Welcome!!!

Hey friends,

Welcome to Ruby Creek. 🖤 If you’re new here, this is a perfect place to start.

Broken Misery is the beginning of James & Annelly’s love story, part of the Broken Redemption Series —a collection of connected romances set in the small town of Ruby Creek. Each couple’s journey is told across multiple books, and this one begins right here with Book 1 .

If you’ve already fallen for our first couple, Lucas & Emilia, you’ll notice little echoes and cameos as you read. If you haven’t read their story yet, no worries. You can dive in with James & Annelly and still feel right at home.

If you’d like to start at the very beginning of the Broken Redemption Series , the journey begins with Broken Vows (Lucas & Emilia Book 1).

Thank you for being here and for choosing messy, relentless, fight-for-it love.

Let’s begin. — Ariana

✨ New chapters in ongoing stories land every Tuesday & Thursday at 3:00 PM EST.

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Prologue

Annelly

From the moment we were introduced, I knew a man like him wasn’t meant for a girl like me. If only I’d accepted that truth from the start. If I hadn’t been so determined to prove to myself I was worthy, maybe then I would have recognized the signs. Desperate to be desired, I stupidly walked into the arms of this monster, stripped bare and without protection, never mind the emotional fortitude to survive a man like him.

How could I have been so stupid?

The question churns in my mind as he drags me over the threshold of his office. The feel of his fingers biting into my skin like a vice intensifies the fear coursing through me. After slamming the door shut behind us, he shoves me hard against the wall. Pain shoots down my back as my head slams against the hard surface. But it’s the brutal grip of his fingers around my jaw that breaks me. Pain, terror, confusion. They all mix in a cocktail of emotions that proves too much and force a hard sob past my lips.

“Please… you’re hurting me,” I plead in desperation as I try to reach the man who only days ago told me he loved me. The man who spent nearly two months wooing me with lavish gifts, dinner dates in far-off places, and convincing me to take a chance on him. But as I look into those cold, hard eyes, I’m left wondering if that man ever existed at all.

“You’re so beautiful, my little dove. So small. So powerless.” His voice drips with mockery, each word a venomous caress. He leans in close, his breath warm against my ear, sending an involuntary tremor through me. “And yet here you are, thinking you hold any power over me.”

He chuckles, the sound low and cruel, and when he pulls back, his lips twist into a sardonic grin. His gaze roams over my face, scrutinizing my features with an intensity I can’t comprehend. He must not find whatever he’s searching for because before I can react, his palm connects with the side of my face. The slap is sharp and unrelenting, whipping my head to the side and leaving my vision swimming.

I must be in shock. It’s the only explanation for why the pain doesn’t immediately register. It lingers beneath the surface, a slow burn that intensifies with each passing second, and as the sting spreads, so does the weight of my self-loathing.

How could I’ve let this happen?

Once again, I allowed my insecurities to dictate my choices. Blinded by the desperate need to fill the empty spaces inside me, I forgot who I am. A weak girl with terrible judgment and no instincts. An impostor who doesn’t belong in the fast-paced world of this city, let alone the big dreams I’m chasing.

When the pain finally overwhelms me, I scream in agony as tears of shame slip free. My hand trembles as I press it against my tender flesh, and I force myself to meet his gaze. My mind scrambles for an answer—any explanation for why he’s doing this to me. But the triumphant grin on Victor’s face confirms my greatest fear.

This is what he wants.

He wants to hurt me.

To see me afraid and pleading for his mercy.

The realization sends a shiver up my spine, and with it comes a crushing resignation. If groveling is the only way to make him stop, then I have no choice but to give him what he wants.

“I’m sorry…” I choke out, dropping my gaze as shame simmers inside me. The frailty in my voice only intensifies my humiliation at having to utter those words.

“You should be,” Victor replies smoothly, his tone laced with self-satisfaction. He steps toward me, his hand snaking around my waist as he pulls me close, my head resting against his chest. “You embarrassed me tonight.” He strokes my back like he’s trying to comfort me. “You’re mine, Annelly. I invited you tonight to show you off to my business partners. To parade before them the beautiful woman I’ve fallen for. But then you denied me.”

He pulls away, only to grip my jaw again with crushing force, his sudden anger radiating through his touch. Before I can react, he slams my head against the wall with a hollow thud. A sharp jolt of pain blooms at the back of my skull, and silent tears stream down my cheeks. The look of utter disdain in his eyes triggers yet another wave of panic that leaves me shaking.

“I can forgive a lot of things,” he snarls with a low menacing growl. “But denying me? That’s something I won’t tolerate. In case I haven’t made myself clear…” His fingers dig into my skin as he leans in closer, the venom in his words slicing through me. “You. Are. Mine. You never. Ever. Deny me!” His hot, angry breath brushes against my face, making me flinch as I whimper in pain. “This is your only warning,” he hisses.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” I stammer, the words tumbling out in desperation. “I… I wasn’t comfortable with what was happening. I-I don’t think I’m ready…”

The movement is so fast it barely registers. A flash of his fist, and then the impact—a sickening crack that sends my world spinning. Darkness swallows me whole, but it’s fleeting. When the light returns, it’s hazy and distorted, blurred behind the tears flooding my eyes. Disoriented, my knees buckle, and I collapse onto the cold, unforgiving floor. The rough texture of the wood planks scrapes against my palms, grounding me in a reality my mind refuses to accept because this can’t be real .

It can’t be.

But it is.

Never in a million years did I think I’d be this girl. Naïve to the point of stupidity. For years, I fought to prove them wrong—my family, their endless warnings, their doubts. They always said I was too innocent, too sheltered, and sweet to understand the complexities of the world, let alone navigate its darker corners. And I rebelled against them with everything I had, determined to carve out my own path. But now… now I see the truth. Even as I pushed them away, angry and defiant, some part of me must have always known they were right.

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# Chapter 1

Annelly

When he pulls me to my feet and shoves me back against the wall, the fear doesn't come this time. Instead, my mind spins with all the lies I've told myself. Three years of hard work—all wasted in a hopeless attempt to be someone I'll never be.

It was all for nothing.

Everything I thought I wanted, the dreams I was so close to achieving, none of it matters now that I realize I'm no different from the girl I was when I escaped my small town and the people smothering me. I came to this city with one sole purpose: to reinvent myself. To find out who I was outside the parameters of Ruby Creek and the people who never believed I'd amount to much outside of them.

But they were right.

The truth settles over me like a lead weight, crushing what little remains of my resolve. Not even my desire to honor my dad's wishes is enough to keep me going. Oh God, Dad. My eyes close as his face flashes in my mind. I promised him I'd do this, that I'd pursue our dream as a tribute to his memory. If he were here right now, he'd be so disappointed in me.

"Now that I've made myself clear," his voice slices through my thoughts, cold and commanding. "It's time you let go of this notion you aren't ready for this." He lifts a hand, trailing a finger down my cheek. I flinch at his touch, my skin crawling beneath it. "I see you, little dove," he murmurs with false tenderness. "Not only are you ready, but this... this is exactly what you need. What exists between us is fate. I knew it the moment I saw you on that stage. And you agreeing to be mine only sealed it. What I need is for you to trust in that. In me. Let me show you how good we can be."

When he leans in, I squeeze my eyes shut—a futile attempt to create a barrier between us. Trapped between his body and the wall, there's no escape. My only option now is surrender, a bitter pill to swallow as his cold, rough lips crash down on mine.

His touch is repulsive, and my stomach twists as bile rises in my throat. Unable to hide my disgust, I pull away, a move I instantly regret when his hand clamps painfully around the back of my neck.

"You better fucking kiss me," he growls, the icy threat in his eyes making it clear my only choice is to comply.

So I do.

Only this time, when our lips meet, I close my eyes and tap into my years of training, summoning 
the girl
 I've come to know over the past four months. The starring role, which at one time felt like my greatest achievement. My surefire way onto a Broadway stage. 
The girl
 who led me to this man in the first place and who may just be my only hope of getting out of this in one piece. Letting 
her
 take the lead, I lock myself away in the darkest corner of my mind, welcoming the transformation until I'm no longer me.

Yet, holding on to 
her
 proves impossible when his hands begin to roam, rough and possessive, groping me without hesitation. His touch, as demanding as it is demeaning, and the hard press of his arousal against me, sends me into full-blown panic. Images of what he might do—what this is building toward—flash through my mind, each one more horrifying than the last. The threat I'm facing hangs so heavy in the air that a strangled wail rips free from me.

Instead of responding with the anger I expect, Victor pulls back, his lips curling into something that looks like amusement. Then he draws me closer, wrapping me in an embrace that only tightens the grip of my terror.

"That's it, my little dove. Let it out." He croons against my ear as he cradles the back of my head, his other hand tracing slow, deliberate circles on my back. The tenderness in his touch feels like a cruel joke. It's so at odds with everything that's happened tonight that it confuses me and further frays what little remains of my composure. The way he can go from one extreme to the next is terrifying and speaks to how volatile and dangerous he truly is.

 A loud knock suddenly reverberates through the room, startling me. "You're okay," he whispers, his lips brushing against my temple. "I promise I won't let anyone hurt you."

The kiss he plants on the crown of my head feels like a branding iron, but to my relief, he steps away to answer the door. For the first time since he dragged me in here, I have the space to think. To breathe. To find a way out of this nightmare.

"What is it?" His voice shifts, cold and commanding, as he addresses whoever interrupted us. Though I can't make out their words, I recognize the voice as Felix, a member of his ever-present security team.

With him distracted, I look around. His office, perched on the second floor of his nightclub, feels suffocating. The pulsing music coming from below vibrates through the floor, a haunting backdrop to my rising panic. A dim lamp on the corner of his mahogany desk casts long shadows across the space, and the only light beyond that comes from the glow of the building across the street, visible through the windows.

There's no fire escape. No hidden exits. Just the door Victor is blocking.

My stomach sinks, but I force myself to think. If escape isn't possible, I need to defend myself. My eyes dart around the room, searching desperately for something–anything—I can use.

"Looking for something, dove?"

My eyes snap to his, catching the smirk spreading across his face. It's a cruel, calculated expression, a stark contrast to the cold fury simmering in his eyes.

"N-No," I stammer, the shake in my voice betraying my attempt to deny what's so painfully obvious.

His smirk deepens as though he can smell the fear rolling off me. "Felix is taking you home. I'm staying behind to finish out the night."

Before I can process his words, he steps closer, reclaiming his position and boxing me in against the wall. The oppressive weight of his body steals the breath from my lungs. Without warning, his lips crash down onto mine, an aggressive, suffocating claim that makes my stomach churn. His hand tangles roughly in my hair, yanking painfully as he takes what he wants without hesitation or care.

Every cell in my body screams at me to push him away. My instincts demand that I fight back, to claw and kick until he's forced to release me. But fear wraps itself around me like a choking vine as my mind spirals with uncertainty. What would he do if I resisted? How much worse could this get?

When his hand violently squeezes my breast, pain tears through me, sharp and humiliating. I gasp, a helpless, involuntary sound that only seems to amuse him further. A low, satisfied chuckle rumbles in his chest, vibrating against me in a stark reminder he takes joy in hurting me.

"You're so sexy when you give in to me. When you let me take what's mine."

With those dark eyes fixed on me, it's hard to fathom how I missed the evil he hides inside. All this time, he knew what he was doing. The polished charm, the tailored suits, the disarming smile... all of it a curated mask. He wielded his undivided attention like a weapon, overwhelming a girl like me in ways I was too naïve to question.

So many nights, I'd laid awake wondering what it was he saw in me, the girl with little to offer, never having experienced anything worthy of a man like him. A girl with nothing but dreams of a Broadway career and the innocence of a sheltered life. But now I realize it's what made me the perfect target. My inexperience blinded me to the fact that I was the prey, and he was the bait that lured me straight into this trap. And now that he's caught me in his cage, he no longer has to hide who he truly is.

"I hate seeing you like this," he murmurs as he cups my face with unsettling tenderness. His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away my tears. "Why did you make me do this?" The words twist something deep inside me, leaving me cold and nauseated. His eyes are softer now, his tone laced with genuine sorrow, and he sounds like a lover seeking reassurance.

 "I thought you understood what we have. I thought you cared about me. That you'd do anything to make me happy." The hurt in his voice catches me by surprise. It's like he's pleading with me to fix what's happened. He genuinely believes what transpired tonight is my fault, and therefore, he wants me to justify what he's done. I would be appalled if I wasn't so horrified.

"I'm sorry... I don't know how things got so out of control." Truer words have never been spoken, but saying them feels like a betrayal of everything I know to be right. It feels like I'm validating his behavior and taking responsibility for his abuse. 
It's self-preservation. Surviving this night is the only thing that matters now.
 At least, that's what I tell myself to ease the shame that shrouds me like a dark cloud.

"It's all right, dove. We're going to be okay." He pulls me back against his chest, his arms wrapping around me in a tight embrace. "After closing, I'll come to you. We'll make love. I'll make it good for you our first time. Then, after tonight, this will all be behind us. And you'll finally be mine."

The promise of his words sends a violent shudder through me. He's letting me go, but the promise he'll return to finish what he's started sends me into a tailspin. He's all but confirmed he's going to rape me, force me to be with him. A scenario so terrifying that I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my blood. Every cell, every fiber of my being, demands I get away—that I find a way to run and hide. To hell with my dreams, with my life in New York, with everything I've worked so hard for. Because none of it is worth staying for, not if it means enduring this.

So, with my mind made up, I push through my fears, pouring everything I have into this last performance. Letting 
the girl
 shine through, I give 
her
 the space to come into me so 
she
 can take the lead and guide us out of this mess. Momentarily closing my eyes, I take a steadying breath, and then...

"Okay," 
the girl
 whispers, 
her
 voice soft and pliant.

I don't dare meet his gaze, but I can feel his eyes boring into 
her
, looking for the truth behind 
her
 words. 
She
 doesn't falter. Instead, 
she
 keeps 
her
 head lowered, 
her
 body relaxed, projecting the docile obedience he craves. When he kisses the top of my head, I feel the bile rise in my throat, but I still don't break character.

Satisfied, he leads me toward the door, his hand firm on my lower back. "Be sure to clean yourself up. I want you ready and looking beautiful when I get there." His grip tightens suddenly, forcing me to look at him. His gaze, cold and commanding, bores into mine as he delivers his final warning. "And dove, no more fighting me. I own you. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be."

Still in control, 
the girl
 peers back at him, a sad, defeated smile on 
her
 face. "I understand," 
she
 responds softly. Playing the part of the scared, submissive girl he wants, my shoulders hunch, and I cast my eyes downward.

"Good."

When his hand lands on my lower back as he leads me into the hall, it takes everything I have to not shy away from his touch. Once at the exit of the club, he spins me to face him, his hand rising to brush over my cheek, where the sting of his mistreatment still lingers.

"That's going to bruise." He murmurs, tilting my chin side to side so he can examine the damage he inflicted. "Ice it when you get home. I'll be there later to kiss and make it all better."

Before I can respond, he presses a final kiss to my forehead and ushers me into the waiting car. Leaning in, he fastens my seatbelt, the gesture as jarring as it is calculated.

"Need to keep you safe." The words, though seemingly kind, are overshadowed by the fire smoldering in his eyes—eyes that challenge me, daring me to defy him.

When he finally shuts the door, leaving me alone in the car with Felix, my panic manifests into waves of near hysteria. I'm moments away from being set free, and it doesn't escape me that my fate depends on us driving away. So I tap into 
the girl
 once more, allowing 
her
 to meet his gaze through the window with a look that conveys I'm too scared to go against him. 

There's not a doubt in my mind Felix will be stationed outside my apartment, watching my every move until Victor arrives. If I'm going to escape, I need to sell this performance completely—to lull them into a false sense of security. I need to play this smart because tonight isn't just about survival. 

Tonight is about escape. 

My time in New York ends now

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2 Chapters are available FREE
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OLLOW ME on REAM
!!! (Link in my profile)

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Chapter 2

Annelly

(Two Months Later)

“I need to leave if I’m going to make bingo,” Mom says, her fingers tapping away with practiced precision as she closes out her register.

At sixty-one, Rose Marie Connors still turns heads wherever she goes. She carries herself with the effortless grace that commands attention—a perfect mix of refined confidence and timeless beauty. Even after a ten-hour shift, her dark hair is still perfectly styled in a tight chignon, not a strand out of place. Her makeup remains flawless, not a single smudge or crease to betray the long day she’s endured. Even her 1950s-style waitressing uniform looks fresh and pressed, as though she hasn’t spent hours on her feet, catering to customers with her trademark poise. She’s the embodiment of composure and elegance—a walking testament to perfection.

In short, my mother is everything I’m not, but wish I could be.

“Okay, drive safe.”

“I will, my darling. I’ll see you at home.” She pats my cheek in a gesture only a mother can get away with.

Her smile should warm me, but instead, it only adds to my resentment. I get she’s happy to have me back home, but I hate that her happiness comes at the expense of my own. And while I know, logically, it isn’t her fault, I can’t help but blame her. After all, she raised me to feel this way.

She may not have planted the seeds of doubt that sabotaged my life, but she certainly tended to them. Nurtured them until, eventually, I was too insecure to take a step without her. And then when I did… well, New York happened, and we all know how that ended.

Now, here I am. Back where I started.

My failure to thrive would be an enormous concern for any other parent, but to my mother, it means life is exactly as it should be.

Tired of wallowing in self-pity, I force myself to focus on the dining room. My gaze sweeps over each table, assessing what our patrons might need. I was raised in this diner. Surrounded by the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation, waitressing is second nature to me.

“Annelly, the Serrano brothers are here.” Wendy’s voice snaps me back to the present and the familiar chaos of the diner.

“Thanks. Can you check with Mr. Kev for table two’s order? They’ve been waiting a while.”

“Of course,” she replies, already heading toward the kitchen to talk to our chef.

With a slight nod meant to acknowledge I’m ready, I straighten my spine, keeping my face neutral even as my chest tightens in anticipation. I’m actually quite proud of myself for not looking in their direction the minute I felt him arrive.

That’s right. Felt him .

It’s like some cruel cosmic joke, the way I can sense him before he even steps through the door. I can’t explain it. It’s like a subtle shift in the air that awakens every nerve ending in my body, pulling my attention straight to him. There was a time when I reveled in the intensity of those feelings. The way he could ignite something deep inside me with just a look or the sound of his voice. Back then, it felt like magic—like we were connected in a way that was unique to us. But that was before everything fell apart. Before, he broke my heart and disappointed me so completely that even now, I’m not sure all the pieces will ever fit back together.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I reach for the stack of menus and grab two rolls of silverware. You can do this. I remind myself—for what feels like the hundredth time since they walked in. Forcing my feet to move, I make my way to the far corner booth where they always sit.

As if this weird connection between me and James wasn’t bad enough, there’s the added torment that he always shows up during my shifts. The first few weeks, I figured it was a coincidence, but now I’m convinced it’s intentional. He knows my schedule, and that he consistently shows up feels like his way of punishing me for what happened at Lucas and Emilia’s wedding.

I replay the memory of that night more often than I’d ever admit: James, with that rare vulnerability in his voice, asking if we could start over, go back to being friends. And me shutting him down. If there’s one thing James Serrano isn’t accustomed to, it’s rejection—and I’m certain what I said bruised more than just his pride.

“There she is. How’s our beautiful waitress today?” Right on cue, James opens with his goofy grin and his usual array of compliments. There was a time that lethal combination would heat my body and send my heart fluttering, but that was before he hurt me. Now, the only heat I feel comes from my anger. In the two months I’ve been back in Ruby Creek, not once has he acknowledged the cruel way he ended our friendship. Instead, he acts like it never happened, like it was just a blip in his otherwise charmed, carefree life.

“Hi, the usual?” I ask, my eyes cast down, focused on the notepad where I’m going to pretend to pencil in their order.

“Hey there, Nell.” Tyler chimes in, cutting through the tension with his usual humor. “Please ignore my ass-hat brother. I keep telling him he sounds like a complete douche when he talks like that.” I almost smile but force myself not to. After a few awkward seconds, he finally answers the question I asked. “The usual works for me, thanks.”

Eager to move things along, I chance a glance at James and instantly regret it. With his jet-black hair and those piercing crystal-blue eyes, he’s easily the most handsome man I’ve ever known. The way he moves and the easy confidence he exudes speak of a man who’s well aware of his good looks. But that’s not what speeds up my heart when our eyes meet; it’s what I see behind them that undoes me.

There’s longing there—raw, needy, wanting—woven between hints of sadness. It’s the same look he used to give me, the one that had me foolishly believing there could be something more between us. It’s also the same look he gave me as he declared there wasn’t any room for me in his life. Seeing it now ignites a firestorm of emotion: anger, heartbreak, and something darker I refuse to name.

The contradiction—his actions versus what his eyes reveal—hits a nerve I can’t ignore, for it reminds me of the man who haunts my nightmares. The one who mastered the art of twisted devotion. Who whispered lies of love, even as he broke me down with cruelty.

It’s then that memories from that night come rushing back, unbidden and without warning. Images flash behind my eyes, their vividness blurring the lines between then and now. The force by which they constrict my throat awakens my flight response, and suddenly, all I want to do is retreat. I need to go, to find somewhere private where I can ride out the storm before it consumes me.

Swallowing hard, I fight to tamp down the looming sense of panic, burying it beneath the mask of indifference James taught me to perfect.

“Same for me. Thanks, Annelly,” he says as his eyes assess me, his half-smile fading into a look of concern.

Because he can see.

That thought ignites a fresh wave of dread, and heat rushes to my cheeks as shame courses through me. I can’t let him see. I won’t . Turning quickly, I catch my foot on a chair leg, and my balance falters. Though I manage to stay upright, the clatter draws every eye in the diner. Conversations stall, and the weight of their collective attention lands squarely on me. My chest tightens further, embarrassment fanning the flames of my growing panic.

By the time I reach the counter where Wendy is entering an order, my pulse is a thunderous roar in my ears. Her teasing smile cuts through the haze, but her words sting all the same.

“You alright there, Nelly?” she asks with a soft chuckle, her tone light but, in my current state, unwelcomed.

“I’m fine. Taking a quick break.” I manage, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me.

I don’t wait for her response. Instead, I key in their order and hurry toward the back office, my steps quickening with every stride. The second the door clicks shut behind me, I lock it and collapse onto the loveseat. Tears burn my eyes as I bury my face in my hands, surrendering to the silent sobs that tear free.

