s throat, and soon, the guard is emitting the wheezing, panicked breaths of asphyxiation.

And I just stand there.

It’s like some kind of out-of-body experience. I’m both deeply rooted in the moment and entirely detached. My brain seems incapable of processing what’s going on.

Instead, I find myself mesmerized.

As I watch the guard’s arms scramble for purchase, desperately trying to pry Jaxon’s own arms free, I’m transfixed. Instead of trying to help, I find myself musing on the possibility of the word ‘Jack’ being a trigger for a conditioned response, much like that found in Pavlov’s dog experiment.

Was Jaxon made to be this way? If so, who did it?

Or maybe his response is a heretofore unknown exhibition of a high functioning undifferentiated schizophrenic. Where his self-control and the force of his personality are so strong that he’s able to keep the psychosis under wraps except in the presence of the trigger.

Time seems to be running in slow motion as I continue along this train of thought.

The guard’s face is turning an alarming shade of puce, and I note that his eyes are beginning to bulge. It seems almost impossible that, even though Jaxon is by no means scrawny, he could possibly exert the kind of force necessary to strangle such a much larger and seemingly stronger opponent.

I wonder if the trigger word is also somehow able to cause a flood of adrenaline to his system, which would account for his seemingly instantaneous super strength.

All of these thoughts flash through my mind at what feels like a leisurely pace, but is more likely really just seconds. Like a rubber band, reality seems to snap back into sharp relief, and I along with it.

Realizing it’s incredibly likely others have heard the scuffle and will soon be along to investigate, I dart forward and attempt to wrench Jaxon’s arms away.

The guard is barely hanging on to his consciousness.

“Mr. Covington,” I say as I use one hand to pull at his arms while I snap my other fingers in his face. “Jaxon! It’s Dr. Hughes. Can you hear me? You need to release this man at once!”

He ignores me. It’s like he can’t even see me.

At this point, my body and brain seem to have realized this is possibly a life-or-death situation, on more than one account, and my own body is flooded with adrenaline. I keep pulling at his arms, but I can’t get them to budge. Seeing no other way, and without even thinking about it, I pull my hand back and slap him across the face.

Almost immediately, his eyes lose their manic gleam and come back into focus, boring into my own. He quickly releases the guard, who slumps against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

Fortunately, the guard seems no worse for wear.

After this cursory inspection, I ignore him. I only have eyes for Jaxon.

My heart is pounding, but I reach up and take Jaxon’s face between my hands.

“Jaxon, it’s Ali. It’s me. Are you here? Are you back?”

I see his chest heaving like a wild animal, but at my words, he closes his eyes and shudders, leaning into my palms and rubbing his cheeks against them like a cat.

A very, very dangerous cat.

I can’t help myself.

I shiver.

And a sharp, searing desire shoots from my fingertips to my toes and back up to settle in the apex of my thighs. Despite everything that just happened—no, because of what just happened…

I want him.

And as he opens his eyes again to stare into mine, I know he wants me, too.

I can’t seem to find my breath.

The moment is broken by a sharp rap on the door.

I jump. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved at the interruption.

At this point, I have no idea what would have happened next.

“Dr. Hughes? Is everything all right in there?” A sharp voice rings through the door.

I glance at Jaxon to see him kneeling next to the guard on the floor, whispering quickly into his ear. He nods at me. I open the door.

“Yes, everything is fine. We had a minor incident—”

“What kind of incident?” the guard snaps, interrupting me.

He pushes his way into my office and takes in the scene. I’m just about to respond when Jaxon beats me to it.

“Old Bear here had some coffee go down the wrong pipe,” Jaxon says, slapping the wheezing guard on the back, causing him to cough again.

“I told him he should lay off the cigs,” the guard bellows. “Damn things are killing him!”

He grins. “They’ll get ya one way or another. If the cancer doesn’t eat ya, your lungs will. Easy does it, buddy,” Jaxon says as he helps the first guard to his feet. “Remember what I told ya, right?”

I can’t believe it, but Jaxon winks, and his assault victim nods.

The new guard looks incredulous. “That true, Larry?”

The other guard, Larry, nods again. I doubt he can speak yet.

It takes a minute of clearing his throat, but then he responds. “I was in here, waiting with the inmate for the doctor to arrive, I had some coffee, and it must’ve gone down the wrong way. Couldn’t seem to catch my breath,” Larry says. “Ja—Mr. Covington here helped me out. I’m grateful,” he finishes with a last look at Jaxon, who waves his hand in dismissal.

“Don’t mention it. I’m always happy to help my friends.”

I turn to the new guard and read his name tag. “As you can see, officer…Hanks. Everything is under control. Now, if you’ll excuse us, this is a closed session. You may wait in the hall to escort Mr. Covington back to his cell after our session concludes.”

My face is a bland mask of professionalism, completely devoid of emotion. Officer Hanks scratches his neck, but sees that there’s nothing more he can do.

“All right, Larry?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Larry says.

He and the other officer make their way out.

Jaxon clears his throat. “Oh, and I’m sorry about the mess, Dr. Hughes.”

I must look confused, because he nods his head in the direction of the rug, where there is indeed a spilled cup of coffee seeping into the surface.

I respond as if I’m under a spell. “Not at all,” I say. “I’m just happy you’re quite recovered. Thank you both. And Larry, we can speak more in a moment.”

Smiling slightly, I see both guards out and then shut the door as soon as Larry sits down on a nearby bench to take his post. Only then do I start shaking.

I lean my back against the door and begin to slide down, my legs no longer capable of holding me up. Jaxon darts forward to grab me, but I put my hands up in front of me.

“Don’t touch me.”

He glares at me, a mixture of frustration and anger, but he doesn’t move forward.

I close my eyes and take several deep, cleansing breaths, nearly regretting my own words.

My body is screaming at me, begging my mind to let him touch me, in any way. When I again feel like myself—completely in control—I stand up straight and open my eyes.

I narrow them on Jaxon. “I have just put both my personal and professional credibility on the line, Mr. Covington.”

At my use of his surname, he looks a little hurt. Good.

Though my heart is still pounding and I can feel the slickness of my arousal with every step, I make my way to my desk chair and fix him with a cold stare.

“What. Just. Happened?”