I hate this. Hate the weakness that grips me. Hate that no matter how far I’ve come, it always circles back to him. To Victor. To the way he shattered my sense of safety. It’s been two months, but I’m still trapped in that room, reliving the terror he inflicted. Even as I breathe the air of freedom, he’s still caging me, stealing the peace I’m not sure I’ll ever fully reclaim.

The soft knock at the door startles me. Embarrassment floods through me as I swipe at the tears streaking down my cheeks. I can’t fall apart—not here, not now. Clearing my throat, I shove the memories back into the box where they belong, sealing them away for later when I’m alone.

“What is it?” I call out, my voice surprisingly steady.

“It’s me. Can I come in?” The familiar voice of my cousin Emilia carries through the door. Resigned, I wipe my face one last time before unlocking it.

She steps inside, her eyes scanning me with concern. “You okay?” Her voice is soft, laced with worry, as her hand cradles her very pregnant belly.

“Yes,” I force a faint smile. “Just having a moment. You know how I get.”

Her brow furrows. “I saw what happened. Were the boys giving you a hard time?”

“No, they were fine. I’m just having a bad day.” I try to wave it off, but the weight of her gaze tells me she’s not buying it.

“Nell.” She hesitates before laying a hand on my arm. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I think you should talk to someone. Since coming back from New York… well, I can tell something’s wrong. If you can’t talk to me, maybe it’s time you try someone else. A professional. Maybe your old therapist?”

While deep down, I know she’s only trying to help, her advice strikes a nerve. It’s a reminder of how the people in my life see me. Like I’m someone that needs to be managed, protected, and saved. Someone broken and fragile.

And maybe that’s exactly what I am. Regardless of how much I wish it weren’t true.

In the end, she’s right. Because I do feel like I’m going crazy. It’s been two months since that night, and though there’s no sign he’s looking for me, the fear inside me keeps growing. Every day feels like I’m walking a tightrope, teetering on the edge, wondering if today will be the day he shows up to make good on his promise to make me his.

Plus, there are moments when the feeling is so strong it’s impossible to ignore—like a pair of unseen eyes boring into my back, watching my every move. Logically, I know it’s not possible. I know he’s not here. But logic doesn’t reach the part of me that’s been rewired by fear. Every nerve in my body screams that he’s close, lurking just out of sight, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“I know, and I promise I will seek help if things get to be too much. Today’s just… a bad day.” I offer a tight smile, then step forward to guide her out of the office. “Now come on, Lucas is probably pacing the floor, looking for you.”

She hesitates, her voice behind me full of uncertainty. “You sure you’re okay?”

The knot in my chest tightens. Her worry only feeds the growing guilt inside me. It’s a reminder that I need to do a better job at hiding how far my life has unraveled.

Plastering on my most convincing smile, I nod. “Yes. Now, get back out there. He’s waiting for you.”

As she walks away, I watch her return to her husband and daughters, their love and happy little family, a stark contrast to the chaos that is my life. With a strange sense of longing, I linger on them a moment longer, then I step back out to the middle of the room, checking on my tables like everything is fine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch James watching me. His brow furrowed with concern. His worry digs under my skin, but I don’t let myself look his way again. Instead, I bury myself in my work, throwing every ounce of focus into staying busy until, finally, he and his brother leave.

After that, the hours pass by in a blur. By the time I flip the CLOSED sign, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. One more weird day behind me. But as I reach to lock the door, that familiar, unwelcome prickle of dread snakes up my spine. The unsettling sense of being watched has my eyes scanning the darkness beyond the glass door.

That’s when I see it. A shadowy figure. The unmistakable shape of a man. My pulse stutters as he turns the corner and vanishes from sight. Goosebumps break out over my skin as my mind spirals, attempting to process what it thinks I saw.

That shadow… it could have been anyone . At least that’s what I tell myself as I dart around the front of the diner, yanking the blinds shut with trembling hands.

“You all right there, Ms. Nelly?”

The sound of Mr. Kev’s voice nearly makes me jump. His worried tone cuts through the fog of my panic, and when I turn to see his concerned expression, my worst fear is confirmed—he saw me.

He saw me freak out.

Forcing my breathing to slow, I summon every ounce of composure I can muster. Schooling my features, I reach for the cleaning spray and rag, turning my back to him to hide my shaky hands.

“Of course,” I say, forcing a steadiness I don’t feel. “Everything’s just fine.”

The lie tastes bitter, but I don’t look back. Instead, I focus on scrubbing the tables as if, by doing so, I can wipe away the lingering fear clinging to my skin.

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# Chapter 3

James

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee draws me into the kitchen. As I do every morning, I pause to take in the home my brother and I built together. From the sleek modern kitchen we're standing in, to the sturdy walls and vaulted ceilings that make the place feel open yet secure. Even the food, running water, and heat—things we'll never take for granted. It's quite a step up for two brothers who were born to nothing and spent their childhoods trapped in a cycle of filth and neglect. We were homeless, parentless, hopeless, and yet somehow... here we are.

A smirk tugs at my lips as I pour my coffee, the quiet moment reminding me that none of this happened by chance. It took years of grinding—bouncing at seedy bars, literally fighting for my life in underground fight clubs, before finally finding my place working security. It was literal blood, sweat, tears, and sheer willpower that made this life possible.

And we earned every bit of it, all on our own.

"I heard Brianna leave a few minutes after I let her in. You two have a fight?" My brother's voice cuts through the silence, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I shrug, more focused on stirring my coffee than responding. When I join him at the table, I offer a simple answer. "Wasn't interested, so I sent her on her way."

His brow arches, amusement flickering in his eyes as he lifts his mug. "What do you mean you weren't interested? Since when?"

"I don't know. Wasn't in the mood." I pause, then cringe as I add, "Plus, with the way she's been working her way through our friends, it's getting weird."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Man, that's rich. Guess Ben's relentless roasting finally got to you."

"Dude. It's not that deep." I reply, rolling my eyes. "I mean, do you ask the chicks you hook up with for a list of their past sexual partners to make sure none of our friends are on it?"

He grins. "Nope. But with the way you go through women, I've started showing them that picture of us from our snowboarding trip to Switzerland. If they even 
look
 like they recognize you, I know to stay the hell away."

"Whatever," I mutter, annoyed. "Who cares? Doesn't matter, anyway. I haven't touched Briana in months."

It's true. I haven't touched her or anyone else for two months, to be exact. My longest dry spell in years. A reality made all the worse since it's my dick who's decided he's only interested in a certain brunette that's as out of reach as the fucking sky.

"How come?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, his smirk growing wider. "I mean, I know you're getting up there in age. If you're having trouble getting it up, I hope you know you can talk to me."

"Hahaha. You're a fucking comedian." I shoot back, grabbing a bagel and winging it at his head. He catches it with ease, but his smug grin makes me crack a smile despite myself.

Heading to the fridge, I grab the orange juice, then reach up into the cabinet for two glasses. "I've been busy," I say as I return to the table. "Work, hanging out, hitting the slopes with you fuckers. And let's not forget how women tend to get attached when you stick with them for too long. It complicates shit, and I like my life just the way it is... simple. Focusing on me, myself, and I, plus dealing with your slacker ass, is more than a full-time job." I smirk, setting the glasses down and pouring the juice. "But enough about me. You haven't brought anyone around since... what was her name again?"

"Marissa." His tone changes, and I feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe I shouldn't have brought her up. "She was all kinds of complications. It's crazy how when you're in the thick of a relationship, you don't notice how it's sucking all the joy out of your life."

"I wouldn't know. I don't stick around long enough for that to become an issue." Though my words are teasing, I'm relieved to see him bounce back a little. For a while there, he had me worried. Marissa left town about three months ago, and it took nearly that long for him to stop moping around the house.

"Well, would you look at us?" I lean back in my chair, a hollow laugh slipping from my throat. "Two single guys, living the life and proving a man can be happy without pussy." The bitterness in my voice lingers like a bad aftertaste, and I shake my head, disgusted. "Now, there's a sentence I never thought I'd say."

"Ha! Yeah." He tries to muster a smile, but it barely lifts the corners of his mouth. As he pours himself another glass of juice, the weight of our shared misery settles between us. Neither of us is handling our so-called 
"girl troubles"
 particularly well, and it shows.

 With our history, it's no wonder relationships don't come easily. Growing up with little love or affection, you learn to survive without it. Instead, you create what you need where you can, and for us, that meant relying only on each other. I loved him, and he loved me. I took care of him, and he took care of me. We were two halves of the same whole, fighting to survive in a world where no one else cared about us but us.

"I saw how you were looking at Annelly last night."

My jaw tightens, but I hide my annoyance behind a mask of indifference. We've had this conversation every damn time we've seen her at the diner—which, at this point, is practically a daily occurrence. It's how I know that giving him any sort of reaction will only encourage him.

"I've already told you; I'm not interested in her that way."

"That's good. Cause after seeing her last night, I got to thinking. She's beautiful. And single. I finally feel ready to move on, so I figured I'd take my shot and ask her out."

The muscles in my jaw ache as I clench my teeth so hard it's a wonder they don't crack. My shit little brother, ever the instigator, presses on.

"Plus, she seems way more into me than she does you. I'm betting she'd probably say yes."

"Cut the shit, Ty." With my appetite gone, I dump my uneaten breakfast into the trash and head to the sink with my dishes. My back is to him, but the threat in my voice is impossible to miss. "Stay the fuck away from her."

"Why? It's not like you have a thing for her, right?" His tone is all mockery, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to take the bait. Unfortunately, my silence does the talking for me.

"I fucking knew it. You like her.
" His grin is insufferable, his tone smug, like he's just cracked some unsolvable mystery.

"For the millionth time, I told you I don't. Not like that, anyway. And even if I did, I'd never act on it. The girl hates me."

It's then that Lucas's words from months ago come back to me: 
"Her not speaking to you has everything to do with how you handled things. You're the one who got your panties all twisted up when she caught you kissing that chick outside of Souder's Bar."

Fuck! The memory still stings, as sharp and raw as the moment it happened. I'll never forget the instant my gaze snapped from the blonde I was kissing to Annelly standing across the street. Her expression hit me like a sucker punch—crestfallen, hurt, and so goddamn crushed. It wrecked me, igniting a firestorm of guilt that burned hotter than I wanted to admit.

The worst part? I knew. Even before I turned my head, I knew she was there. I felt her presence like a fist pressed against my chest, right over my heart. And the look in her eyes—that look—was all it took to drive the truth home.

It was my fault. I was the one who put that look on her face, and the realization gutted me. That's when I decided—no, 
knew
—that any kind of relationship with her, even as friends, was off the table. The next morning, I sought her out and put an end to whatever it was between us. Even though I knew it was the right thing to do, walking away felt like I was tearing a piece of my own heart out.

"What I saw last night wasn't hate," Ty says, his voice pulling me back to the present. "It was hurt. Whatever happened between you two, anyway?"

What happened?

I lost sight of the boundaries I'd set and gave her the impression I could offer more than I was capable of giving. By the time I realized I'd crossed a line, it was too late. She was hurt by what I said, and then she left. Went back to school, just like I told her I wanted her to do, without so much as a text goodbye,

A month later, Emilia mentioned she was seeing someone. At first, I thought, 
Good. She's moving on
. But then Emilia started voicing her concerns about the guy and putting it in my head that something wasn't right. I tried reaching out to Annelly, hoping to reconnect, apologize, and be there if she needed me. Every call, every text—ignored.

Seeing them together at Lucas and Emilia's wedding only confirmed what Emilia had suspected. The guy wasn't good for her. And when Annelly came back to Ruby Creek two months ago, it confirmed my worst fears.

Something happened in New York. Something bad enough to scare her into coming home and abandoning the life and career she'd been building. Whatever it was, it shook her to the core. But since she's been back, she won't talk about it—not to her family, her friends, and definitely not to me.

"Nothing happened. Not really." The lie tastes bitter as I shut off the water and lean against the sink. With my back to Ty, I stare out the window at the snowy peaks of the mountains that surround our property. "I made sure of it. I put an end to things before anything could happen, but it was too little too late. She got hurt because I don't have it in me to give her what she needs."

"What is it that she needs?"

The answer is clear in my mind, even if it pains me to admit it. 
Forever
. Because that's the kind of girl Annelly is—a forever kind of girl. And forever is the one thing I know I can't give her. To pretend otherwise would be a cruel thing to do, especially to a girl like her.

"Someone better than me." The words barely make it past the lump in my throat. 

"I get that," Tyler says softly, his tone surprising me. There's something heavy in those three words, but before I can ask him about it, the doorbell rings.

 "I'll get it," he offers, standing abruptly and heading for the door.

Alone with my thoughts, I focus on the breakfast dishes, scrubbing harder than necessary before loading them into the dishwasher. What I wouldn't give for that to be her at our door right now. Hell, I'd settle for a text—anything to let me know she's okay. Anything to prove there's still a chance for us to go back to being friends.

What she doesn't realize is that her indifference cuts deep, like a blade reopening wounds I thought had long since healed. Every time she ignores me, it pulls all my insecurities to the surface—the belief that I'm unlovable, unworthy, broken beyond repair. It's another reason I should keep my distance. For if she can hurt me this deeply with nothing more than her silence, imagine what she could do to me if I actually let her in. Wouldn't that kind of power in her hands be a risk I can't afford to take—especially given my history?

"Hey, man." Zeb's voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts, and I turn just in time to see him enter the kitchen with Tyler trailing behind. 

"What's going on?" I meet him halfway, shaking his hand and pulling him in for a quick bro hug. "Wasn't expecting you guys for another hour. Is Owen with you?"

"Nah. Get this." Zeb starts, his grin wide and mischievous. "Owen's got himself a girl." Tyler and I exchange surprised looks as Zeb continues. "He won't say who because, apparently, she's embarrassed to be with him and has sworn him to secrecy," he laughs.

"What?" Tyler asks with a confused chuckle, leaning against the counter.

"Yep," Zeb confirms, clearly enjoying the story. "He admitted she's ashamed of whatever they're doing, but he says she's worth it. He plans to keep at it until he wears her down or they get caught. Whichever comes first." He throws his head back, cackling. "The guy's fucking crazy."

"That's our Owen," I say, shaking my head with a chuckle. "A genius with the emotional IQ of a toddler and the self-preservation instincts of a 10-year-old boy in love."

They both laugh, but it's true. If there's one thing history has proven, it's that Owen is heading straight for heartbreak. Worse, he'll see it coming a mile away, but it won't stop him. When it comes to love, he's all heart, logic be damned. I've never understood how someone so smart can be so clueless about matters of the heart. A genius romantic? Like meeting a cheerful pessimist or a militant pacifist... it just doesn't make any sense.

"So, what's the plan for today?" Tyler asks, changing the subject.

"Thought we'd head up the mountain," I reply. "Get a little snowboarding in before it gets too crowded."

"Sounds perfect," Tyler replies as he grabs a protein bar off the counter while Zeb pipes up, his signature douchebag grin firmly in place.

 "Maybe tonight we can hit up Club Solstice. It's ladies' night 
and 
Valentine's Day weekend," he says, wiggling his eyebrows like the loser he is.

"Sounds fun," I respond, biting back a groan. Because yeah, a night of clubbing is just what I need. Yet another opportunity to be reminded that the only woman I want is the one I can't allow myself to have.

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Chapter 4

Annelly

“Hey, Wendy?” I say into the two-way radio. “We need two more pitchers of lemonade and another tray of the balsamic chicken.”

“Got it. Be there in a sec,” her voice crackles back.

I lower the radio, letting out a breath. For the hundredth time today, I wish I could step out of the room and grab the food myself—anything to avoid the awkwardness that hangs around me like a cloak. But no. Today, I’m just a guest, here to celebrate my cousin’s new baby like everyone else. I’m not supposed to be working, and every soul in this room knows it. That only makes my constant hovering over the tables and obsessive rearranging of platters all the more noticeable. My actions only spotlight the fact I’m trying—desperately—to avoid having to talk to anyone.

“Hey, you.” Hannah’s familiar voice pulls me out of my thoughts just before she wraps me in one of her signature hugs. She’s one of Emilia’s best friends, and her genuine warmth makes it easy to like her. “How have you been?” she asks, stepping back and flashing a bright smile.

“Good. Busy.” My answer is automatic and accompanied by a practiced smile that feels thin and is becoming harder to maintain the longer the day goes on. “How about you?”

That’s right, deflect and redirect —the social strategy I’ve leaned on all afternoon, and which thankfully, still seems to be working.

“Things are going well. I’ve been expanding the practice, and as I’m sure you’ve heard, my parents asked me to join the board of their medical charity. Between those two things, it feels like all I do is work.” She laughs like it’s no big deal, but the weariness in her eyes betrays her.

I nod, understanding all too well the exhaustion that comes from setting aside your own needs to prioritize others’ expectations.

“I’m sorry. That sounds rough,” I say, keeping my tone soft.

“It’s challenging,” she admits, her smile turning wry. “But the charity does so much good for the community. It’s hard not to feel passionate about it, even if there are days when it feels like the bureaucracy is testing my will to persevere.”

Her honesty catches me off guard, and I offer her a small nod of understanding, though I’m already bracing for what I know is coming next.

“What about you?” she asks, tilting her head, her expression genuinely curious. “With how busy I’ve been, I’ve been a terrible friend. I should have made the time to check in to see how you’re doing. What have you been up to?”

Inwardly, I groan, kicking myself for not intervening before she could ask. If she weren’t such a close friend of our family, I would excuse myself from the conversation under the guise I have to help Wendy bring in more food, but instead, I force my smile to stretch wider, the effort of holding it in place exhausting.

“Oh, you know, helping mom with the diner, taking care of the house, catching up on all the small-town gossip… the usual,” I respond, keeping my tone light.

She laughs, “Well, there’s no shortage of that around here, is there?”

“No, there isn’t. I’m guessing you’ve heard the latest…” I lean in, lowering my voice as though sharing a juicy secret. “So far, four people have reported that someone—or something—stole just one of their snow boots off their porch. It’s looking like Ruby Creek has its first official ‘Boot Bandit.’”

Hannah’s brow lifts in amusement, but it’s when I add, “Chief Keller even went on record in the Ruby Creek Times to say, and I quote, ‘It’s probably a raccoon with a weird boot fetish,’” that she throws her head back and laughs.

“Will Keller always was a sarcastic old grump, even as a kid,” she says between chuckles. “I can only imagine how thrilled he is to be in charge of that investigation.”

“Highlight of his career, I’m sure,” I reply with a grin, picturing our beloved and much too serious Chief of police. Though in his early thirties, Will Keller could easily give those cranky old men on the Muppets a run for their money.

Hannah shakes her head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. The lightness of the moment lingers for a beat before she shifts gears. “So, are you back for good?”

The question lands with a weight I’ve come to dread. It’s the one thing everyone wants to know: friends, family, even the nosy cashier at the grocery store. But the truth? I don’t have an answer, not for them, not for myself. Two months back in Ruby Creek, and I’m no closer to figuring it out than I was the day I first arrived.

“For now. Yeah. At least until another project pulls me away.” It’s a big fat lie—one that makes me cringe inwardly as the words leave my mouth.

While I hate lying to my friends and family, the truth is far messier. I have no idea what comes next for me, and after years of believing I had my life mapped out, not knowing my next step feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into the unknown. My old life is behind me, laid to waste and in shambles, and my only option is to jump. The thought isn’t just terrifying—it’s downright depressing. Suffocating. The excruciating weight of it pressing harder against my chest with each passing day.

“Anyhow,” I add, eager to shift the spotlight off myself, “will you excuse me? I need to go help Wendy in the kitchen.”

“Of course. Need an extra set of hands?”

“No, we’re good.” I shake my head, flashing her a grateful smile. Then I glance toward Emilia, who’s chatting with some of the other guests, her face radiant despite the exhaustion etched into her posture. “But maybe you could grab the guest of honor and get her into a chair. Poor thing looks like she’s about to topple over.”

Emilia’s only four weeks away from delivering her third baby, and the way she’s cradling her swollen belly makes it obvious how uncomfortable she is. With the whirlwind of her wedding to Lucas over Thanksgiving weekend, followed by the Christmas season, and then the arrival of Jen and Ben’s baby on New Year’s Day, today was the first date that worked to throw her this baby shower. She looks stunning as always, with her long, wavy brown hair and effortless, girl-next-door beauty. But the strained look on her face is a clear signal she needs to be off her feet.

Hannah, being her OB-GYN, doesn’t need much convincing. She takes one look at her and then rushes off to steer Emilia toward a chair. Relieved at the opportunity to slip away, I head toward the kitchen and run into Wendy and Sage as they’re about to bring out the food I requested. I take one of the lemonade pitchers from Wendy, falling into step behind them. Once inside, I busy myself checking that there’s plenty of food to go around, refilling trays, and ensuring everyone is enjoying themselves. The steady hum of activity is a welcome distraction—exactly what I need to avoid being pulled into yet another conversation I’m not ready to have.

The next couple of hours fly by, thanks to my deliberate effort to keep busy so, other than the occasional hello, I don’t have to talk to anyone. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with my family and friends—I do. But I loathe the current state of my life. Pretending everything is fine, like my life is all unicorns, rainbows, and roses, is draining in a way that feels almost unbearable. As much as I pride myself on being a talented actress, playing “happy, well-adjusted Annelly” is a role I fail at miserably.

“Thank you so much, Nelly. This was wonderful.” Emilia says as she pulls me into a warm hug, her gratitude heartfelt.

I smile as we pull apart, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “See? I told you. I know you said it wasn’t necessary since it’s your third baby, but this little peanut…” I place my hands gently on her round belly, “…deserves to be celebrated, too. Just like we celebrated the arrival of his big sisters.” I lean in, lowering my voice to a whisper. “You’re still thinking it’s a boy?”

Her smile widens, radiating joy as she nods. “I’m almost positive. Don’t ask me how, but I feel it. Deep in my bones—and my weary back.” She chuckles, one hand moving instinctively to support her lower back as her body shifts, struggling under the weight of her ever-growing belly.

“You’re leaving?” Mom’s voice cuts in as she joins us, pulling Emilia into a hug of her own.

“Yeah,” Emilia says with a chuckle. “Jen’s giving me a ride back to her place. Lucas and Ben were feeling a bit overwhelmed with their charges and called for reinforcements. Don’t ask me why it takes the entire Offset Tactical Team to oversee a six-year-old, a four-year-old, and a 6-week-old baby.”

Mom and I burst into laughter, easily picturing those big, tough men fumbling over tea parties and diaper changes while three tiny girls run circles around them. But as the laughter fades, my mind drifts where it shouldn’t—to James.

I can’t stop the memories from creeping in—those afternoons in Lucas’s backyard, watching James play with Mallory and Alyssa. He was so good with them. Attentive. Patient. Doting, even. That’s James in a nutshell. When his focus is on you, it’s as though nothing else in the world exists. And the way he looked at me back then…

My chest tightens, and I shove the thought aside with a sharp exhale, angry at myself for going there. I hate that I still crave that feeling of being seen, of being wanted, when I know better. After all the mistakes I’ve made, after all the ways I’ve let my life spiral out of control, I should know better than to yearn for such things. James cast me aside like I was nothing. But at least he didn’t destroy my sense of safety. Victor, on the other hand…

Both men made me feel like I was the center of their universe, and though the aftermath couldn’t have been more different, both inflicted their fair share of permanent damage. James left me broken. Victor left me terrified. Now, I can’t escape the fear—every shadow, every sound. Every step I take feels like it’s leading me to the moment I’ll see Victor again. And deep down, I know if that happens, I won’t survive it.

“I was just telling Nelly how much Lucas and I appreciate you guys throwing us a shower. Everything was wonderful.” Emilia says, her kind words slicing through my spiraling thoughts like a lifeline.

“It was all Nell,” Mom replies with a smile, her tone warm and full of pride. “All I did was show up.”

I force a faint smile, but I’m not listening anymore. My mind is still tangled up in the fear, the memories, the remnants of my time with Victor that linger no matter what I do.

It’s not until the private banquet room is clean and I’m back in the employee locker room, changing into my 1950s-style waitressing uniform, that I finally snap out of it. Enough is enough . What happened in New York happened. I can’t rewrite the past or undo the choices that led me there. I abandoned the life I was building—the dreams, the career, the degree. I walked away from it all. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s time to face the truth and start working on a new plan for my future.

For two months, Victor has left me alone. Two months of silence, which I cling to as a fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—I can put what happened behind me, that with enough time and a little luck, I can rebuild, even if I don’t yet know how.

Thankfully, my shift runs smoothly, and I’m relieved when the Serrano brothers don’t make an appearance. Still, knowing they’re likely at Jen’s house, hanging out with my cousin and her friends stirs a pang of regret. I tell myself it has nothing to do with James, that it’s because I miss hanging out with the group, but no matter how I try to spin it, I know it’s a lie.

“Sage,” I call out, keeping my voice light. “My tables are good for now, so I’m going to take those boxes out to the dumpster. You okay holding things down for a minute?”

“Sure, Nell,” she replies with a smile. “It looks like the rush is over, anyway. Take your time.”

Hoping the crisp evening air will help shake the funk that’s been clinging to me since the baby shower, I grab the broken-down boxes and head out the back door toward the dumpsters at the back edge of the property. The lot is packed tonight. Every spot filled thanks to the crowds spilling from the ski resorts, eager to experience the nostalgic charm of Rosie’s Diner and its signature 1950s vibe.

Once the boxes are disposed of, I linger for a moment, letting the icy breeze nip at my cheeks before wandering toward the front of the lot. Main Street comes into view, alive with activity. Cars crawl along the road, their headlights cutting through the soft glow of the streetlamps. On the sidewalks, bundled-up couples stroll hand in hand, their laughter and murmured conversations trailing behind them. They huddle close against the chill, the warmth of their connection evident in every glance and touch.

There’s love in the air tonight, a buzzing undercurrent I can’t seem to escape. It’s everywhere, so palpable it sends a pang through my chest—a dull ache born from longing and regret. I almost forgot tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, but the sight of all these couples is a stark reminder.

A sad sigh escapes me before I can stop it as my gaze catches on a couple across the street. The woman’s back is pressed against the wall, the man leaning into her space to claim a lingering, intimate kiss. It’s a tender, private moment, yet it feels like a dagger to my heart. My chest tightens, tears pricking my eyes as the memory surges forth—the night I saw James outside Souder’s bar, kissing that girl. The night before he shattered my world with the words I can’t forget: I care about you, Annelly. That’s how I know there’s no place for someone like me in your life—or for someone like you in mine .

As the mortification and grief from that day settles over me, the air around me shifts. The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand on end, and a shiver crawls up my spine like my body knows something’s wrong before my brain can catch up. Slowly, my gaze is drawn across the street, my heart pounding harder with every passing second.

That’s when I see him .

A hooded man, standing in the shadows, his eyes locked on me. Even from this distance, I recognize the glint in his gaze—a sinister promise of the punishment he’s been dreaming of inflicting. A slow, sinister smile curls across his face, a silent promise that my time in Ruby Creek is over.

It’s him.

Oh, God, it’s him!

A gasp catches in my throat, my lungs locking tight as panic claws its way through me. The air I so desperately need is just out of reach, trapped behind the weight of terror pressing on my chest.

He found me.

Oh, my God. He found me.

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# Chapter 5

Annelly

How is this my life?
 

It's a question that's been cycling through my mind in an endless loop. When I returned to Ruby Creek, I truly believed I could make it work. That somehow, I'd find a way to be happy here. I thought that beneath the comforting veil of familiarity, surrounded by the town that once seemed like enough, I'd rediscover the girl I used to be. 

But that's not what happened. 

Instead, I feel more disconnected than ever—not just from life here at Ruby Creek, but from myself. 

When I think about it, I guess it makes sense. This town hasn't felt like home since my dad died. He was my anchor, my true north, the person who illuminated the path to the version of myself I wanted to become. Unlike my mother, he never tried to dictate who I was. He never demanded I follow some predetermined plan for my life. Instead, he encouraged me to follow my heart, to let my soul be my guide. He connected me to the 
real
 me—not the me born out of lectures and disapproving gazes. Not the me mom was so insistent on shaping me to become. 

And that, I think, is the crux of why I'm so miserable now. I'm back in Ruby Creek, trapped in the life my mother always envisioned for me—the life she forced on me under the guise of familial duty. It's a life I hate. A life I resent more and more with each passing day.

But the worst part? 

I'm not here because of her. 

I'm here because of 
me.
 

Because of 
my 
mistakes. 

That truth is a bitter pill to swallow. It would be so much easier to lay the blame at my mother's feet—to accuse her rigid expectations and my suffocating upbringing for the mess I'm in now. But that would be a lie, and I've lied to myself enough already. After what happened last night, there's no space left for denial. It's time I face the harsh truth—my problems, my pain, my shattered life... they're of my own making. I have no one to blame but myself. 

For what feels like the hundredth time today, my phone rings. I want to send it to voicemail again, but I don't. I can't. Because no matter how much I hate it, I know my time is up. 

"I'm here," I answer curtly, cutting her off before she has a chance to speak. "Be there in a second." I hang up before she can respond.

With a frustrated sigh, I pull the keys from the ignition, grab my purse, and then step out onto the paved lot. After locking my car, I walk towards the front entrance of Rosie's Diner, keeping my focus on the ground in front of me. As is my new normal, the hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end in warning. This time, I don't bother to look around, not wanting to further fuel the paranoia that's taken over my life. I know that if I look, I'll find evidence of him, and after what happened last night, I no longer trust the things I see, much less my body's internal warnings.

When I enter the dining room, the buzz of conversation instantly disappears, replaced instead by an unsettling silence that wraps itself around me. The sudden quiet is disorienting, but it's the weight of the judgmental stares that most unnerve me.

 I expected this. It's Ruby Creek, after all—a place where "minding your own business" might as well be a foreign concept. News of how I lost it last night has clearly spread to every corner of this nosy little town. It would explain why the diner's packed at two o'clock in the afternoon, at the start of my shift, when normally the place would be darn near empty. 

These people aren't here for burgers and milkshakes. They're here for me. Every single one of them has shown up to get a first-hand glimpse of the girl who lost it last night. They're here to scrutinize me, to pick apart every detail of what I say and do, so they can piece together their own theories about what is "wrong" with me. Later, they'll gather in someone's living room—or maybe the church hall—to share their findings because, in Ruby Creek, gossip is practically a community sport.

Determined not to let them see my discomfort, I square my shoulders and lift my chin. It takes far more effort than it should, but I force one foot in front of the other, walking steadily toward the office, knowing she'll follow. Though I don't look, I can feel her disapproving gaze boring into me from where she stands behind the counter watching me. 

As far as I'm concerned, I don't owe her anything more than my presence today. I'm here. In this town. Waiting tables, just like she wanted. Living under her roof. My life, neatly tethered to hers the way she likes it to be. The way I see it, that's more than enough—more than anyone should have to give. My feelings, though? My emotions? Those are mine, and I refuse to give her any power over them.

By the time I sink into the loveseat, she's already closing the door behind us. I don't need to look at her to know she's furious. Given I've been avoiding her since everything happened, even I can admit some of her anger is justified. 

When she takes her seat behind the desk facing me, like I'm an employee and not her daughter, tears well up behind my eyes. I don't let them fall, though. Instead, I draw on my resentment, using it to reinforce the walls around my heart in preparation for this conversation. Whatever she says to me today, I won't let it cut deeper than the wounds I already carry. I can't afford to break any more than I already have.

With her back ramrod straight, she clasps her hands in front of her. "We need to talk."

"That's why I'm here," I reply, my voice flat and emotionless as I hide behind a mask of indifference.

"Look, honey," she begins, her voice dripping with the same sugary sweetness she used to use to lower my guard. Something that hasn't worked on me in quite some time. 

"I'm worried," she continues. "What happened last night... well, everyone is talking about it. Having the police show up in the middle of dinner rush, only for you to tell them you'd made a mistake, is_"

"Is what, Mom?" I cut her off, my voice sharp as I lean forward, daring her to finish that thought. "Did me having a panic attack in front of the town embarrass you? Is this about your reputation, or are you worried my crazy is bad for business?" With my head held high, I meet her gaze. I want her to see it—that I'm no longer the pushover I once was. "Please clarify which it is, because the only thing that's clear is that your concern isn't for me."

And there it is: the truth that hurts the most. 

I came back from New York unexpectedly, showed up with bruises on my face, and a terrified look in my eyes, and not once did my mother ask what happened or why I showed up unannounced in the dead of night. Instead, her only words to me that night were, "
I have to be at the diner at five a.m. tomorrow. If you want to pick up a shift, you'll need to text me before I leave."

 The next night, when I told her I wouldn't be returning to Julliard, her response was just as indifferent. 
"This is good, honey. I'm sorry things didn't work out, but as I've always said, Ruby Creek is where you belong. I have a feeling this is for the best. You'll see."
  

That passive-aggressive 
I told you so 
nearly had me turning right around to go back to New York. The only reason I didn't was my fear of Victor.

"You're wrong. I 
am
 concerned for you," she says, her tone shifting to that maddening mix of exasperation and righteousness she always uses to justify her actions. "But I also have a responsibility to the diner—our patrons and our employees. I need to know what kind of trouble you're in, Annelly. My job here is to protect both you 
and
 the legacy your dad worked so hard to provide for us." 

And there she goes, predictable as ever, throwing the dead dad card at my feet like a weapon
. 

"You either tell me what's going on, or I'll have no choice but to pull you off the schedule."

The words setter over me like a slap, but I don't flinch. Instead, I lean into the simmering anger, letting it steady me.

"So, I 
was
 right. This 
is
 about you and the diner." I fire back, each word cutting deeper than I intend. "Because if you actually cared about my safety, you'd 
want
 me here. Surrounded by the people of this town, all of whom would be more than happy to keep their eyes on me."

The words are barely out of my mouth before the ache in my chest sharpens, my own accusations slicing through me like jagged glass. It's one thing to feel like your mother doesn't like who you are. It's an entirely different thing to realize she might not care at all. 

After last night, I thought—no, 
hoped—
she'd be worried out of her mind. When the panic attack ended with the police showing up, when I finally blurted my fears to Mr. Kev and Chief Keller, everything I said came from a place of genuine terror. 

 I thought I saw him—Victor—standing outside the diner. Watching me. That condescending smirk on his face chilled me to the bone and made me lose my mind with panic. 

In that moment, it felt so real. 

So real that even now, hours later, I'm still struggling to understand how the heck I got it so wrong. 

"I
 am
 worried about you, but you refuse to talk to me." Her voice wavers between frustration and something softer, but I'm too angry and hurt to care. 

"It was Chief Keller who told me what you're going through. That last night, you thought you saw a man you met in New York... that you think he's stalking you. And Mr. Kev..." She pauses as though bracing herself. "This isn't the first time he's come to me with concerns. For weeks now, he's been saying something's off with you. That you're scared and jittery, especially after close. That when he walks you to your car, you're constantly looking over your shoulder like you're afraid someone's watching. That you're even worried for 
his 
safety."

Her words hit me like a blow, each one heavier than the last, but she's not done. She sighs, dropping her head like she's searching for strength or maybe just a way to soften what she's about to say. 

"As your mother, I can't in good conscience leave you on the schedule if you aren't safe here. It's my job to keep you home, where I 
know
 you'll be safe. Especially if whatever you're running from also puts our employees or customers in danger. Until you tell me what's going on, you're leaving me no other choice."

I feel my composure crack, the weight of her words pulling at the seams of my carefully held restraint. 

"You 
never
 brought it up," I hiss, my voice low but trembling with the fury threatening to boil over. "Not once."

Emotion claws at my throat, rising faster than I can suppress it, but I push forward, voice shaking as my anger tangles with raw, aching hurt.

"Not once in the 
two months
 since that night I came back did you ever ask me what was wrong. You didn't care enough to say a word." My voice wavers again, breaking under the pressure of everything I've been holding back. 

"I know," she says, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "Because when I try to talk to you, you get defensive. When I push, you shut down further. I didn't ask you what happened to make you come home because I was afraid it would only make things worse between us. I wanted to give you space—to wait you out until you were ready to talk to me."

Argh... my god! 

Does she even hear herself? Does she not remember that she's the one who made it impossible for me to come to her? She's who all but declared that if I went to school in New York, I'd be doing it alone—without her support. From there, she moved on to guilt trips, and when those didn't work, she stopped just short of threatening to disown me if I left. Since my first year at Julliard, she's refused to hear anything about my classes, my friends, my productions... hell, anything having to do with my life in the city. 

She doesn't get to play the victim now.
 
She's the one who built this wall between us. Never in a million years would I have wanted the relationship with my only living parent to be this way, but she's who ultimately drew the line in the sand. 

And yet, despite everything, that small, infuriating voice in the back of my head that's driven by an inherent need to please her demands I apologize. It's instinctive, ingrained in me from years of trying to earn her approval.

So, I do. 

"I'm sorry about last night," I say, forcing the words out even as they stick in my throat. Emotionally exhausted, I realize I don't have it in me to keep hiding the truth. Not entirely.

 "Something happened in New York," I admit, my voice wavering with the strain of vulnerability. "And you're right–I'm not ready to talk about it. But I promise you, I'm not in danger. Not right now, anyway." My eyes drop to the floor, unable to meet hers as I continue. "I'm just... my mind is still trying to make sense of everything that happened. And coming back here, getting used to this place again—it's been harder than I expected." 

When I see her mouth open, no doubt to object, I rush to add the words I hope will stop her from pushing further.

"I'll get help for my anxiety, okay? I'll call Dr. Benton tomorrow and make an appointment. I swear." My voice cracks slightly, and I press my hands into my lap, clutching the fabric of my uniform like it's the only thing keeping me grounded. "But please—please don't take me off the schedule. The diner... it's my only distraction right now. The only thing keeping me sane."

I glance up briefly, willing her to understand, hoping my words are enough to ease whatever concerns are churning behind her stern expression. To my relief, the frown lines etched into her features begin to fade. There's a shift in her—something tender and unfamiliar. Compassion. Understanding. Things I'd almost forgotten she was capable of showing me. 

"We're all worried about you," she says gently. "If you're in trouble, please tell someone. If not me, then Ben or Lucas, so we can take the necessary precautions." 

I nod, though deep down, I'm not sure I have the strength to do what she's asking. "And hey..." Her tone softens further as she stands, moving to sit beside me. She reaches out, resting her hand over mine in a comforting gesture so rare it springs forth a burning sting behind my eyes. "There's nothing wrong with asking for help, sweetheart. I know I've messed things up between us, especially since your dad died. But I promise you, you're my number one concern. Nothing else in this world matters to me if you're not safe."

Her words hit me with an intensity I wasn't expecting. A flood of emotions surges through me—relief, hope, guilt... a flicker of doubt. Unable to speak, I nod and force a sad smile. I'm torn between wanting to believe her and bracing for the disappointment that always seems to follow. 

With a final, reassuring squeeze of my hand, she rises, smoothing her hands down her apron as though to steady herself. "I'll be here until close tonight. If at any point you're overwhelmed and want to head home, feel free. Do whatever you need to do to feel safe, and I'll support you."

Her words linger long after she's gone, like a fragile truce offered in the aftermath of a long-fought battle. For the first time in years, I feel the faintest glimmer of something akin to hope. Maybe, just maybe, our relationship isn't as irreparably broken as I thought.

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Chapter 6

Annelly

Two days since the incident that shall not be named , I still have to brace myself before facing the relentless scrutiny of our small town. Determined to prove there is nothing wrong with me, I lift my chin, steady my nerves, and stride into the dining room for the start of my Monday shift like I haven’t got a care in the world.

The moment Wendy spots me, she approaches. “Hey… Ben and the guys are in the private room. Your mom wants you to take them.”

“Thanks, I’ll check on them now,” I reply with a smile, grateful for the assignment. Working in the private room offers a small reprieve—a few blessed hours away from the judgmental stares of the locals who watch me like I’m some twisted social experiment, and they’re waiting to see when I’ll finally crack.

I know this is Mom’s doing, her way of shielding me from the town’s relentless gossip until my latest mishap blows over. Something she confirms with a subtle nod when our gazes meet from where she stands behind the counter taking care of a customer. Since our heated—yet oddly reassuring—exchange yesterday, something has shifted between us. She seems determined to prove she cares about what I’m going through and genuinely wants to support me. She’s even gone so far as to switch her opening shifts with another server, ensuring I’m not working the closing shifts alone.

It’s not much, but for us, it’s a big step—especially since, most of the time, it feels like we’re both actively avoiding one another. I can’t deny that effort matters, though I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. On one hand, I want to believe this is her way of being there for me. But then there’s that persistent little voice of resentment inside my head, whispering that she’s only doing it to keep tabs on me, to ensure I don’t embarrass her further.

Honestly, with how unreliable my instincts have been lately, it’s probably best to give her the benefit of the doubt and stop overthinking it—at least for now. If the past has taught me anything, it’s that her true motives will reveal themselves soon enough. For now, my focus needs to be on not reading too much into her actions, so I can avoid the crushing disappointment that always follows when she inevitably lets me down.

Reaching the door to the private room, the relief I felt at getting out of working the main dining room fades fast when I realize who is likely waiting on the other side. If Ben’s here, then so is his team—which includes James, too.

Pausing for a moment, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, steeling myself and reinforcing the walls around my heart for yet another excruciating encounter with him.

He hurt me.

I’m mad at him for it.

Nothing he does or says will change that.

With my defenses firmly in place, I push open the door and step inside. The moment I do, before I even see him, I feel his eyes on me. Like the strike of a match, heat flares across my skin as though his gaze is tracing every inch of me, leaving a sizzling path in its wake. I tell myself to ignore it, to stay focused, but the pull is relentless—like a sharp ache low in my stomach, demanding I look at him.

And when I finally give in, the spark that ignites between us is instant, scorching. It darn near short-circuits my brain, pulling my feet to an abrupt stop.

I hate how my body reacts to him. I’m like a moth drawn to a flame, helpless against the lure of those crystal-blue eyes that shine with an almost magnetic pull. They beckon me closer, calling to some primal, vulnerable part of me that longs to give in.

But I know better. I’ve already been burned, and the sting of that pain is all the reminder I need to stay away. The closer I let myself get to him, the worse it hurts, and no matter how much I might wish otherwise, he’s already left me scarred.

Noting where Ben is seated at the head of the table, I make my way over, deliberately positioning myself so James is out of my line of sight. As I take the drink orders, I recognize all the faces in the room except for a short, older man who must be an Offset Tactical client.

With his blotchy red complexion, sagging jowls, and stubby frame, he strikes me as someone accustomed to indulging in the decadence his wealth affords. The tailored suit he’s wearing may be expensive, but it’s clear he doesn’t take great care of himself.

When he catches me looking at him, he gives me a smarmy wink that sets every alarm in my body blaring. My heart stutters, my pulse picking up speed as a wave of cold clamminess washes over my skin. A lump of fear rises in my throat, but I force myself to swallow it down, assuming my reaction is just the latest symptom of my ever-growing paranoia.

Stop it, Annelly. You’re safe. You’re amongst friends. Now go! Get out there and do your damn job.

Several minutes later, I return with the drinks, my mind still reeling with unease as I chastise myself for slipping and not keeping it together. Thankfully, the guys don’t seem to notice. They’re engrossed in conversation, their voices blending into a low, indistinct hum as I make my way around the table, placing each glass in front of its owner with practiced efficiency.

When I step up to the unfamiliar man to place his drink in front of him, the air around me shifts. A chill skates down my spine a split second before I feel it—his cold, clammy hand skimming up the back of my knee, sliding higher against the bare skin of my thigh, beneath the skirt of my uniform.

Fear grips me instantly, locking me in place as a cold sweat breaks out across my skin. Every hair on my body stands on end, and a wave of pure terror snakes its way down my spine, spreading through my limbs and leaving me drowning in a sickening sense of freefall.

My lungs seize, burning with pain as I gasp for air, but the crushing tightness in my chest refuses to let me breathe. The world around me vanishes, dissolving into nothingness, and suddenly, I’m no longer here.

I’m back in his office.

Victor’s body looms over me, pinning me to the wall. His weight crushes me as his hands roam, clawing, scarring, defiling—each touch an unbearable mix of terror and agony.

I fight. I struggle with everything I have. To my relief, I manage to get free, only to collapse on the floor in a panic. Terrified, I frantically kick away, scrambling backward on trembling limbs until my back slams against the wall behind me with a bone-jarring thud. The impact is so strong and unexpected that it forces out the little air I have in my lungs in a piercing scream that rips its way from my throat.

No! This isn’t real. It can’t be real!

And yet here I am, reliving the nightmare I thought I’d already escaped. But if I did, then why can I still taste the putrid flavor of his tongue in my mouth? How is it that I can feel the rough, soulless grip of his hands bruising my skin?

I can’t escape.

God, why can’t I get away?

“No!” My scream shatters the silence as I beg between ragged sobs. “Please, stop! Please… let me go!”

“Christ, Annelly, it’s me.” His voice cuts through the suffocating haze, sharp and pleading. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

James’s words pierce through the nightmare, pulling me back from the edge of that dark abyss. His voice feels like a lifeline, a tether guiding me out of the horrors of Victor’s office and back to the here and now. Back to Ruby Creek and the safety of my family’s diner.

Because I got away that night.

Thank God I did get away.

As the panic begins to recede, I take in the space around me, noting that, unlike Victor’s office, the room is bright with light. I’m surrounded by white walls that are lined with mementos and pictures from the 1950s that my parents spent a lifetime collecting.

As the present comes into sharper focus, I notice I’m in the hallway that separates the private room from the main dining area. Not trapped. Not alone fighting to survive a monster, like the adrenaline pumping through my blood would have me believe.

And yet, nothing anchors me as much as the warmth of James’s arms around me. I’m sitting sideways on his lap as he cradles me against his chest on the wooden bench we use as overflow seating. His strong hold is steady, unyielding, and somehow more comforting than anything I could imagine. It’s why I let myself sink into him, allowing the safety of his embrace to fight off the last remnants of the panic still coursing through my veins. For one precious moment, I absorb the heat of his body and the solid weight of his arms. His soft, masculine scent surrounds me, and I take it in greedily, finding solace in the unexpected way it calms me.

But as awareness creeps back in, so does the shame. Embarrassment wells up inside me, tightening my chest once more. The words I’ve been holding back rush out in a trembling whisper.

“He touched me… he touched me.” The desperate, broken tone of my voice barely sounds like my own. “I swear, he touched me.” My words crack as they spill out, a plea for him to believe me. This time, it’s not my imagination. This time, I know it happened.

My arms tighten around his neck as I bury my face against his shoulder. Tears slip free, silent and unrelenting. Desperate for his anchoring warmth, I hold on, hoping it’s enough to quiet the storm brewing inside me.

“I saw…” he rasps, his voice raw with emotion. He pauses to clear his throat before continuing in a firm tone that’s laced with fury. “I saw what he did. That bastard won’t get anywhere near you again. I swear it.”

His words are a hiss against the top of my head, his lips brushing my hair as if sealing his vow of protection with the tender gesture. Then he pulls back, his arms steadying me while those piercing crystal-blue eyes search my face, scrutinizing every detail as if to reassure himself that I’m truly okay.

Even clouded with anger, his eyes hold a power that steals my breath. They’re captivating—dangerously so. They command my every thought, stirring a flutter deep in my belly that I haven’t felt in far too long. But just as quickly as that warmth blooms, it’s doused by a cold, hard reality—the memory of the intense pain he caused me when he walked away, effectively ending whatever it was that existed between us.

What the hell am I doing? This is exactly why I need to stay far away from him.

“I shouldn’t be here. I can’t be near you,” I murmur, the words trembling as they leave me. My voice is raw, a whisper of pain I can’t disguise. I try to push away from him, but the weight of the last several minutes has left me drained, my strength no match for the toll of it all.

His arms don’t loosen right away. Instead, his brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face as his eyes search mine. “Why?” he whispers back, his tone soft, imploring. It’s not just a question—it’s a plea, a quiet, desperate request for me to reconsider.

“Because you…” I pause, my chest aching as I carefully weigh my words. Is it even worth saying? The thought alone feels like pouring salt into my own wounds—the ones he so callously inflicted. “You don’t want me…” My voice fades, trembling, as a single tear slips free, carrying the sting of his rejection.

“Annelly…” he groans, the sound full of anguish, but it’s followed by silence.

Regret clings to him like a shadow, thickening the air between us. As if my words have cut him too, he releases his hold on me. When he helps me back on my feet and then steps away, the ache inside my chest nearly shatters me. If I ever had any lingering hope that things might have changed, his retreat just crushed it. His actions say it all—he still doesn’t want me. The sheer humiliation is what finally jolts me into action, giving me the strength to stumble away from him and put precious distance between us.

“Please,” I say, my voice trembling but firm as I back away from him, inching closer to the main dining room and my escape. “If you care about me at all, stay the hell away from me.”

The weight of my words lingers in the air, heavy and resolute. I don’t wait for his response. Instead, I turn and walk away—from him, from my mom, from the diner, and the Ruby Creek residents watching me with wide eyes.

As mom told me yesterday during our talk, it’s time I do what’s best for me.

So I’m going home.

Hopefully, to sleep the rest of this godforsaken day away.

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# Chapter 7

James

"Please. If you care about me at all, stay the hell away from me."

Her words alone are enough to gut me, but when I note the anguish in her eyes and the tremble in her voice, it's like my entire being splits apart. I feel as though my flesh has been torn down to the marrow of my bones, ripped between the man who wants to fight for her and the man who refuses to bend and change for anyone. The pain is excruciating, the intensity like nothing I've ever felt, and for a moment, it steals my breath.

Running a hand through my hair, I summon every ounce of strength I have to keep from chasing after her. She begged—practically pleaded—for me to leave her alone. Her desperation was such that she couldn't get away from me fast enough, so what other choice do I have but to let her go?

It's the sudden burn behind my eyes that jolts me from the daze I'm stuck in. This angst, this suffocating sense of helplessness—it's all so foreign to me. This isn't who I am at all, not anymore. I've spent a lifetime purging these useless emotions, along with anything that triggers them. Shielding myself from negative thoughts and experiences. Avoiding anything that causes discomfort.

So why the hell am I feeling like this now? 

Or maybe the better question is: 
Why am I letting this girl get to me?

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Lucas leaning against the wall. The way he's looking at me says he saw what went down between Annelly and me. The crease on his forehead signals he's struggling to make sense of what he just saw, and my first instinct is to tell him to fuck off—because nothing about Annelly and me makes any sense. But the flood of rage scorching my insides keeps me from saying anything. Instead, I storm back into the room, my fury fixed on the fucker who caused all of this.

"Come here, you sick fuck!" I shout, lunging forward to wrap my fingers around his throat. But a split second later, powerful arms drag me backward, and the fact I'm being restrained ignites a deeper fury. "I'll fucking kill you for touching her, you sick bastard!" I scream, my whole body vibrating like it's about to come apart. The sudden rush of adrenaline and self-loathing mixes into a toxic storm of destruction that demands release.

Now that it's free, my anger is an unstoppable beast—an old part of me I once relied on to survive. I kept it locked away for years, starving it of any chance to inflict pain. To break and destroy in the same measure I've been broken and destroyed. And right now, that monster in me wants to kill the man who dared to taint 
her
—a young woman who is more angel than human, whose innocence is as precious as it is priceless.

"Calm down, Boy Scout. It's not like I hurt her." The asshole sneers and I swear my head's about to explode.

But before I can launch myself at him, his body slams to the ground, courtesy of a punch he never saw coming. Lucas is on him in a heartbeat, his chest heaving with fury as he moves in to finish pounding the asshole into the floor. It only takes a few seconds before Ben and Zeb have Lucas wrapped up, preventing him from beating Anthony Zappalla to a bloody pulp.

 
Is it sick that I'm relieved they're saving him from Lucas—just because I want to be the one who ends him?

His face is already swelling from Lucas's punch as the asshole clumsily staggers to his feet. With an ugly scowl twisting his features, he levels a finger at all of us. "You'll regret that. Mark my words, all of you will regret it."

As he storms out, Dominick tightens his hold on me, sending another wave of anger sizzling through my veins. Furious that they're letting him walk away, I wrench free. When Dom makes a move to restrain me again, I brace myself to take a swing. 
This
 is what I know. My specialty. The skill that earned me a spot on this team. I'm a fighter. A scrapper. A 
winner.
 And with my size and strength, it takes a hell of a man to step up to me when fists start flying. 

Pivoting, I draw back my arm to deliver a blow, but he throws his hands up in surrender. Somewhere in my rage-fueled mind, recognition flares—this man is my friend, an ally, one of the few people in this world I can trust. Realizing he's not the target of my fury, I pull back, but my glare warns him not to touch me again. 

"Let him go, James," Dom says in a calm and steady tone, his hands still raised in a sign of submission. "That prick isn't worth getting arrested over."

Ignoring Dom's words, I bolt after Zappalla, determined to make sure he stays far away from Annelly. By the time I reach the main dining area, he's already gone. The bell above the door as he leaves reminds me of the ones used in the cage fights I used to take part in. It's like it's announcing the fucker won this round, which I guess he has. A fact that only intensifies the seething anger coursing through me.

It feels wrong to let him walk away after he dared lay a hand on her, but I know Dominick's right—we don't have a choice. It's one thing to knock his ass out in the privacy of the private room, but out here in public, I'd be guaranteed a trip to jail. A place that damn near killed me the first time and which I swore I'd never go back to.

Still, it takes everything in me to tamp down the poisonous rage that flows through my blood. As I stand at the door, watching him drive away, the beast inside me struggles to get free. It pounds inside my chest; it throbs inside my head, ratcheting up my need to punch the shit out of something until my fists are raw and bloody.

The beast is my curse. The side of me that few in my current life have ever seen. Once upon a time, it was all I was: a swirling mass of hopeless rage fueled by revenge and destruction. Inflicting pain was the answer to every problem—my first, second, and last choice in just about every situation. It's been years since I let it out, even longer since I needed it. And as shameful as it is, the truth is that the beast is who I really am at my core. It's the part of me I've been hiding and running from since embracing this new life. A life I designed so I'd never have to fight again. A life where everyone thinks I'm nothing more than a carefree, fun-loving guy.

When Zappalla finally peels out of the parking lot, my first instinct is to find Annelly—just to lay eyes on her and make sure she's okay. I'm already heading to the back office when Aunt Rosie intercepts me.

"She's gone," she says, concern etched in every word. "She was upset, so she left. Can you tell me what happened?"

I swallow hard, trying to piece my thoughts together. Aunt Rosie has always been good to me and my brother, but I also know things between her and Annelly are complicated. With all the tension between us, the last thing I want is to further betray Annelly's trust. 

"Um, it's probably best if she tells you herself," I manage, forcing a polite smile. "Would you mind calling her in a few minutes? Just to make sure she got home okay?"

She nods, though the tension in her posture betrays her disappointment. It's clear she wants answers, but I can't give them to her. Not now. Before she can press any further, I step away. The urgency to address the situation with the team trumps everything else. 

Even before I reach the private space, I can hear the raised voices of my teammates. They're already in the thick of a heated discussion, and I know exactly what—or who—they're arguing about. Anthony Zappalla needs to be dealt with, and the sooner we figure out how, the better.

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Chapter 8

James

“I told you this was a mistake,” Zeb growls, his anger directed at Ben.

“And like I said, we didn’t have a choice. He’s connected to this thing with Creed. But you’re right—it was a mistake bringing him here.” Contrite, Ben stares down at the table. His slumped shoulders and withdrawn expression leave no doubt he feels terrible about what happened.

“Then say we’re done with this fishing expedition,” I demand. “That we’re washing our hands of anything to do with that asshole and his associates.” Pacing at the far end of the room, I glare at him, the pent-up energy and frustration still coursing through me, making it impossible to join them at the table.

“We’re done.” His voice is low, defeated.

Lucas sighs, leaning forward with elbows on the table, he clasps his hands together. After a brief moment, he looks up at me. “One of us needs to stay close to her—at least for the next few days. Based on what we uncovered, Zappalla has ties to forced prostitution and human traffickers. After what just happened, we can’t risk leaving her exposed in case he’s taken an interest in her.”

“Fuck!” Ben slams his fist onto the table. “God damn it! This is on me.” His voice breaks, and he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes as if he can’t bear to see the fallout of his decision. The realization that our actions have made Annelly a target hits him hard—exactly as it should.

Under normal circumstances, I’d pat my friend on the back and remind him we’re not responsible for what the bad guys do. But I’m not that level-headed guy right now. This version of me—the beast—agrees with Ben’s assessment. This is his fault. He made the call, which means he’s the one who led that snake straight into Annelly’s path. So, forgive me if I don’t give a fuck that he’s hurt and drowning in regret. He did it; he better own it because I refuse to do anything to ease his suffering.

As for her… “I’ll do it. I’ll take the lead,” I declare, stepping forward. At this point, it’s not even a choice. My need to stay away from her doesn’t matter anymore, not when her safety is on the line. “Starting now, I’ve got her. But we need to do everything we can to ensure she’s not on his radar. No matter what it takes, she can’t get caught up in any of this.”

“Agreed.” Ben lifts his head, then turns to Owen. “You know what to do.”

“Yep,” Owen replies, already hammering away at the keys on his laptop. He’s our resident hacker, skilled at accessing anything he wants. If Zappalla so much as mentions Annelly in any of his communications, Owen will find it.

“What now? What do we tell her?” Ben asks the group. The uncertainty in his voice ratchets up the tension in the room. Normally, he’s the one who’s strategic and sure about decisions like this. The fact he’s not, tells me exactly how much today’s events have shaken him.

Which, frankly, I don’t feel the least bit sorry about.

“No…” I say, confident that if she knew, she’d never agree to me tailing her. “We tell her nothing unless there’s something to tell. She’s been through enough and doesn’t need the uncertainty hanging over her head. For now, we’ll watch from a distance.”

“Agreed.” Lucas chimes in, and I nod at him in thanks. “Zappalla knows who we are and what we’re capable of. He may be a weasel, but he’s smart enough to realize we’ll destroy him if he messes with anyone in our town.”

“That might be true,” Zeb cuts in. “But we can’t assume he won’t try something. We need to assess the threat and not let up on her protection detail until we’re sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

That unwavering intensity and attention to detail? It’s exactly why he’s my most trusted friend—and the teammate I most partner with on jobs.

“Owen,” I say, turning to him. “Keep an eye not just on his electronic trail but also on Annelly and Aunt Rosie’s. Plus, don’t forget the diner’s security system. Keep it all high-level. Your eyes only to protect their privacy. But if that bastard reaches out or tampers with their security, you need to let us know ASAP.”

He scowls at me, clearly annoyed. “You’re kidding me, right? Stay in your lane, pretty boy. I know how to do my fucking job.”

“I know, bro.” I let out a rough sigh. “But we can’t risk any mistakes. This is Annelly, for god’s sake. She’s important to… us.” I nearly trip over my words, embarrassed by how close I came to revealing something I’m trying hard to deny. Hoping no one noticed, I quickly pivot toward Zeb. “I need someone to split shifts with me.”

“I got you,” he confirms, reaching out to shake my hand and giving my shoulder a reassuring pat with his other. It’s like he can sense the messed-up thoughts churning in my head and is trying to reassure me that everything is going to be okay. “We can alternate. Whenever. Wherever you need me, say the word, and I’ll be there.”

Several minutes later, we walk out of the diner as a group. Just as we’re about to reach our cars, Lucas pulls me aside.

“Listen, normally I wouldn’t share something my wife told me in confidence, but I think it’s important you know. There was an incident here two nights ago. Annelly called the police, saying someone from her life in New York found her. She believed they were outside, waiting for her, but when Will Keller arrived, whoever she thought she’d seen was already gone. Aunt Rosie called Embree afterward, upset because Annelly refused to give Will any other details—no names, no explanation for her fear. Instead, she just apologized for wasting his time, saying she’d made a mistake.”

He pauses, glancing around the quiet parking lot. “Now, after seeing how she reacted to Zappalla today, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a connection.”

“Jesus… fuck.” The words leave my mouth in a rush, my pulse hammering as I rake my hands through my hair. “Zappalla’s based in New York. You think they might have crossed paths?”

“I hope not,” Lucas mutters, grimacing. “But given the circumstances, we shouldn’t rule it out. Once I’m back at the office, I’ll check in with Owen—maybe we can cross-reference her time in New York to see if she ever encountered Zappalla.”

I nod in agreement, my mind running through everything we know about Anthony Zappalla and his shady business dealings. Annelly was a 22-year-old Julliard student juggling studies and performances during her time in New York. From our conversations this past summer, it sounded like her schedule left little room for much else. So the odds she ran in the same circles as him or any of his associates are practically nil. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself—I can’t bear to think otherwise.

“Do it,” I say. “Have Owen look into it. Do you think Ben knows about the incident two nights ago?”

Lucas exhales, glancing off to the side. “I don’t see how he couldn’t. He’s probably connecting the same dots; just didn’t want to bring it up here at the diner. Keller promised Aunt Rosie he’d keep what happened off the record to protect Annelly’s privacy, but you know how this town is. There were plenty of customers around that night, and gossip here travels at light speed.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, wincing at the thought of how rough the past few days must have been for her. “I’m honestly surprised I didn’t hear about it before now.” I scratch the back of my neck, my brow creasing as I remember why I haven’t been at the diner for the last couple of days.

He smirks. “Well, from what Zeb said, you guys had quite a Saturday night at Club Solstice. Weren’t you still nursing that hangover yesterday? Among other things, I’m sure,” he adds with a chuckle.

He’s partly right. Saturday, we spent the day at Ben’s, helping him and Lucas with the kids during Emilia’s baby shower, before heading out for a night of clubbing. He’s correct that I spent all of yesterday holed up at home, trying to recover—but not from the kind of fun he’s probably imagining. For me, Saturday was a night of trying—and failing—to drown my sorrows because not one of the women I saw came close to measuring up to Annelly.

I was a complete mess. Too much alcohol, too much thinking… just too much feeling and obsessing over things I shouldn’t care about but can’t seem to ignore. No matter how hard I’m trying to fight it, she’s the only woman I want, and it’s killing me, especially after everything that happened today.

“I’ve got to find a way to get her to talk to me.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I tense, half-wishing I could take them back. But it’s the truth—she needs to open up so we can be sure she’s protected.

“Or to one of us, at least,” he says with a casual shrug. “If you don’t have any luck, maybe I could try. Or Ben—”

“No.” I cut him off, the firmness in my voice leaving no room for argument. There’s no way in hell anyone’s talking to her before I do. “We can’t risk her shutting down. If we come at her like she’s a job—asking questions and demanding answers—we won’t get anywhere.” I explain. It’s at least partly true.

“Yeah, but…” He trails off, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess why. He saw what went down between me and Annelly earlier and heard her begging me to leave her alone.

“I know what you saw, and I get why you’re worried. I’ll own it—I royally screwed things up with her. But you know me, Luc. You know I’m a decent guy. Hell, from the moment I met her, I knew I wasn’t good enough, which is why I kept my distance in the first place. Now she’s hurt because she misunderstood my reasons for pushing her away. But I’m telling you, one honest conversation, and I can fix this. I can mend our friendship, and I sure as shit can keep her safe in the meantime.”

Lucas takes a moment to mull it over, doubt clouding his gaze before he finally exhales in resignation.

“For now, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But James, if she comes to me and says she doesn’t want you involved, I’ll have no choice but to step in. No disrespect, but I’m not in a position to choose sides here. She’s my wife’s cousin, which means my loyalty has to be with Annelly.”

“I know,” I say, keeping my tone as measured as I can. “All I’m asking is for the chance to set things right. Maybe it will come to nothing, and she’ll still want nothing to do with me in the end. If that happens, I’ll walk away, no questions asked, and she’ll be better off for it. But right now, I have to do this. I can’t let it go. Not now. Not until I know she’s safe.”

“Okay.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “Just be careful. As we saw today, she’s struggling and scared, so you’ll need to tread lightly.”

“Understood. I plan to go in soft, take my time earning her trust back.”

“Well, I better get to the office.”

Just as he’s about to head to his car, I call out, “Hey, one more question. That guy she was seeing in New York—the one she brought to your wedding—what was his name again?”

Lucas frowns, thinking it over. “Victor… something. Can’t remember the last name. Why?”

As the memory of her date surfaces, the beast in me stirs awake again. I recall the possessive way he guided her from one conversation to the next, the scowl on his face whenever she spoke to any of the guys. I remember how her face went pale when he whispered something in her ear after she spent a few minutes chatting with my brother. Worst of all was during the bridesmaid and groomsmen dance—she seemed so nervous, eyes darting around the room, looking for him like she was worried that he was watching us dancing together. It took everything in me not to get involved. If Tyler hadn’t reminded me it wasn’t the time or place, I would have done something I’d regret.

“He owned a nightclub, didn’t he?” I ask, a knot forming in my stomach at the thought. “What if he’s the one with the connection to Zappalla?”

An uneasy look crosses Lucas’s face. “Christ,” he exhales, the word heavy with worry.

“We need to look into him,” I say, my voice almost a growl.

The idea that Annelly’s ex might be tangled up in Zappalla’s world—and that she’s running from something he dragged her into—sends a sickening wave of dread rolling through me. No matter what stands between us now, or how complicated our history might be, I’m going to protect her. Whether she hates me for it or not, I’m not letting her go through whatever she’s facing alone.

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# Chapter 9

Annelly

It's been two days since 
that man
 touched me, and I can still feel his clammy hands on my skin. Two days since he so callously destroyed what little was left of my peace, replacing it instead with a relentless loop of memories from the worst night of my life. Now this constant sense of dread clings to me, making it impossible to eat—let alone sleep—thanks to the nightmares that plague me even when I'm awake. 

I'm too exhausted to put on a brave face, so I haven't left the house since it happened. Not to go to work or even to work out. It's bad enough feeling like his eyes follow me everywhere I go, but now with the townspeople looking at me like I'm losing my mind, there are too many eyes to contend with. Too much dread and fear, pushing me right to the edge of what I can handle.

Tired of the loneliness and isolation, I grab my phone and call my best friend. Erica and I met at Julliard three and a half years ago. We were incoming freshmen, both of us from small towns, suddenly thrust into the glaring lights of the big city. It's why we hit it off right from the start. And it was thanks to her that I managed to escape 
that
 night. To this day, she's the only person who knows what Victor did... what he intended to do with me.

"Nelly! How are you? I've missed you!" she squeals, the words spilling in a rush.

As always, her tone is light and carefree, and while I'm genuinely happy she's still out there living her best life, I can't help the pang of sadness that hits me. Her brightness is a reminder of the life—and dreams—I left behind. As the feeling tightens in my chest, a loud sigh slips past my lips.  

"Gosh, that bad? Okay," she says, and I hear shuffling in the background like she's shifting her phone to the other ear. "I'm here. Give me a sec. Heading to my room."

"Troy's home?" I ask, already knowing the answer. It's the only time she moves our conversations to the privacy of her bedroom. Troy is her roommate, a dancer we met and befriended at Julliard.

"Uh-huh. His boyfriend's been spending so much time here, privacy is pretty scarce these days. Not that I mind, it makes the rent cheaper." A soft click filters through the line as a door closes. "Okay, I'm ready. Talk to me. What's going on?"

I spend the next few minutes filling her in on everything that's happened over the past several days—the panic attacks that are getting worse, the unshakable feeling that I'm being watched, and finally, the two incidents at the diner. The first, where in a moment of panic, I made the mistake of calling the police, and the second, my reaction to that man touching me. By the time I finish, tears threaten to spill over.

"I don't know what to do, E. It's like I'm drowning and going crazy at the same time."

"You're 
not
 crazy, Nell," she murmurs softly. "What you're experiencing is perfectly understandable, given what you've been through."

"I don't know, I just feel so... stuck. Like I can't move past it. I keep reliving that night, over and over again, and I'm tired of being scared—of feeling like the world is about to cave in at any second, and he's going to find me." I inhale deeply, tilting my head toward the ceiling, blinking back the tears threatening to fall.

"I 
hate
 that you're going through this, but I know you're going to be okay. You 
will
 come out stronger in the end. You got away from him. You escaped—that was the hardest part. Now, with a little help from a professional, I have faith that you can beat back the nightmares he left behind. Have you made an appointment with your therapist yet?"

"No." The word comes out shakily. "I tried, but every time the phone rings, I freak out and hang up. God, what is wrong with me?" Defeated, I collapse back onto my bed, pulling the comforter over my head as silent tears sting my eyes.

"Nelly, there is nothing 
wrong
 with you—you've been traumatized. Why don't you give me your therapist's number, and I'll make the first appointment for you?"

"Really?" My voice cracks with emotion. "You'd do that?"

"Yes, you goof." She chuckles—a soft, reassuring sound. "Of course. Now send me that number, and I'll snag the earliest appointment I can get you." She falls quiet, waiting me out, and when I stay silent, she adds, "You're going to be okay."

"I hope so." God, do I hope so. But right now, it doesn't feel like it in the slightest.

"I think you should tell your mom 
everything
—the entire ugly truth." 

I groan, but she keeps going, raising her voice to cut through my protest. "No, hear me out. If it 
feels
 like someone's watching you, you can't brush that aside. That feeling is your gut telling you something isn't right. Someone close to you needs to know, so you're not left dealing with this on your own. Right now, you need someone there who can look out for you."

"No E, I 
can't
 do that. I'd just be worrying them for no reason, considering every time I've felt like someone is watching, it's turned out to be nothing. My gut, my instincts, my judgment... it's all broken. Which I guess aligns, since that's exactly how I feel, broken."

"You're not broken," she insists, her tone gentle. "You've been 
conditioned
 to ignore your internal compass. Trust me, Nell. If you feel like something is wrong, it probably 
is
. Please, if you listen to nothing else I say, at least hear this: tell someone there. Someone who can help."

"Who would I tell?" I snap, frustration lacing my words. "There's no way I'd dump this on Mom or my cousin, Emilia. They'd both lose their minds and tell the guys, effectively turning me into more of a prisoner than I already feel. It would 
only
 make my life more miserable."

"What about that 
guy
, James?" she presses, ignoring my spiraling indignation. "I know things are weird between you, but from what you've told me, he seems like the right person to help. At the very least, he can give you advice on what to do—maybe even show you how to stay safe."

At the mention of his name, my thoughts flash back to that day at the diner, when I found myself in his arms. How he came to my rescue, using the calm strength of his voice to guide me through the storm of my panic. How he held me close and made me feel safe. But I force those memories aside, refusing to let myself forget how deeply he hurt me. When it comes to James, anger is my repellent of choice. The best and only way I know to keep myself from falling back into old patterns that long for me to trust in him again and beg that I allow him back into my life. 

Never again. 

I can't let myself fall for him like that ever again.

"He humiliated me, E. He ended our friendship and treated me like some clueless little girl chasing after a guy out of her league. I can't just pretend that didn't happen. He crushed my heart with little regard for how much it would hurt me. And I get it; maybe he didn't feel the same way about me. It's not like he promised me anything or said he liked me. But I 
know
 I didn't imagine that there was something there. No matter how much he tried to deny it, it existed. Still does. And for him to dismiss me like that, to walk away like I didn't matter—how could I ever trust him with any part of me again?"

That's the core of it. 
Trust.
 I trusted him, like really, really trusted him. In hindsight, I see how naïve I was—mistaking his attention for something more. I can see how that would frustrate him, but what I don't understand is how easily he could just... walk away. How he acted like our friendship meant nothing. Like I meant nothing. 

"You said he held you afterward," she points out gently. "He helped you, tried to protect you. It sounds like maybe he regrets what he did. Have the two of you sat down to talk about what happened last summer?"

"No, not really. During my cousin's wedding, he said he wanted us to be friends again, but he never apologized or pulled me aside for a proper conversation." The memory of his half-ass attempt to discuss our friendship while in the middle of the bridesmaid and groomsmen dance at Emilia's wedding only stokes the fire simmering in my belly. "So, no. And I don't care to, either. Especially when every time I see him, he acts like he didn't rip my heart into a million tiny pieces. Like he didn't bail on our friendship at the first sign of trouble. Plus, it hurts—like an actual, physical pain in my chest—when he acts like what he did and the things he said never happened." 

She sighs, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. Because really, what else is there to say? Except maybe that I love him. Because the sad reality is that I am in love with James Serrano. 

It sounds so stupid, admitting it like that. I've never been in love before—so how would I know if what I feel is 
true love? 
And yet, in the deepest parts of my soul, I'm certain. As sure as I am of the sun's existence, even if I can't always see it hidden behind the clouds. Unfortunately, he doesn't feel the same—he's not pulled toward me the way I'm pulled toward him. And that's like waking up to find that the sun refused to rise simply because it didn't want to see you.

"I hate that you're so sad, Annelly. You deserve so much more than the hand you've been dealt. But mark my words, I won't rest until you're free from this mess and back to your amazing sunshiny self. I don't care if I have to move to that little town of yours after graduation. If I have any say in it, you, my friend, will find your happy again."

For the rest of our call, we keep the conversation light, mostly talking about her and school—an easy distraction that helps me forget, at least temporarily, how complicated my life has become. By the time we hang up, I feel a little better and even more grateful that there's at least one person in my corner who accepts me exactly as I am.

Pressing my phone against my chest, I close my eyes and sink into my pillows, comforted by the knowledge that I sent Erica my therapist's contact information. Come tomorrow, she'll have an appointment scheduled for me, which feels like progress—even if it's a step I couldn't take on my own. As for her suggestion that I tell someone the truth about what happened in New York... I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that. I wasn't lying when I said there's no one I can trust to truly help. Maybe I could tell the therapist?

The ring of the doorbell yanks me from my thoughts. Opening my eyes, I stare at the ceiling, wondering who it could be. Mom is at the diner, and Emilia always calls before stopping by. Aside from those two, no one else comes around these days. Just as the bell rings a second time, my phone starts buzzing. Confused, I push off the bed, heading toward the door while answering the call without checking the screen.

"Hello?"

"Annelly, do 
not
 open that door!" the urgent whisper on the other end sends fear ripping through me, my heart racing so fast it hurts. Whoever's calling is breathless, like they're in the middle of running. Suddenly I can't breathe either—dizziness crushes me, and I slump against the wall of the upstairs hallway to keep from collapsing.

"Wh-who is this?"

"It's me, James. Ben sent me. I need you to trust me, Annelly. Can you do that?" The calm force in his tone terrifies me more than if he'd been screaming. My mind is drowning in panic, making it nearly impossible to piece his words together. When I stay silent, his voice sharpens. "Annelly! You 
have
 to trust me."

My head bobs in a shaky nod before I finally find my voice. "Okay... yeah."

"Good. As quietly as you can, meet me at the back door. 
The. Back. Door
." He repeats the words deliberately, like he knows I'm standing here frozen. "Now, Annelly. Stay low, stay away from the windows, and unlock it for me—fast."

My feet seem to move on their own, as if my body trusts him, even though my mind is struggling to keep up. At the back door, my fingers fumble with the latch before I finally manage to pop it open. In the next instant, James slips inside, gently guiding me aside to make room for himself. He flicks the lock behind him, those crystal blues sweeping over the space in a quick assessment of our surroundings. When he finally looks at me, I hardly recognize him. Gone is the easygoing warmth, the playful grin I've come to expect. Instead, this James is grim, intense—like a soldier assessing a battlefield.

"Go to your room—
now
—and steer clear of the windows," he instructs, his voice low and urgent. "Lock the door behind you and don't come out until I get you. Understand me? 
No matter
 what you hear, you stay put."

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Chapter 10

James

Fight or flight? I can see the question wavering behind her tear-filled eyes. Fear and desperation swirl together in her jerky movements, but it’s the distrustful way she’s looking at me that worries me the most. With danger lurking on the other side of that door, her trust is imperative. Without it, I might as well not be here.

Keeping her hand in mine, I guide her to the bottom of the stairs. I need to hurry this up and get her to safety. He’s alone, which means our odds are better than good, but to keep control of the situation, I need to be the one on the offensive.

Reaching up, I cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Annelly, look at me. I know I’ve made a mess of things, and I promise I’ll fix it soon. But right now, you have to trust me. Whoever’s on the other side of that door, I will keep you safe. But this only works if you do exactly as I say.”

She nods, opening her mouth to speak—just as the doorbell rings again, this time several times in a rapid burst that sets my teeth on edge. Her face contorts into a heartbreaking mix of panic and pleading, like she’s silently begging me to stay while also wanting me to make the danger disappear. The sight feels like a punch straight to my gut because I can’t fulfill the second part without leaving her side. The realization that I have to send her away, alone and afraid, twists me up inside. Everything in me screams that I should keep her close, to comfort and shield her from this nightmare. But this isn’t the time for comfort.

So, with a steady hand, I gently urge her up the first two steps. “Go, Annelly. Hurry. Lock the door, and I’ll come get you when they’re gone.”

To my relief, she does what I say. I keep my eyes on her until she disappears around the corner at the top of the stairs. Watching her walk away like that, knowing she’s up there and alone, ramps up my anxiety tenfold. It’s not until I hear the click of her bedroom lock that I move towards the foyer.

Reaching behind me, I double-check that my weapon is exactly where it should be before finally opening the door. With an affable grin, I come face to face with the man I’ve been itching to confront. Seeing him here—on her doorstep, of all places—riles up the beast inside me. It takes every scrap of self-control I have not to let my murderous rage bleed through.

“Hey, man,” I greet him, keeping my tone light, my posture loose—an act that hides the adrenaline surging through my blood. “What can I do for you?”

The man who stands before me practically radiates an aura of refined confidence. Brown eyes, blonde hair, an expensive haircut, standing around five-eleven with an average build. In his tailored black-on-black suit, the look screams money and prestige, definitely “big city” and so out of place in our little mountain town. The look on his face as he recognizes me is priceless and confirms he didn’t expect to find me here. Can’t say I’m not thrilled by the shocked expression on his face.

“I’m looking for Annelly. Is she home?” His hands slip into his pockets in an obvious attempt to appear casual, while we both pretend we’re oblivious to the tension vibrating between us. It’s clear he’s working as hard as I am to school his expression, but he’s not nearly as good at it, since I can see the frustration coiling under his skin.

For the two days we’ve been monitoring Annelly, he’s been doing the same. Watching her. Waiting. Though, for what, we still don’t know. Whether out of stupidity or sheer arrogance, he used his real name when booking his rental car, which is how we confirmed it’s him: Victor Bastille. Owner of several night clubs—mostly gentlemen’s clubs—scattered along the Eastern Seaboard. The high-end establishments cater to a very exclusive type of clientele. Top-of-the-line security—way more than even Owen expected—safeguards his business dealings, suggesting there’s a lot he’s hiding.

“Oh, and you are?” Cool as a cucumber, with a sly grin on my face, I pretend I don’t know who he is. Inside, I’m on high alert, my body primed and eager to respond to any sudden move he might make.

He hesitates, then murmurs, “You know what? I’ll just check in with her at work. Any idea if she’s there tonight?”

“Actually, no, she’s here.” Clearing my throat, I allow a smirk to slip onto my face. “She’s, uh… sleeping. We’ve had quite a day. My poor girl’s exhausted.” My voice drips with innuendo, all part of my plan to piss him off, while marking her as mine and therefore off-limits to him.

“Oh…” though he tries to look unaffected, the scowl carving itself into his brow betrays his anger. His narrowed eyes brim with contempt, nearly making me giddy. “Well, okay then. I’ll, um, give her a call later. Thanks for—.”

“Victor!” I cut him off, voice bright and loud, as if I’ve just solved some grand mystery. “I knew you looked familiar. From Lucas and Emilia’s wedding, right? You were Annelly’s date?”

His jaw tightens. Once, twice, three times before he inclines his head in a stiff nod. “Yeah. Her date .”

“Oh man,” I say, piling on the casual friendliness and capping it off with a half-hearted, fake apology. “No hard feelings, I hope. It’s just that Annelly and I go way back—friends first, you know? I’m sure you noticed at the wedding how close we used to be. Then she came back to town, we reconnected, and… well, I guess you could say the rest is history.” I chuckle like it’s all water under the bridge, like he’s perfectly fine with this turn of events. “I’m convinced it was kismet.”

Red-faced, skin scrunched up, he’s a ball of pent-up fury, and if not for the terrified girl upstairs, I’d have half a mind to see how much more it would take to make him snap. But hey, there’s always next time.

“Anyway,” I continue, shrugging as if this conversation is no big deal. “When she wakes up, I’ll let her know you stopped by—tell her to call you. You staying in town a while?”

He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking both angry and uncomfortable with my question.

“No. Just passing through. No need to tell her I came by. I’ll, uh… get in touch next time I’m around.”

With that, he turns on his heel, heading down the street toward the sleek black Mercedes parked a few houses away. Determined to get my point across, I step out onto the porch, never once letting him out of my sight as he climbs into the driver’s seat. In my periphery, I spot Zeb’s truck sitting a few spots down from Victor Bastille’s car. Just like it has been since I took this job eight years ago, he’s my ever-reliable backup.

Deliberately, I keep my gaze locked on Bastille while he starts the engine. He notices me watching and from the way his jaw tightens, it’s clear my blatant glare is getting under his skin. It’s a calculated move on my part. Making it clear to him that I see him, that I’m always watching, and that the girl inside that house is under my protection. It’s not until his car disappears down the street that I head back inside, locking the front door behind me. As I climb the steps toward her bedroom, my phone rings.

“All good?” I ask, already knowing it’s Zeb checking in.

“You laid it on pretty thick there.”

“You heard that?” I reply with a smirk, fully aware not only did he hear it, but so did the rest of the guys at HQ.

“Yeah, I did. Which is why I won’t be surprised when Ben tears into you the next time he sees you.”

“Hey, I was just doing my job. Keeping that guy off-balance is part of my strategy.”

“Shock and awe, huh?”

“That’s right—shock and awe.” My grin widens. I love that he gets me. “So what’s the status?”

“He’s gone, but I’ll hang around for another hour or two. Owen’s got him on GPS, so if he circles back, we’ll know. You sure you’re good staying with her tonight?”

“Yeah, after all this excitement, I doubt I’ll get much rest.”

“Okay, man. I’ll text you when I’m out. I’ll be around, so call if you need me to come back.”

“Copy that.” I end the call just as I reach her bedroom door. Knocking softly, I announce myself. “Annelly, it’s James. Unlock the door for me.”

I don’t say please , nor do I give her an out. With the adrenaline still buzzing through my veins, the only thing that’ll calm me is seeing her safe.

The deafening quiet that follows irks me, though it’s only a few seconds before the soft click of the lock signals she’s letting me in. Impatient, I open the door and find her tear-streaked face staring back at me. The fear and uncertainty tainting her features make my heart constrict. The urge to pull her into my arms is so strong I cross them over my chest to keep from touching her.

“You’re safe,” I tell her, my voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I’ll explain in a minute. You okay?”

She nods a few times, but the tremor in her chin says otherwise. Knowing she needs the comfort, I reach for one of her hands in an innocent touch I hope offers her support without overstepping the boundaries she’s so clearly set. But the moment she threads her fingers through mine, she damn near blows through my self-restraint.

Fuck! We fit together so perfectly. Enamored by the softness of her skin, I fight the urge to lift her hand to my lips. As time ticks on, the warmth of her touch seeps into every inch of me, spreading a sense of rightness that chokes me up. She feels like home. Safety. Security. It’s as if everything I’ve spent a lifetime searching for somehow exists right here, in the essence of her touch. Shock and disbelief flood my system, and I react on instinct—letting go of her hand and stepping back to rein in my rampaging thoughts.

Unsteady, I drag a hand through my hair, then down the back of my neck before shoving both into the pocket of my jeans. Damn it! I shouldn’t have touched her. I’m here to do a fucking job—to keep her safe—and the last thing I need is these bullshit feelings clouding my judgment.

Swallowing back my anger, I shake the worthless thoughts away, and keeping several feet of distance between us, I lead her back downstairs. I have to get her talking, but first, we move through each room together, pulling down blinds and verifying that every window and door is secure and locked up tight. With the sun setting and the inside lights coming on, limiting visibility into the house is crucial. We work quickly, and before long, we’re seated in the living room, where I fill her in on everything we know so far.

I explain how the man she encountered at the diner two days ago—Anthony Zappalla—is under investigation, and that ever since that incident, we’ve been working to confirm he’s not a threat to her. So far, there’s no indication he has any interest in her, which is good news. But it doesn’t change the fact that Victor Bastille seems to be stalking her. I keep that detail to myself for now, along with our suspicion that her life in New York may be connected to Zappalla’s and Bastille’s business dealings.

“There’s more, but there are gaps in what we know. We’re hoping you might fill some of those in for us. Our questions relate to your time in New York.”

Her reaction is immediate. It starts with an adamant shake of her head, followed by her body going rigid as her hands begin to tremble.

“Annelly…” I pause, silently imploring for her to look at me. “It’s clear something went wrong out there. Based on what we know, we have an inkling as to what that might be. But without hearing your side, we won’t know how to help. I know this isn’t easy, but telling me what really happened in New York is the only way to fix things.”

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# Chapter 11

James

"I know this isn't easy, but telling me what really happened in New York is the only way to fix things."

Fix things.
 See what I did there? Even as I say the words, I realize how ambiguous they sound. Yes, I'm here to keep her safe—it's a soul-deep need, a part of the protector inside me. But the real reason, the one I'm struggling to admit, even to myself, is that I miss her. I want her back in my life. Not romantically, of course—I can't give her that—but the way it used to be when we were friends. And the way I see it, if I play this right, I can do both. I can fix the mess I made of us while helping to keep her safe. It's that simple. All I need to do is set clear boundaries from the start and be upfront about what we are to one another. That should resolve all this emotional angst neither of us deserves. 

Annelly wraps her arms protectively around herself, most likely trying to hide the tremble in her hands—but it's too late. I already saw it. With her gaze cast downward, it's impossible to read what's going on behind those beautiful green eyes. So, I resort to playfully tapping her foot with mine, like I used to back when we spent our days together. Back when my job was to help Lucas protect his family, and she stayed with us at the house to help with the girls. 

She did everything she could to avoid me back then—not like she does now, but because she was shy. At least around me. She acted like she was scared to get too close, all innocent smiles and tentative glances—a refreshing change from the women who usually twist themselves into knots to get my attention. It's hard to believe that was just this past summer. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Softening my tone, I urge her, "Talk to me, Annelly. I'm here to help."

"What if what happened to me has nothing to do with your investigation?" she asks with an air of defiance, though the slight tremors coursing through her body tell the real story.

"If there's no link, we'll treat it as a separate matter. Either way, we want to help you." She's already shaking her head in protest, but I'm not a man who gives up easy—especially when it's about something or someone I care about. "If it helps, we can keep things between us for now. But bringing Ben in would be better, since he can provide the resources we might need—including helping us handle your mom."

At the mention of Ben dealing with her mother, I see a flicker of relief slip through her resistance. Still, she remains silent. 

Frustrated, I let out a breath. "Annelly, as your friend—" 

She cuts me off. "We're not friends, remember? 
You
 made sure of that." The bitterness in her voice takes me off guard. It's so unlike her, and it stings. 

I clear my throat, my hand finding the back of my neck, rubbing at the tense muscles as the sharpness of her words cuts through my resolve like a blade. "I deserve that," I admit, jaw clenching against the sharp edge of her words. I glance away just long enough to steel myself, then force my gaze back to hers.

"As someone who cares about you—and genuinely wants to help—it's crucial you tell me everything you know. We have questions and need you to be completely honest with your answers. We need to know what you saw, what you went through, your gut feelings about each situation—every detail. We're dealing with a lot of moving parts, and the people involved are dangerous. Because of that, let us be the judge of what's important and what isn't. Above all else, trust that we'll keep you safe. Nothing you tell us will be used without your consent, and if sharing any information might put you in harm's way, we won't use it at all."

"I'm telling you; I don't 
know
 anything." There's a quiver of desperation behind her words, which means she knows something but is determined to make me believe otherwise. Whether it's fear, shame, or pride that keeps her silent, she's dead set on not opening up. And as much as I hate the thought of pushing her—possibly risking this fragile connection between us—she leaves me no choice. Her physical safety is paramount, taking precedence over the emotional wreckage that sits between us.

"I'm going to level with you. You know how I operate—raw, unfiltered honesty. I've always told you the truth, even when it hurt." It's a low blow, reminding her of the past, but my words have the desired effect. As her gorgeous eyes turn into watery pools, my chest tightens. Still, I force myself to press on. "I'm imploring you to tell me everything. The truth. Every sordid detail of it, because Annelly, these people are dangerous, and if they're after you, they will not stop until they own you." 

Harsh, I know. But she's left me no choice. If it's fear that's making her hold back, then to save her, I have no qualms about using it against her. 

When she averts her gaze, I move with her, leaning in so she can't avoid looking at me. Then I deliver the final blow. "They're 
dangerous
, Annelly. And I don't mean the kind that you report to the police and expect a neat resolution. These people operate above the law, which makes them the worse of the worse as far as scum go." I pause, letting that sink in. Gently, I take her hand, showing her I'm here for her, whether she likes it or not.

"Now, I can help you. Ben and the team can help you. But if you don't talk to us, if you don't step up to help us solve this, you could be endangering not just yourself but your mom, Emilia, the kids... along with me and everyone at Offset Tactical."

Emotional blackmail? 

Really? 

That's what we're doing now? 

But as disgusted as I am with myself, I genuinely believe she's left me no choice. But then she crumples in front of me, dissolving into a heap of tears and regret, and suddenly I'm not so sure I did the right thing.

"Oh god," she mumbles, pulling away and burying her face in her hands. As her body jolts with racking sobs, my throat constricts and a deep ache settles somewhere deep inside my chest. 

She's crying because of me—because of what I said. I don't think I've ever hated myself more. For handling her this way. For rubbing her face in whatever trouble she's in and putting the fate of her loved ones on her shoulders. I'm manipulating her, coercing her into cooperating in a way I never thought I'd stoop to with her. And as much as I try to convince myself there was no other way, I know it's bullshit. I 
could
 have been patient. I could have let her come around on her own, could have taken her somewhere safe until she realized she could trust me again. 

It's what she deserves. 

But I'm a selfish bastard. Instead of patience, I hammered her for answers, playing on her fears so I could keep things on 
my
 timeline. Because this is who I am—the guy who controls every situation, never worrying about how it affects others as long as 
I'm
 comfortable and safe because my feelings are the only ones that matter. She deserves better than that. Annelly deserves someone good. Someone selfless. Someone who can weather the storm of their own emotions to put hers first. And that's just not me.

"You need to talk to me, Annelly." My voice is rough, weighed down by my guilt as I watch her fall apart. "Please. I want to help."

Still hiding behind her hands, I breathe out a huge sigh of relief when she gives me a slight nod. It's all the permission I need to pull out my phone and dial Ben, setting the phone on the couch between us. 

I hate seeing her so small. 

So broken.

Aware I've pushed her harder than I should have, I reach for her hands, gently prying them away from her face so I can see for myself that she's okay and can handle what's next. She's still trembling, and her beautiful face is streaked with tears. It damn near shatters my composure. Every instinct screams at me to pull her into my arms. To hold her and reassure her that I've got her, but I can't. I won't. Because if I do, I'll lose sight of the endgame—getting to the truth. To extricate the poison, I might need to put more pressure and I'm not sure I can do what needs to be done while also trying to comfort her.

"James, hang on," Ben's voice crackles over the speaker, the heartbreaking cries of his two-month-old daughter echoing in the background. "Sorry, had to hand Avery off to Jen. The damn doctor stuck her four times today. 
Four
 fucking needles, right into my 8-week-old baby girl's legs. I almost lost it, man. Had tears in my eyes and everything. Took all I had not to lay the damn doctor out." 

Beneath the gruffness is the unmistakable sound of a man completely in love with his baby daughter. It's a pleasant reminder that not all parents are deadbeats like mine were.

"Rough day?" I ask, trying to inject a sliver of my usual nonchalance into the words. It falls flat, though. It's been days since I've successfully channeled the easy-going guy I was before we introduced Zappala into Annelly's life.

"The worst," Ben grumbles, exhaustion lacing his voice. "Though by the sounds of it, not as rough as yours. What's the update?" 

"I'm with Annelly. You're on speaker. I've briefed her on the situation we've been monitoring since Monday, and she's ready to answer some questions." 

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She's not ready—
not even close
. Her rigid posture and trembling hands tell me everything I need to know. I squeeze her hand gently, silently urging her to lean on me.

"Good to hear. Now, Annelly, we need to ask you a few questions. Specifically, about your time in New York..."

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OLLOW ME on REAM
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Chapter 12

James

At the mere mention of the city she once called home, she suddenly pulls away and stands up. With her hands rubbing up and down her thighs nervously, and her eyes wide with panic she stares down at me with a look that’s reminiscent of her panic attack two days ago.

We’re losing her, which is something we can’t afford. With the threat looming over us, time is of the essence. To get her to open up, she needs to feel safe, and the only way I know to do that is to slow things down a bit. If nothing else, to make up for the way I spoke to her earlier.

        "Ben, we need a second," I say, muting the phone and taking it off speaker. He might be my boss, but I'm determined to be the only man who sees her through this. Keeping my palms visible and my movements slow, I approach her gently so as not to spook her. "Trust, remember? For the next few minutes, give me a little more of your trust, and I swear to God, I will take care of you. I'll keep you safe." 

Reaching for her, I tentatively place my hands on her shoulders and breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn’t flinch or pull away. “I know I failed you once, Annelly. But this time, I’m sticking it out. I promise. As long as you need me, I’m not going anywhere.”

What the fuck am I doing?

Making promises and pledging vows of commitment without setting clear boundaries? So much could be misinterpreted from what I just said, and it completely undermines my plans to create safe parameters around our friendship. Yet, what confuses me most is that the part of me that would usually balk at such declarations is eerily silent.

When she hesitates, her eyes dropping nervously to my phone, I quickly reassure her. “He’s muted. He can’t hear us.”

She gives a small nod, her movements slow, and after a pause, she finally speaks. “What you’re asking—it’s not that simple.”

“I know.”

Instinctually, my hands reach for hers in a move that catches me by surprise, but I don’t pull away. “I know, angel. I know you’re scared. Of what’s happening. Of whoever or whatever you’re running from. Of me. But you know me. You know what I do—my job, my purpose. Somewhere, deep down, you have to know that I would never let anything happen to you. Not just because it’s not in me to stand by while someone is hurt, but because I care about you, Annelly. Deeply.”

My chest tightens as I wrestle with the weight of my own words, with how dangerously close I am to crossing a line I swore I’d never cross. “I’m here because I want to be. Because I want to help you, protect you.” The words take care of you flicker in my mind, but I shove the thought aside before it can take root. “You’ll be safe with me, Annelly. I need you to trust in that.” Trust in me is really what I want to say, but I hold back, knowing that after all I’ve done, saying the words out loud may ultimately work against me.

For a moment, her posture softens. The tension in her shoulders eases just enough for me to see the slightest crack in her walls. When she offers a faint nod, I take it as a small but significant victory. Wasting no time, I lead her back to the couch and settle beside her.

With a steadying breath, I unmute the phone. Ben’s voice filters back into the room, calm and purposeful as he takes over. He starts with questions about her time in New York City—the people she knew, the places she frequented, any connections that might exist between her and those we are investigating. Her answers are careful but honest, and as far as we can tell, there’s nothing that ties her to Zappalla’s world.

As Ben and I agreed, we saved the questions related to Victor Bastille until the very end. By doing so, we hoped to piece together a connection between Zappalla and Bastille based on what she shared. But when that doesn’t happen, it becomes painfully clear we’re likely dealing with two separate issues. Zappalla is undoubtedly tied to Bastille, but Victor’s presence here in Ruby Creek? It’s personal. Whatever his reason, it has nothing to do with Zappalla—and everything to do with her.

“You’re doing great,” I tell her, my voice soft but steady. With my thumb, I gently stroke the delicate skin of her hand, hoping the small gesture helps keep her grounded. “Now, we need to talk about Victor. Victor Bastille.”

The change in her is immediate. It rolls through her body like an earthquake—tense shoulders, trembling hands, wide, tear-filled eyes that betray a level of fear I haven’t seen since she collapsed in my arms at the diner.

When her breathing shifts to shallow, uneven gasps and her composure begins to crumble, it’s like I’m sixteen again, watching yet another person I care about be taken away from me. That helpless, gut-wrenching feeling rushes back with brutal clarity, clawing at me. My fight reflexes awaken, and the monster rises to the surface, ready to defend and annihilate whatever threat comes near her.

But I can’t unleash that rage. Not now.

Gritting my teeth, I let out a slow, harsh breath, putting every ounce of my strength into containing the fury boiling beneath my skin before I end up doing something that might scare her.

The time for fighting is coming… of that, I’m certain.

But right now, the only thing that matters is getting to the truth, and the only way to do that is to be the man she needs.

Her pillar of strength.

The warrior at her side.

The dependable friend I should have been from the start.

I glance down at the phone in my hand. “We’ll need to call you back,” I tell Ben, my voice leaving no room for argument as I disconnect the call before he can object.

Crouching in front of her, I link our hands together and then wait. I don’t push. I just sit there, silent and steady, giving her the space to find me in her own time. When she finally looks at me, the sheer devastation etched across her face damn near makes me explode with rage.

Who could do this to her?

Who could look at this woman and do anything but cherish her, protect her, move mountains to shield her from even a whisper of pain? The fury claws its way up, a wildfire consuming me from the inside, but then something unexpected happens.

Our gazes lock, and for a moment, she looks at me with such desperate vulnerability that it stops me cold. The anger—the monster that’s been raging for release—sinks back into the shadows, retreating to the farthest recesses of my soul to make room for the quieter, steadier part of me, that man who would do anything for her. The man who will always choose her over everything, even my own discomfort… my own wrath.

“Breathe for me, Annelly,” I whisper, my tone calm but insistent. “Like this.”

I take slow, deliberate breaths, exaggerating each inhale and exhale as I encourage her to follow my lead. For a few agonizing seconds, I wonder if she’ll hear me through the chaos in her mind. But then, to my relief, she matches me, breath for breath. With each exhale, I watch the fear and anxiety slowly recede.

“He’s here for me, isn’t he?” Her voice is small, fragile, but determined. As she searches my eyes, a solitary tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it away with trembling fingers, doing everything she can to hold herself together.

        "Angel..." My chest constricts at the feeling of helplessness that shrouds me. It's a feeling I hate—

loathe . A feeling that has me wanting to claw off my skin, but with her looking at me like this, like she’s trying so hard to trust me, I push through it. I won’t let her down. Not this time. “Yes,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “We think so. We’re just not sure why.”

“Oh God,” she breathes, launching to her feet so suddenly it catches me off guard. She moves past me before I can stop her, heading for the stairs. “I have to go. I have to get out of here.”

She’s halfway to the steps when I catch her, my hand gently wrapping around her arm. “No. No, Annelly.”

“You don’t understand,” she pleads, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation. Her fingers pull at mine, frantic to break free, as though her survival depends on it. “He wants me, James. I can’t let him take me. I can’t. I just can’t .” Her voice rises, the scream starting as anger, but unraveling into something far more raw. Desolation. Hopelessness.

I can’t take it anymore. Desperate to console her, to stop her spiral, I pull her into my arms as if my body alone could shield her from the storm raging inside her.

“It’s over. He’s done waiting, and he’s here to take me. He’s going to hurt me, James. Oh, God, he’s going to hurt me.” Her voice breaks, her sobs wracking her small frame as she collapses against me. Her fists cling to my shirt like I’m her only tether to safety, her face buried against my chest as though hiding from the world could somehow make it all go away.

The sheer intensity of her fear is suffocating and fuels the monster inside me. My body trembles with the overwhelming need to crush and destroy him—Victor Bastille. To break him into a million pieces as punishment for whatever he did to put this kind of fear into her.

“He won’t,” I vow, my voice a low, dangerous growl. “He can’t . Because I won’t let him. Do you hear me, Annelly? He won’t touch you. Not ever.”

I feel the raw, primal edge of my words vibrating through my chest as I fight to contain the fury threatening to boil over. The monster is right there, flailing just under the surface of my skin, but the warmth of her body pressed against mine keeps it at bay. The way she clings to me, trembling and broken, reminds me that this moment isn’t about my anger or that dreaded feeling of helplessness—it’s about her. She needs me. And as long as she does, Victor Bastille can wait.

“You don’t understand…” she sobs, her voice muffled against my chest. She shakes her head as if denying even the possibility of hope.

“Look at me, angel.” Desperation laces my voice as I cradle her face in my hands, willing her to come back to me. To pull herself out of the storm she’s drowning in. Her tear-filled eyes, wide and brimming with anguish, finally meet mine, and the intensity of the connection that sparks between us nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. It’s electric. Grounding. Strong enough to somehow soothe us both. Slowly but surely, I see the panic begin to fade, piece by piece, as she settles under my gaze.

“You’re safe with me, Annelly. I swear it. Keep your eyes on me and hear my words.”

Her lips part in a shaky, breathless gasp, and something primal stirs inside me. The sound, so vulnerable, so raw, ignites a fierce need to protect her at all costs.

“I will not let anything happen to you,” I vow, each word a solemn promise. “Now or ever.”

Her brows knit together as her lips tremble, and then she shakes her head, her voice barely a whisper. “You don’t get it—”

“No,” I cut her off gently but firmly. “ You don’t get it. You have no idea what I’m capable of when it comes to protecting someone I care about. And I care about you, Annelly.“ My tone is pleading… bordering on begging, but I don’t care. I need her to believe me. “I care about you , and there’s no way in hell I’ll ever let that man anywhere near you again. Not if this is how he makes you feel.”

“You can’t promise me that—”

“Wrong again,” I interject, my hands sliding from her cheeks to her jaw, my thumbs brushing softly against her skin as I tilt her head up. “I can.” My voice is unwavering as I guide her gaze to mine, making sure she sees the truth in my eyes. “Trust, remember? Can you give me a little more trust?”

One breath. Two breaths. Three. The silence stretches, her hesitation palpable. And then, finally, a whisper so soft it barely reaches my ears. “I’ll try.”

It’s not a yes. Not the full trust I need. But it’s a start. It’s enough—for now. Until I can find a way to show her, to prove to her, that I will never, ever let her down again.

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# Chapter 13

Annelly

"Trust, remember? Can you give me a little more trust?"

I hear the words, but it's what I see in his eyes that calls to me. Those crystal blues reflect my pain as if he can feel the secrets I'm struggling to keep buried. How is it possible that his presence alone makes me feel safe? The way he speaks, it's like he instinctively knows what I need, his every word somehow plugging up the holes of my sinking ship. For the first time in months, I feel the faintest glimmer of hope that everything's going to work out, which must be why everything inside me is screaming at me to cling to it—to him—with everything I've got. 

"I'll try..." I say softly, wishing it were that easy. Deep down, I do want to trust him, but that persistent voice in my head won't stop whispering all the reasons I shouldn't. Still, the practical part of me—the terrified part—wants to tell him everything. To cleanse myself of the secrets weighing me down. The need made all the more intense by those blue eyes that beg for another chance. 

But how do I expose my greatest shame to this man? The one who told me, in no uncertain terms, he doesn't want me in his life. The one who shamed me for falling for him before cutting me out of his life and sending me away. It's no wonder why his words from that day resurface now, echoing in my mind with cruel clarity. 

It was the morning after I'd seen him kissing another girl outside Souder's bar. The day he shattered my heart:

"Annelly..." His voice was rough, strained as he cleared his throat. He couldn't even look at me, his eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, and I knew—whatever he was about to say, it wasn't good. "We need to talk about last night. I'm sorry if what you saw upset you." He let out a loud exhale, the kind that felt like he was summoning every ounce of courage just to keep going. "Somewhere along the way, I gave you the impression I could offer you more than I have to give, and for that, I'm sorry."

Indignant. That's how he sounded. As though he were the one who had been wronged. It didn't make any sense. His voice was laced with exhaustion too, the dark circles under his eyes evidence that he hadn't slept.  

He was there, standing on my doorstep at six in the morning, and all I could think about was her. The girl outside the bar. The girl he'd been kissing. The thought that he might have spent the night with her only twisted the knife further and sent a sick feeling churning in my stomach. It almost hurt to breathe.

But I couldn't let it show. 

I'd already embarrassed myself enough.

"It's fine, James." The words came out stiff, the forced smile on my face barely concealing the storm brewing inside me. But given the circumstances, I knew I had to try. "You didn't have to knock on my door at six in the morning to tell me all that. I know we're just friends. You don't owe me any explanations."

When he sighed and dragged a hand roughly through his hair, I braced myself. I could feel it coming—the blow he was about to deliver—and suddenly it was like the ground beneath me had fallen away.

"You're right, but that's just it. It feels like I do. And that right there is the problem." His brow furrowed, and his tone shifted to a firmer, sharper one that caught me by surprise and left me stunned. "I don't live my life questioning my choices or apologizing for who I am or what I do because everything I do has a purpose. It fulfills me in some way. And what happened last night made me realize that keeping you in my life means I have to change... I don't want to change. I don't. I like my life just the way it is. And if who I am puts that sad look in your eyes, then I'm sorry. I think it's best we end whatever this is." 

He gestured between us, the weight of his words punctuated by the disgust etched into his expression.
 "
I care about you, Annelly. That's how I know there's no place for someone like me in your life—or for someone like you in mine." 

His voice cracked slightly at the end, and for the briefest moment, his eyes reflected something other than anger. But the mix of emotions in his gaze was too fleeting, too muddled for me to decipher. The words landed between us like a grenade, the damage instant and irreversible. 

I stood there, staring at him, tears welling in my eyes as my heart bled inside me. Dumbfounded. Shattered. I clung to the hope that he'd take it back, that he'd say something that finally made sense. But when he spoke again, it was to twist the knife even deeper into my chest. 

"Pack your stuff and go back to school. That's where your life is. That's where you belong."

Those were his last words before he turned his back on me, walking away as if the friendship we shared meant nothing to him. 

"I'll try to trust you. But you'll need you to tell me how?" My voice is a mix of frustration and anguish, breaking on a half-sob as the weight of everything that's happened finally crashes over me. "After everything you did, everything you said. How do I get past it, James?" My chin trembles as I force myself to say the words I've held inside for far too long. "You hurt me. Humiliated me. Walked away like I never mattered after treating me like some silly schoolgirl with a crush. You made me feel like a friendship with me was this huge burden you didn't want. Like 
I
 was a burden you didn't want. 
How am I supposed to forget all of that?"

A loud, guttural growl erupts from him, and he releases my face as though the intensity of my words burns him. Turning away, he paces a few steps, his hand dragging roughly through his hair. The tension radiates off him in waves, and I swear I can see his turmoil rippling under his skin. When he finally turns back to face me, his hands drop to his waist, his posture both defensive and defeated. He just... stares at me. A look of regret gleams in his eyes, before he briefly shakes his head, glances up toward the ceiling, and lets out a long, ragged breath. 

"I fucked up, Annelly." His voice is raw, the vulnerability in his tone stealing the air from my lungs. When his eyes meet mine again, they're filled with pain so tangible it makes my chest ache. "I knew it the moment the words were out of my mouth, and I've regretted them every day since. You were never a burden. It was me... 
I
 was the problem."

He swallows hard, his gaze flickering away for a moment, as though ashamed to look at me. "I felt guilty for hurting you that night. And after spending so much of my life avoiding feelings like guilt and regret, I couldn't handle it. I freaked out. I'm not good at dealing with hard emotions, and instead of addressing that, instead of processing what I was feeling and why, I blamed you. It's why I pushed you away." He pauses, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of his confession is too much to bear. His eyes drop to the floor, his jaw tightening like he's wrestling with those same emotions now. 

"I've spent the past six months trying to figure out how to fix what I broke. Because I miss my friend, Annelly." His voice softens, the words laced with a quiet desperation. "I miss 
you
." 

He shrugs, his hands falling limply to his sides as a pained expression flickers across his face. Unable to hold my gaze any longer, he turns his back to me, as if hiding the rawness of his emotions might make them easier to endure. 

As hard as it is to see him like this—his heart laid bare—there's a part of me that needs it. I need to see beneath his mask, past the unshakable, unfeeling exterior that once led me to believe it was so easy for him to walk away. I need to see his pain, his regret, to know if what he's saying is genuine and not something he'll later accuse me of imagining. It's this need that propels me forward, my feet moving on their own until I'm standing right behind him. Tentatively, I reach out and tug on his arm, a silent insistence that he turn to face me. 

When he does, I see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his body leans toward mine as if he's about to reach for me. But at the last second, he pulls back, shoving his hands into his pockets like he's physically restraining himself. 

"That morning," he begins, his voice thick with emotion. "I told you I liked my life the way it was and didn't want to change. I thought it was true. But after you left—after losing you—I realized that for you, I'd do it. For a chance at getting my friend back, I'd gladly change."

His eyes search mine, pleading for me to understand. "I want you back in my life, Annelly. I know asking you to trust me after the way I hurt you is a big ask, but please... give me this one chance to be there for you. I promise I'll do whatever it takes to not let you down this time."

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Chapter 14

Annelly

The raw vulnerability in his voice cracks something inside me, splintering the walls I’ve tried so hard to build. My chest tightens, and before I can stop it, a silent tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly, desperate to maintain some semblance of composure as I pretend to deliberate his words. Pretend because the truth of the matter is, I miss him too. I’ve missed him every single day since he pushed me away.

I just needed to know—really know—that his apology was genuine. That what he did hurt him as much as it hurt me. That he’s been carrying the same ache, the same suffocating regret I’ve lived with since everything fell apart.

“Okay,” I whisper, the word fragile, barely audible as I wrap my arms around myself.

His breath catches, and in the next moment, his hands are on me, tentative but firm, cupping my face like I’m something precious. The gentle press of his fingertips against the back of my neck sends a shiver cascading through me. When leans his forehead against mine, a soft groan escaping his lips, the world narrows until it’s just him and me.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice hoarse. His eyes squeeze shut, and he swallows hard like he’s struggling to contain his own emotions. “Thank you. For giving me this chance. I won’t let you down. I swear it.”

For a heartbeat, I let myself believe him. Let myself soak in the quiet promise of his voice, the way his presence alone wraps around me like a shield against the chaos of the world. But then he pulls away, the spell between us breaking as abruptly as it began. His hands fall to his sides, and he slips them into his pockets like he’s trying to stop himself from reaching for me again. He won’t meet my eyes now, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have…” he mutters, his tone stiff, almost resigned. He gestures toward the kitchen. “Let’s, uh… grab some water. We can sit in there and finish talking.”

I nod, brushing past him, my arms tightening around myself as I go. The sharp sting of rejection twists in my chest, as familiar as it is unwelcome.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? Every time I let him in, let him close enough to touch me, I end up here. Disappointed. Hurt. Feeling unwanted and unworthy, with this hollow ache inside my chest reminding me exactly where I stand.

You’d think I would know better by now. That after everything, I would have learned my lesson. He’s told me time and time again that this isn’t what he wants. That I’m not what he wants. And yet, here I am. Still hoping for something more. Still craving a man who doesn’t want me.

As I swallow back the lump in my throat, I head straight to the fridge. The cool air that rushes out as I open the door feels grounding, a brief reprieve from the storm swirling inside me. The distance this task puts between us is a small mercy, one I cling to as I try to steel myself for the conversation ahead. But even as I go through the motions, pulling out two bottles of water, doubt creeps in. With everything I’m feeling—fear, sadness, rejection—maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

By the time I return to the breakfast nook, he’s already seated, his posture tense but his expression carefully guarded. He’s waiting for me.

“Thanks,” he says, accepting the bottle I hand him. I take the seat across from him, my hands trembling slightly as I unscrew the cap on mine.

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, and from the way he keeps glancing at his hands, I know he’s avoiding mine, too. I’m on the verge of asking if we can do this later when he clears his throat.

“We’ll start simple.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit that tugs at that tender part of me that’s deeply in love with him. “Yes or no questions to begin. Should help make things easier.”

I nod, my hands clasped tightly on the table as I fiddle with my thumbs, trying to keep the nerves at bay. His first question cuts through the quiet like a knife.

“Did you know Victor Bastille is here, in Ruby Creek?”

At the sound of his name, my breath catches in my throat as my vision blurs with unshed tears. He notices immediately, and the way his hands twitch on the table tells me he wants to reach out and comfort me. But he doesn’t. He holds himself back, and while his restraint stings, there’s a part of me that’s grateful. It’s a bitter reminder of the boundaries he’s so carefully drawn between us, but a reminder I desperately need.

“I wasn’t sure,” I admit, my voice trembling as I force myself to answer. “But I had a feeling. For some time now, it’s felt like someone is watching me. Everywhere I go.” The tears I’ve been holding back finally break free, hot and relentless, as they streak down my cheeks. Frustrated, I swipe them away with the heel of my hand. “I thought it was all in my head. I thought I was going crazy—” My voice cracks with anger and helplessness.

“You’re not crazy.” His voice is firm, cutting through the storm of doubt swirling in my head. Leaning forward, he locks his eyes on mine, forcing me to meet his unwavering gaze. “That feeling… it’s real. From now on, whenever you feel it, don’t second guess it. Get somewhere safe—preferably someplace crowded—and then call me immediately. Promise me you’ll do exactly as I say.”

His words carry a weight I can’t ignore. “Okay. I promise.”

“Do you know why he’s here?”

My throat feels like sandpaper, so I unscrew the water bottle in front of me and take a small sip, buying myself some time. Finally, I force the words out. “He’s here for me. I suspect to bring me back to New York, where he’ll force me to be with him.”

“Force you to be with him?” The sharp edge in his tone sends a shiver down my spine. His jaw tightens, but his gaze softens as he takes in my reluctant nod. “You ended things. I’m guessing he wasn’t happy about that.”

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “He wasn’t.”

The tension between us grows as he waits, clearly hoping I’ll elaborate. When I don’t, he exhales a heavy sigh and rubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Annelly. I know this is hard, but I need you to be honest and forthcoming with your answers. It’s important. Start from the beginning, back to when you first met. I need to know everything that happened between you two—including how it ended.”

It feels like a lead weight is pressing against my chest, stealing my breath. I take a deep inhale, trying to ease the crushing sensation, but the burn building behind my eyes only intensifies. I drop my gaze to the water bottle in my hands, gripping the cold plastic like it’s my lifeline.

“What… what do you need to know?”

“Start with how and where you met.”

I swallow hard, feeling the sharp edge of a memory I’d rather forget. “We met backstage on opening night. He was one of our biggest sponsors, so meeting the cast and crew was one of the perks. He was…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Nice. He expressed an interest in me almost immediately and asked me out that night. At first, I declined. Between school and the production, my free time was limited. Besides, he was so… out of my league.” The bitter laugh that escapes my lips feels foreign and hollow. “I was so naïve back then,” I add softly, the guilt and shame crashing over me like a tidal wave.

“At his insistence, we exchanged numbers, agreeing to start out as friends. He was… sweet. So incredibly sweet. Romantic in a way that felt almost too good to be true. He came to so many of our performances, and whether he was in the audience or not, there were always roses waiting for me backstage at the end of the night. And on the card…” My voice softens as I glance down at my hands. “There was always a poem. A romantic verse to express how he felt about me.”

I fall silent, momentarily lost in the memory. The first time I received one of his handwritten notes, I felt… special. It had been such an overwhelming gesture of affection—one no one had ever done for me before. I was instantly smitten.

“And then, at the end of every note, he’d ask me out. Again, and again. His persistence wore me down. He was handsome. Charismatic. Charming in a way that felt almost effortless. Everyone—my friends, the other actors, the production team—they all adored him. He felt safe.” I shake my head, frustration threading through my voice. “Even now, it confuses me. How is it that no one sees him for who he truly is? How did I not see it? How does he manage to fool everyone?”

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# Chapter 15

Annelly

I draw in a shaky breath, determined to get through this. "The first few times we went out, it was amazing. He was good to me. Doting, even. He took me on lavish dates—five-star restaurants, private galleries, things I never dreamed I'd get to experience. He showered me with gifts and compliments that made me feel... cherished. Wanted. Like I was the only woman in the world. It felt good. Real. Like we were building something that could last."

I pause, my voice faltering as I recall the turning point. "It's why I asked him to be my date for Emilia and Lucas's wedding. At the time, it felt like the next logical step for us. We seemed... solid. But after that..." I shake my head, the words catching in my throat. "After that, everything changed."

James leans forward, his gaze sharp and focused. "What do you mean?"

"Until the wedding, it had always been just me and him. I had friends, sure, but we were all so wrapped up in school and our own productions that there was never any time to hang out. Victor always had my full, undivided attention. But bringing him here to Ruby Creek changed that. Suddenly, my attention was split—between my family, my old friends, and him. And he just... he didn't like that."

I pause, the memory of his subtle shifts in demeanor tightening my chest. "He never said it outright, but I swear he felt threatened. By you and Tyler. Ben, Lucas, and the guys in OTS. Seeing me interact with all of you—witnessing how natural it was—made him question what we had. It was like he thought the way I was with him—open, happy, affectionate—was exclusive to him. Seeing me like that with others hurt him. Things were never the same after that."

I pause to take a breath, twisting the cap off my water bottle and taking a sip to soothe the dryness in my throat. The awkward drive back to New York after the wedding surfaces in my mind—the tension in the air was so thick I could barely breathe. It was the first time in our relationship that he iced me out and made me feel small. Inadequate. Things only got worse from there.

"A week after the wedding, he made it clear that I... owed him. Since he'd come to meet my family, he asked that I attend a dinner he was hosting for some of his clients at one of his clubs. I had a performance scheduled that night, so I told him I'd be late. He assured me it would be fine, that I'd only need to show up in time for dessert. Things between us had been tense ever since the wedding. He was short with me, picking fights over the smallest things, and I thought going to this dinner might help smooth things over."

I glance down at the bottle in my hands, twisting it nervously. "I thought it'd be okay... it was just a business dinner, right? I assumed that meant he'd be on his best behavior." I laugh bitterly. "I was wrong. So, so wrong."

As memories from that night surface, the fear and shame hit me hard. My hands tremble slightly as I grip the bottle tighter. I can't bring myself to meet his eyes. Not as I prepare to tell him this next part.  

"His driver picked me up that night after my performance. When we arrived, I was escorted to a private VIP area where Victor was waiting with his friends and clients. The club wasn't at all what I expected, and almost immediately, I knew something wasn't right. But after all the conflict we'd had that week, I thought it would be best if I just kept my promise and stayed to support him through his business meeting. When he saw me, he seemed so pleased—almost surprised and relieved that I'd actually come. He knew getting all glammed up to go to a club wasn't my thing. Then, with this proud smile on his face, he introduced me to everyone there."

Subconsciously, my shoulders droop, my body curling in on itself as the memory takes hold. The dress Victor had sent for me to wear that night was more revealing than anything I'd ever worn before, and my throat tightens as the image resurfaces in my mind. It clung to me in a way that made me feel exposed. I remember stepping into the club, my skin prickling with unease as I noticed the other women there. Scantily clad girls dressed much like me, many of them younger, draped over older men who barely acknowledged them beyond the way their hands lingered on their bodies. 

This isn't right,
 I'd thought to myself. Even now, I can't explain why I didn't leave. Maybe I didn't want to make a scene. Maybe I just didn't want to disappoint him. But the way those men—the ones Victor called friends and associates—looked at me like I was a piece of meat, sent a sick feeling to the pit of my stomach. Their gazes didn't just linger; they pierced through me, violating and stripping me bare. And Victor... he didn't even seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. 

"I told myself to ignore it." I voice the thought without realizing it. And though James must be confused and unsure of what I'm talking about, he doesn't interrupt. "That I was overthinking things. Victor was happy I came. He'd made such a big deal about this event. I thought maybe... maybe I was just imagining the way they all looked at me."

James's hand tightens into a fist on the table, his knuckles blanching white. He doesn't say a word, but his jaw ticks with tension, the tendons in his neck straining as though he's holding himself back. 

I pause, swallowing hard as shame washes over me. "But as the night went on, I became more uncomfortable. The things happening around me—the way those men talked about the women there, the liberties they took touching them... doing inappropriate things to them. In public. Out in the open." My voice wavers, cracking under the weight of the memory. "It made my skin crawl. I wanted to leave, but I didn't want to upset Victor." 

James lets out a sharp breath, and I can feel his fury radiating across the table. His leg bounces under it, restless energy spilling out in barely contained tremors. I glance up briefly, catching the dark fire blazing in his eyes, and then quickly look away. 

"And then Victor..." My voice catches, my throat constricting as the memories from the worst night of my life rise to the surface. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tears back as I force out the words. "While we were seated at the table, surrounded by his colleagues, he reached under my dress." 

James freezes. His fists clench tighter, and his breathing grows heavier. For a second, he looks like he might stand, like he's seconds away from snapping. But he doesn't. He stays seated, his hands twitching around the edge of the table like he's fighting with himself not to flip it across the room.

I shake my head, trying to clear the humiliation that clings to me even now. "I didn't want him touching me, so I pushed his hand away."

James mutters something low under his breath, too quiet for me to make out, but the tension in his voice makes my stomach clench. He's barely holding it together.

My voice trembles, but I press on. "The next thing I knew, he grabbed me by the back of my hair. He yanked me hard, forcing me to my feet, and shoved my upper body down onto the table. Right there, in front of everyone." My breath hitches, and a sob escapes unbidden as I relive that helpless, horrifying moment. "I tried to fight. I was struggling so hard to get free, and then I heard him—" My voice breaks completely, the memory slamming into me with full force. 

James shoots out of his chair, pacing a short distance before bracing his hands on the counter. His shoulders rise and fall with each jagged breath, the fury burning inside him terrifying even to me. But he doesn't lash out. He doesn't speak. Instead, he stands there, gripping the marble counter so hard I half expect it to splinter under his palms. 

I tighten my fingers around the water bottle, my hands trembling as shame and terror flood me anew. My throat constricts, and the room feels impossibly small, suffocating under the weight of the memory.  

"Tell me," James growls, his voice low, gravelly, and barely controlled. "What did he do?"

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Chapter 16

Annelly

A sob escapes before I can stop it, the helplessness and humiliation of that night stealing the air from my lungs. My breath comes in shuttering gasps, but I force myself to speak, even as the words feel like shards of glass cutting through my throat. “He told someone to go ahead, and the next thing I knew there was a hand—” My voice cracks, as more tears break free from my eyes. “A hand under my dress, touching me…”

I can’t finish. I don’t need to. The shame of being forcibly touched by a stranger, of being held down and treated like I wasn’t a person but a thing to be used, rips through me like a violent storm. Overwhelmed, I fall apart, my body trembling as the dam inside me bursts free. Though I’ve thought about that night a thousand times—relived it in my waking hours and in my nightmares—this is the first time I’ve spoken the words aloud. And the weight of them feels unbearable.

“Fuck!” His sharp expletive slices through the air, cutting through the sound of my sobs. Before I can fully process it, he’s there—sliding into the booth beside me and wrapping me in his arms. “Shh. Don’t cry, Annelly. Please don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with barely concealed desperation.

His chin rests on the top of my head, the weight of it grounding as his arms tighten around me. It’s as if he’s trying to shield me—not just from the world, but from the suffocating memory that has me unraveling. My sobs wrack my body, but I try to focus on him, on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thudding through his chest and against my cheek.

His breaths are heavy, uneven, trembling with barely restrained fury that radiates from him in waves. And yet, his touch remains impossibly gentle, his hands steady as he holds me like I’m something precious, something breakable. For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe I’m safe.

He presses his lips to the top of my head, lingering there for a moment before trailing soft, desperate kisses down to my temple. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice a mix of anguish and fury. “God, Annelly, I’m so fucking sorry. I hate myself for making you do this, but I have to know. Please… please tell me what happened next.”

His arms tighten around me, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll somehow slip away. The steady pressure of his embrace, the heat of his body against mine—it all serves to anchor me, to remind me that I’m here. That I’m safe. That these are just memories, no matter how vivid they feel.

“When I fought back,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “He hit me. In front of all those people…” My chest tightens as a sob tears through me. “He dragged me to his office, yelling that I’d embarrassed him, and there… there he hit me some more. When he stopped…” My breath hitches, and I force the words out through the lump in my throat. “He forced me to kiss him. He touched me. Hurt me.”

James’s body stiffens against mine, a low growl rumbling in his chest, but he doesn’t interrupt. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart as the memories continue to claw their way to the surface.

“Then he told me to go home.” I manage to choke out, tears streaming down my face. “He said that after closing…” My throat constricts, and the words barely make it past my lips. “He’d come to me.”

The memory hits like a tidal wave, the raw fear I felt that night surging back with brutal clarity. My voice cracks on the last word, the weight of his threats pressing down on me like a vice. I can still feel it—the suffocating dread that gripped me, the haunting certainty of what he planned to do to me. It steals the air from my lungs, leaving me light-headed and trembling as the past and present blur together.

But I can’t let it consume me. Not now. Not when James is here, waiting, needing to understand. Forcing myself to push through the panic, I pull back from his embrace, my hands gripping his arms for stability as I meet his gaze.

“I left his office, and I ran,” I say, my voice shaking but resolute. “I left everything behind—school, the role of a lifetime, my friends, my entire life. I only took what I couldn’t leave behind and came home… because I knew that if I stayed, I wouldn’t survive the things he’d do to me.”

A sob wracks my body as the shame and helplessness threaten to swallow me whole. “James, please believe me… I never meant to be that girl. I never thought I’d ever be that girl.”

“Jesus, no.” His voice breaks, raw and filled with anguish. “Stop. Look at me, angel.”

His hands leave my body only to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. His touch is firm yet gentle, grounding me in the here and now. His gaze locks onto mine—intense, fierce, and layered with a depth of emotion I’ve never seen from him before.

“None of this—none of what happened—is your fault. You hear me?” His voice trembles, but his words are steady and unyielding. “You fought back. You got out. You did everything right and got yourself somewhere safe. And now…” His jaw clenches, his eyes blazing with determination. “Now you’re here with me, and I swear to you, he will never get the chance to hurt you again. Never. I promise you that.”

The conviction in his words wraps around me like a life preserver, holding me afloat as the waves of despair begin to recede. After pressing a tender kiss to my forehead, he pulls me into his arms. The silence that follows is grounding, soothing. Unburdened by the weight of my secrets, I take a deep, shuddering breath, letting the warmth and safety of his embrace seep into my soul. For the first time in months, it feels like I can finally breathe.

When he clears his throat and his body tenses, I know there’s another hard question coming.

“I’m sorry about this, but I need to ask. Why didn’t you go to the police?”

I close my eyes, memories from that night clawing their way to the surface. The men Victor introduced me to weren’t just powerful—they were untouchable. It wasn’t until weeks after I escaped that I finally understood why he insisted I attend that dinner, why he paraded me in front of men whose status was so far above my own. It wasn’t just a business meeting. It was a message. A cruel demonstration meant to showcase the breadth of his power and influence.

“Because the man sitting next to me that night,” I say, my voice trembling but steady enough to continue. “The one who put his hand up my dress and touched me… was Arnold Price, the Manhattan District Attorney.”

James’s sharp inhale is audible, and the tension in his body radiates through me. His chest rises and falls, his breathing ragged as though he’s fighting to contain the fury building inside him.

Desperate to push through the memory, I rush on. “I believe Victor invited me to that dinner to show me I had no choice. To make it clear that his wants and needs were law, and that as long as he wanted me in his life, there was no way out.” My voice wavers, but I force myself to finish. “I didn’t go to the police that night—or any other night since—because I knew it would only make things worse. Reporting him wouldn’t have saved me. It would have trapped me in his world, chaining me to a life I knew I’d never survive.”

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# Chapter 17

James

Still raw from last night's conversation with Annelly, I'm barely holding it together as I sit here meeting with the team. This is what we agreed to—she entrusted me to share her secret with the men I trust most in this world—but God, does it feel wrong. Talking about the most painful, intimate details of her past without her being here feels like a betrayal, no matter how necessary it is. I can't shake the nagging fear that I'll somehow screw this up, that the fragile trust she's given me will disappear at any moment. The thought of those green eyes—so full of pain but also trust—turning cold again is something I can't bear. Not after everything. Not again.

"Fucking hell." Zeb's sharp tone pulls me out of my thoughts. He shakes his head, the angry scowl on his face a perfect reflection of how we're all feeling.

Around the conference table, the tension is palpable. We've been through a lot together, the men at this table and I, but this? This feels like trying to piece together a goddamn nightmare.

It's been three days since Zappalla put his grubby fingers on her. Three days since that bastard did the unthinkable. And somehow, it turns out that hellish encounter may have actually saved her. If it weren't for that, we might never have uncovered Victor Bastille's involvement. We might not have known he was stalking her, essentially hunting her.

"Well, it gets worse..." Owen's voice cuts through the room, his tone grim. He's leaning forward, fingers tapping absently on the laptop keyboard in front of him. The gravity of whatever he's about to say is written all over his face. "Aside from the Manhattan D.A., I've compiled a list of 362 high-ranking government officials, both at the federal & state level, who are active members of Bastille's clubs."

The room goes dead silent.

Owen looks up, glancing at each of us like he's making sure we're all tracking. "And if that wasn't bad enough, our good friend Anthony Zappalla is also on that list. But here's where it gets really interesting. A significant number of those names also appear in the files we pulled from Zappalla's network. It looks like they're all part of some... strategic partnership. What exactly it is and what it entails, I haven't figured out yet, but I'll keep digging."

"Christ." Lucas scrubs a hand over his face, his exhaustion etched into every line of his features. The guy looks like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders—and honestly, after what he and his wife have been through, he might be. "I swear, the deeper we dig, the worse this shit gets," 

He turns to Ben, his tone resigned but resolute. "I hate to say it, but I think we should bring Mason and Creed in on this."

This surprises me. To say there's bad blood between Lucas and Creed would be a massive understatement. With Lucas now married to Emilia—Creed's ex-wife—who also happens to be nine months pregnant with Creed's baby, there's no love lost between those two. That Lucas is the one suggesting we bring him in shows just how fucked up this situation has become.

Creed might be a disgraced FBI agent 
officiall
y, but 
unofficially
, he's still working undercover in South America alongside our colleague, Mason Blackwell, who was secretly contracted by the FBI to serve as an independent consultant in the field. Their target, an organization known as 
La Salvación
, operates under the guise of a refugee charity, but is actually a front for illegal smuggling and sex trafficking. Based out of Colombia, their reach extends into the highest levels of private and public industries, including the federal government. 

Many of the government officials implicated in the FBI investigation are names we've now linked to Zappalla and Bastille. Which means Annelly is now in the crosshairs of some of the most powerful—and dangerous—players in a sex trafficking and smuggling operation. It's fucking terrifying. And infuriating. That she's been dragged into this mess—has the monster inside me roaring for a fight.

"Owen, call Agent Hunt and get everything we have over to Creed and Mason," Ben orders, his voice sharp and authoritative. "This goes way beyond our resources. We'll need their help to figure out the best path forward." 

I tighten my jaw, barely able to keep my emotions in check. The idea of relying on Creed, of trusting the FBI with Annelly's safety, makes me want to punch the shit out of something. But Ben's right. We're in over our heads.

"Make sure they know that Annelly is the priority," I add, my voice low and deadly. "Bastille wants her. He's likely been biding his time since she left New York, and last night he saw his opportunity. He knew she was home and assumed she'd be alone. If I hadn't been there..." My voice trails off, the thought of what could have happened threatening to push me over the edge.

I clench my fists, forcing myself to focus. "Taking Bastille out of the picture needs to happen first and foremost," I demand, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I don't trust those FBI fuckers as far as I can throw them, so make it crystal clear—Annelly's safety comes first."

"We get it, James," Ben responds, his tone calm but firm. "Trust me, we do. But this is bigger than us. We're not law enforcement. To bring these guys down, we'll need the help of our FBI partners. In the meantime, we stick to what we're doing. We keep digging up information on these assholes, and we do whatever it takes to keep Annelly safe."

"That's not good enough, Ben!" I'm on my feet before I even realize it, my fist slamming against the table as the monster inside me claws for release. "Creed is persona non grata in this country because the people in charge at the FBI are the bad guys. He's on the fucking run—with Mason watching his ass—because the very agency he dedicated his life to is riddled with corruption. When push comes to shove, Hunt will choose his case over Annelly. I know it. And there's no way in hell I'm going to sit back and let her become collateral damage."

"Calm the fuck down, Serrano," Dominick snaps, his voice sharp with exasperation. As a former SWAT team guy, he's got a bad habit of trying to defuse situations when he thinks someone's about to lose it. What he doesn't realize is that if I ever truly lose control, he wouldn't stand a chance against my rage. "We're on the same team. Pointing that anger at Ben isn't going to solve a goddamn thing."

I know he's right, but it does nothing to ease the Grand Canyon-sized boulder of fear crushing my chest. What we're up against feels like a battle we can't win. The playing field is so big, so stacked, that Annelly's plight wouldn't even register as a blip to the powers that be. 

Me, on the other hand? 

I don't give two shits about anyone but her. Zappalla, Bastille, Creed, the FBI investigation, and the corrupt politicians involved—fuck them all. They can all burn in hell for all I care. 

"Do we have eyes and ears on Bastille?" Dominick asks, redirecting the conversation to Owen.

"Yeah, some," he replies, scrolling through his tablet. "Now that we know they're connected, I'll need to cross-check communications to see if Bastille has contacted Zappalla recently. As far as his movements since he left her place last night, the paper trail shows he flew back to New York this morning. I'm running facial recognition to confirm he boarded the flight."

"We know he's been watching her, so chances are he saw Zappalla leaving the diner that day James chased him out," Lucas says quietly, his gaze fixed on his clasped hands resting on the table. 

"If that's the case... then we're screwed," I bite out, shaking my head as a fresh wave of anger surges through me. The pieces are starting to fall into place, and every one of them makes me feel sicker than the last.

"What are you thinking?" Zeb asks, his tone cautious.

"After our confrontation last night, I'd bet anything he reached out to Zappalla to ask what brought him into town. If Zappalla told him what we're after—what we were asking about..." I pause, my throat constricting as the reality slams into me. "Then he'll know. He'll know it's only a matter of time before we connect him to our investigation. Fuck!" I bury my face in my hands, dragging my palms roughly over my skin like it might scrub away the frustration and fear. "He'll think that's why I was there last night. He'll assume we've already made the connection. Which means Annelly's in even more danger than we realized."

"Because now that he knows she's under our protection, he'll come at us—and her—with everything he's got." Ben's voice cuts through the room, his grim assessment landing like a punch to the gut. 

Dominick folds his arms, his jaw tight. "That would explain why he'd go back to New York. To the outside world, he's a reputable businessman. Keeping up appearances gives him the perfect alibi. But if he wants Annelly that badly, we have to assume he'll hire someone to do his dirty work. Professionals."

His words hang heavy in the air, my stomach twisting with the unspoken truth we're all thinking. Victor isn't just dangerous—he's cold, calculated. And if we don't find a way to stay ahead of him, she'll pay the price. 

"Fuck this shit." The beast inside of me finally explodes, a roar of anger echoing in my head as the list of terrifying scenarios multiplies. My fists clench, my nails biting into my palms as the monster within demands blood—or in its absence, 
her
. 

Suddenly I can't be here. The need to see her, to touch her, to surround myself with the warmth of her essence is visceral. 
Home. Safety. Security.
 It's what the beast demands. What it craves and fights for. And for reasons I've yet to understand, it's everything she represents.

I'm halfway to the door when Lucas moves to block my path, his broad frame a solid wall in front of me. His eyes meet mine, steady and unwavering. 

"James," he says, his voice calm but edged with a warning. "I say this with the utmost respect. If you care at all about her, you need to pull yourself together and sit the fuck back down."

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Chapter 18

James

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I seethe, stepping into his space, my face inches from his as I dare him to make a move. The monster inside me is coiled tight, instigating, begging for a reason to throw the first punch. The need to fight, to unleash the poisonous rage festering inside me, overrides all rational thought.

“This out of control, angry guy… this isn’t you.”

“The fuck it isn’t.” My voice is a snarl. “This is exactly who I am.”

The beast—it’s always been a part of me. The fighter. The scrapper who takes on the world regardless of the odds. No matter the cost, I fight to protect what’s mine… even when they don’t deserve it. Even when they don’t want me .

“You’ve been here for like two fucking seconds, so don’t you dare act like you know a damn thing about me.”

“You’re right. Maybe you’re right.” Lucas doesn’t back down, his voice calm and steady. “But I do know what you’re feeling. I know what it’s like to be terrified for the woman you love. To be so goddamn scared something might happen to her on your watch, it feels like you can’t fucking breathe.” His words slam into me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“You were there when they took her from me, remember?” His voice drops, taking a deadly tone as the memories resurface. “In a ball of fire and chaos, you were there. For Embree. For the girls. For me . Just like the men in this room.”

He gestures to the others, his gaze locked on me. “It’s how we got them back. And it’s why I’m ordering you to sit the fuck back down. Don’t turn your back on these men.” His voice hardens. “Because I promise you, James—you are going to need them. Every last one of us. Trust me on this. For her sake , do not try to do this alone.”

“I’m not in love with her—” I snap, the words tearing out of me before I can stop them.

And suddenly, I’m even angrier—at myself, at him, at this entire fucked-up situation. Of all the things he just said, why is that what I latch onto? Why is that the only thing I felt the need to defend, even as I know it’s a bald-faced lie?

Lucas doesn’t call me on it. He doesn’t have to.

“Maybe it’s not love. But every man in this room can see she means something to you. And for that reason alone, we’d put our lives on the line to protect her. But brother, take it from someone who’s fought wars and lost battles—letting anger control you is not the way. Anger is a weakness easily exploited. You want to save her? You want to keep her out of the fire? Then lock that shit down and fight smart . You’ve got us at your back—and hers. If nothing else, put your faith in that. Trust your team. Let the anger go, and I promise you, those assholes won’t stand a chance.”

His words slice through me like a knife, cutting through the reckless rage and leaving behind nothing but raw fear and a crushing weight in my chest.

He’s right.

I’m fucking this up.

She’s counting on me to protect her, and by losing control, I’m already failing her. Falling back on old patterns that serve no one—least of all her. Patterns that could get her killed.

For her, I have to be better. Smarter . Stronger than I’ve ever been.

All for a woman I don’t want to care about—yet somehow, she’s become everything that matters. Everything I need.

How the fuck did I let that happen ?

Shame sinks its claws into me as I take a step back, exhaling hard. My hands drop to my hips, my head tilting back as I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. To push through the storm raging inside me.

“I’m sorry,” I grumble, the words bitter on my tongue as I drop my head.

“We get it.” Lucas lays a steadying hand on my shoulder.

“Annelly is family. She’s ours, which means we’ll do whatever it takes to protect her. You have my word.” Ben’s voice carries from somewhere behind me.

“I hear you, Ben, I do.” I turn to face him where he sits at the end of the conference table. “But you know what would make me feel better? Taking that asshole Bastille off the board—because he’s the only thread tying Annelly to this mess.”

“We’re not mercenaries, James. And we’re sure as hell not above the law.” Dominick interjects, his voice edged with warning. “Yeah, we operate in the gray sometimes, but there are lines we just don’t cross. When Ben and I built this team, that was the one thing he and I agreed on. The minute we push outside those bounds, we’re no better than the bullies and criminals we fight to protect our clients from.”

I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “So how do we save her, then? Hmm? How do we protect her when she’s caught between a corrupt government agency and a well-financed human trafficking and smuggling ring that operates so far above the law they hide in plain sight? How do you propose we pull her out of the hellfire that’s about to rain down on her—while we’re the only ones still playing by the goddamn rules?”

“He’s right,” Zeb cuts in. “I know you ‘white knights’ like to boast about taking down the bad guys with nothing but your good guy powers, but it’s that same attitude that keeps the real monsters out of your reach. Being cops should have taught you that. It’s hard to catch the snake if you’re unwilling to crawl in the gutter to find it.”

“I hate to be the voice of reason here,” Owen interjects, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Especially as one of the founding members of the ‘black knight club’, but you can’t seriously believe we can take on these two behemoths and come out on top?”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting at all.” My jaw clenches as I fight to rein in my frustration. “I’m only talking about Bastille. We take him off the board, and it’s done. She’s free.”

“We’re not murderers, James.” Dominick’s voice booms through the room. As a former cop, just like Ben, he’s as black and white as they come.

I narrow my eyes, anger simmering beneath the surface at his inability to see the bigger picture. “We don’t have to kill him. We dig deeper into his business dealings, find something damning enough to convince Hunt to handle him the same way they did Kessler—lock him in a black site prison. Let them bleed him for information that strengthens their case while keeping Annelly safe.”

“They won’t do that. Not for Bastille.” Lucas interjects. “They did it for Kessler because he was one of theirs—an FBI agent who went rogue and became a liability. For God’s sake, he kidnapped my family after blowing up the car you were in with an RPG. They had no choice but to contain him.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bastille, on the other hand, is a civilian. As far as the law is concerned, he hasn’t committed a crime against Annelly—at least, not one we can prove. Unless we find evidence that ties him directly to Creed’s case and prove that he’s a liability to them, Hunt isn’t going to sign off on what you’re proposing.”

“Then what?” Frustration surges through me. “Do we uproot her again? Move her to a safe house? How the fuck do we make sure Bastille can’t get anywhere near her?” The sudden rush of helplessness threatens to crush me. With a muttered curse, I drop into one of the empty chairs, dragging a hand down my face while trying to breathe through it.

“We’ll figure this out, James. We’re not leaving this room until we come up with a plan.” Lucas leans forward, his gaze sweeping over the team with quiet determination. “That starts with a commitment from all of us. Our priority—above all else—is Annelly’s safety. That’s all James and I are asking for. Not that we force the FBI’s hand. Not that we murder or disappear Bastille. Just that we agree—right here and now—that every Offset Tactical resource we have at our disposal will go toward keeping her safe.”

“Agreed. She’s our priority.” Zeb is the first to respond.

One by one, the rest of the team follows suit, their voices resolute. Even Dominick, still tense from our earlier exchange, gives a sharp nod. I understand his hesitation—he’s spent his entire life on the right side of the law. He never had to claw his way out from under the crushing weight of desperation and poverty. He’s never been forced to bend the rules just to survive. For me, Zeb, and Owen, that’s the world we came from. It’s why, if things go south, they’re the ones I’ll be counting on. If I have to take matters into my own hands, I know they’ll have my back—no questions asked.

“Have you told her?” Zeb’s voice carries an unmistakable note of amusement.

I know exactly what he’s getting at, and under different circumstances, I’d ignore him. But with the entire team watching, waiting for my response, there’s no easy way out.

“Told her what?” I feign ignorance, keeping my expression blank.

Zeb’s sly grin tells me he’s not buying it. “That you like her.”

“She knows I like her. That’s why we’re friends.”

Owen, ever the romantic, scoffs. “Don’t play dumb, pretty boy. He means that you like her, like her.” His brows bounce suggestively, which would normally piss me off. But with everything going on, I’m too spent to rise to the bait.

“It’s nothing like that.” The words feel hollow, even to me. And why the hell do I sound like such a sad sap?

Lucas claps a hand on my shoulder, his voice low and meant only for me to hear. “Well, it sure sounds like something you might want.” He pauses just long enough for his words to sink in before adding. “Take it from someone who almost fucked it up—if you feel it like I think you do, hold on to her. Giving up on something you never thought you’d have? That just means the ghosts of your past win. And the only one who loses is you.”

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# Chapter 19

Annelly

Knowing that James and his team are down the hall, dissecting the worst mistake of my life, makes my skin crawl. My shame runs so deep I don't think I'll ever stop hating myself for the stupid decisions I made. For allowing a man like Victor into my life, and most of all, for the way I so easily gave up on everything I was building in New York.

The entire situation is like a neon sign, brightly pointing out how screwed up I am. And as if that wasn't humiliating enough, now my failures are being laid bare in front of men I've come to know and respect—men whose opinions of me matter far more than I care to admit. That I'm letting James tell them all my dirty secrets feels like an entirely different form of self-destruction, even as I remind myself that it had to be done. Telling James the truth was the right call, but that knowledge does nothing to lessen the sting. 

With a quiet sigh, I sink into the chair at the small conference table, setting my laptop in front of me. The sight of it makes my chest tighten. It's been months since I've turned it on—since I even thought about my old life beyond the nightmares and regrets. I only brought it with me because James warned I'd be stuck in this office at 
Offset Tactical
 for the next few hours while his team worked out a plan. I wish I could say it bothers me, but honestly, finding myself behind a locked door, with people I trust just outside, fills me with a sense of peace I haven't felt in a long time.

When my computer finally boots up, the desktop photo of the cast and crew from our fall production fills the screen, and I'm struck by an overwhelming sense of grief. The girl smiling back at me in that picture doesn't exist anymore. That girl was completely unaware of the danger headed her way, and though her carefree smile makes me irrationally angry, it also makes me yearn for the simplicity of my life back then. Blowing out a breath, I push past the burn behind my eyes and scan the list of folders I haven't opened in forever. Countless stories written by the girl I used to be, back when I thought I had life figured out.

Before acting, before dance and voice lessons, there was a little girl whose head was filled with stories she needed to tell. From the moment I learned to read and write, I was obsessed with bringing my fictional worlds to life. My aptitude for storytelling was something Daddy saw in me from the start, which is why, for my sixth birthday, he took me to see the local high school's production of Rapunzel. It was my first time watching a live theatre, and it was the exact moment I fell in love with the stage. And I don't just mean the actors or their performance, but the set, the script, the way an entire fictional world could unfold in real life.

For years after that, playwriting came naturally to me—effortless, like breathing. Until the day my life changed forever.

 The day Daddy died, my stories died with him. It was as if the flames that once fueled my creativity were snuffed out, leaving nothing but cold, suffocating numbness in their place. The characters, the vivid scenes that used to fill my thoughts—gone. Even the stories I had already started sat abandoned. It's like Daddy's death didn't just take him from me, it also drained every last drop of creativity from my soul, leaving behind an empty void where my imagination used to live. 

Though I could no longer write, my love for the theatre never wavered. So I shifted my focus to acting. I was good at it. And with 10 years of voice and dance training—along with the awards I'd won for my earlier scripts—my acceptance to Julliard had been all but secured. All thanks to my dad. My biggest cheerleader. That he never got the chance to see me perform on a New York stage is one of my biggest regrets. The thought of him sitting in the audience, pride shining in his eyes, brings tears to mine.

With a deep breath, I open a blank document and rest my fingers on the keyboard. For the first time in almost four years, I don't feel that familiar weight pressing on my chest. The dread, the self-doubt, the suffocating certainty that this is all a waste of time. I don't know if it's due to the emotional breakdown I had with James yesterday, or the sheer need to escape my own reality—but suddenly, I feel it. 

That creative spark. 

Flickering back to life.

Closing my eyes for a beat, I set my mind free. And then, like muscle memory, my fingers begin to move—tentative at first, then stronger, more certain. Words spill onto the page, flowing from a place inside me I thought had long since withered. They weave into sentences, forming into something raw and real, something that somehow helps me make sense of the chaos in my world. 

For three hours, I lose myself. Characters emerge from the depths of my mind, shaped by pain that feels so much like my own. They speak, they breathe, they live. And with every keystroke, the heavy fog that has clouded my soul begins to lift. When the words finally slow to a trickle, I inhale deeply, breathing easier than I have in years. For so long, I believed that I would never again feel the freedom, the exhilaration, the honor of bringing a story to life. Yet here I am. It makes me smile.

A soft knock at the door startles me, but before I can react, his voice follows. 

"Annelly, it's James. Open the door."

I push up from my chair, my pulse kicking up a notch as I move to do as he asks. The moment the lock clicks, he turns the knob and steps inside, closing the door behind him without a word. The tension that enters the room alongside him sends a mix of apprehension and anticipation curling in my stomach. 

"What is it?" I study his face, searching for any indication of what he's about to say. A part of me is still worried that trusting him is something I might come to regret.

Without answering, he takes my hand, leading me back to the small conference table. Bracing for bad news, I lower into my chair, watching as he does the same. 

The man sitting next to me now is not the James I've come to know. Gone is the easy confidence, the teasing glint of his blue eyes. The reckless charm and playful grin that always seems to dance at the edges of his mouth. In their place is a sadder, more conflicted version of James. A version that's so opposed to his usual personality that it scares me. 

I know it isn't fair, but at a time when I'm barely hanging on, I need him to be the strong one. I need him to be the steady, unshakable force. I need him to be the one with all the answers, the one who can confidently reassure me that everything's going to be okay.

"Hey," he murmurs, his hand finding mine. His thumb brushes over my knuckles as his other hand reaches up, wiping away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "I'm sorry if I'm scaring you. It's been a long few days, and I'm a little off my game." He tries for a smile, but it's weak, forced. 

The tension in my chest coils tighter. 

"Bastille left this morning. He's back in New York. Owen confirmed it. We know with absolute certainty he's gone." 

He pauses, watching me closely like he's giving me time to process the news. Like he expects it to be enough to set my mind at ease. 

It doesn't. 

"That's a good thing," he adds, his fingers tightening slightly around mine. "It buys us time to work out a plan." His words are meant to be reassuring, but if there's one thing I've learned over the past two months is that time doesn't make a man like Victor Bastille any less dangerous. 

"So what's the bad news, then?" I ask without missing a beat, sensing he's struggling to get to the point. When he hesitates, I blow out a frustrated breath. "You asked me to trust you."

"I did." His grip on my hand tightens. "And I meant every word."

"Then 
tell me
. Tell me so I don't have to imagine the worst-case scenario. So I don't start questioning whether I 
should
 be trusting you at all."

His jaw tics as a myriad of emotions flicker behind his stormy blue eyes. 
Regret? Doubt? Fear? 
I can't tell.

"I'm sorry. This is just..." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he exhales. "Every bone in my body is screaming at me to protect you from this. To protect you from 
all
 of it." His voice is raw, thick with frustration. "But you're right. You deserve the truth." Another breath. Another hesitation. It's like he's trying to find the words—trying to piece them together in a way that won't break me. 

"Because Victor knows who we are and what we do, it's a safe bet he also knows you've told us what happened... what he did to you." His throat works around the words like they leave a bitter taste in his mouth. "That means we'll need to take extra precautions."

"Extra precautions? Why?"

James shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. "Because now that he knows you're under our protection, if he wants to get to you..." He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at me. "He'll have to get creative." 

A chill snakes down my spine. "Meaning?"

His crystal-blue eyes flick back to mine, conflicted. Heavy with worry. "Meaning he's not going to come for you himself. He'll likely hire someone else to do it."

My stomach drops. 
Someone else. 
Because of course, Victor would hire someone else to do his dirty work. Maybe Felix... one of his other goons. 

"For now, we've made arrangements for your mom to stay with Ben and Jen. With the baby, Jen could use the help, and your mom seemed eager to spend some time with her and Avery. Ben's place is secure, and he'll be there to make sure she's protected at all times. The rest of the team will split time with Ben to watch over her when she's at the diner. They'll make sure she's safe."

"Wait? You talked to my mom?" My throat closes up as a fresh wave of shame burns through me.

"Ben did. He didn't tell her much, just enough to put her mind at ease. She seemed relieved to know you'd reached out to us for help and didn't push for more details."

My breath hitches. I stare down at our hands, at the way his thumb grazes over my skin in quiet reassurance.

"As for you," he clears his throat again, his grip shifting slightly around mine. "You'll be staying at my place." My head snaps up. His gaze flickers nervously between my eyes, his words coming faster now, like he's trying to get them out before I can object. "I have top-of-the-line security, which the team can monitor off-site. Plus, Tyler is there as an additional safeguard. I know it's a lot to ask, and I know you don't trust me yet, and maybe you'd prefer—" He stops himself, jaw clenching as his words fumble into silence.

Something tugs in my chest. The sight of this big, strong man suddenly so unsure, so desperate to make this right, shifts something inside me.

"James," I whisper, squeezing his hand. His eyes flutter shut for half a second, like he's relieved that it was me who initiated the contact this time and is savoring the feel of my touch. "I trust you. I feel safe... when I'm with you. So if you think staying with you and Tyler is what's best, then fine. That's what I'll do."

The relief that washes over him is instant. His shoulders drop, his grip tightening around my hand, and then without thinking, he lifts it to his lips.  

My breath catches in my throat as his eyes close, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the back of my hand. The way he holds on like he needs this—like he needs me—sends a dangerous warmth swirling through my body. 

When he finally looks at me, the mischief I've come to recognize flickers back to life in his crystal blue gaze. "This is a big step for us." The teasing edge is back in his voice. "Feels like we skipped right past the trust fall test. I guess I haven't lost my charm after all." 

And just like that, the cocky grin I've tried so hard to hate returns. 

And God help me, it's doing things to me I'm not ready to admit.

"Don't push your luck, Mr. Serrano," I warn, arching a brow. "Right now, that trust extends only to this particular instant, and I reserve the right to revoke that privilege at any time." As I say it, a sharp pang of vulnerability slices through me. 
I want to trust him.
 
I want to believe in him.
 But our past lingers like a black cloud I can't quite shake.

I drop my gaze, trying to hide the hurt burning behind my eyes. "It doesn't change that I'm still mad at you. I'm trying to put the past behind me, but... it might take me a little time."

"Hey..." his fingers brush my chin, tilting my gaze back to his. His expression softens. "I get it. I deserve your anger. All of it. And if you need time, take it." His thumb grazes the curve of my jaw, sending goosebumps breaking out over my skin. "But just so you know... I plan on spending every second we have together, making it up to you. 
Proving
 to you that you can trust me."

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Chapter 20

James

James:

Everything ready?

Tyler:

Define everything?

James:

Her room.

James:

Her clothes and toiletries.

James:

Did you clean the bathroom she’ll be using?

James:

And go buy some of those plug-in air fresheners so the house doesn’t smell like two single dudes marinating in their bad decisions.

Tyler:

This is bullshit. How am I stuck doing chores while you get to play knight-in-shining-armor with the pretty girl?

James:

I’ll make it up to you.

James:

That Apex Orca is still sitting in a box.

James:

You get first run next time we hit the slopes.

Tyler:

You insult me. I’m not a fifteen-year-old kid anymore. My devotion can’t be bought like I’m some teenage grom.

Tyler:

… But if you’re offering, I’ll take first dibs on the Project X?

James:

No.

James:

Not the Project X.

James:

And I hate to break it to you, but you’ll always be a fifteen-year-old grom to me.

James:

Now shut it and go do your chores.

Tyler:

Asshole.

James:

I’ve been called worse.

James:

While you’re out, grab some flowers.

James:

And one of those glass cup things you put them in.

James:

Girls like that shit, right?

Tyler:

It’s called a vase. And you know, you can put more than one sentence in a text message. See?

James:

middle finger emoji

James:

Ty, are we good?

James:

Ty, we’re heading over.

James:

Ty, tell me the place doesn’t look like a frat house, or so help me—

James:

Ty, you better be fucking ready or I swear to God, I will let you starve!

James:

No home-cooked meals.

James:

You’ll be eating nothing but gas station burritos for a week.

Tyler:

YOU’RE A MONSTER!!!

---

By the time we pull into the driveway, my nerves have just about burned through the lining of my stomach.

What the hell is wrong with me?

It’s only Annelly.

My friend .

What does it matter if she doesn’t like our place or thinks it looks and smells like a goddamn bachelor pad? It’s not like she’s moving in permanently, settling into our lives, disrupting the careful balance Ty and I have spent years perfecting.

She’s just a guest .

Like every other friend who’s ever crashed here, the goal is to make sure she doesn’t get too comfortable. That she doesn’t stay long enough to shift the dynamic of our lives or change anything.

After putting the car in park, I lean forward. Looking up at the house, I try to see it through her eyes. “Tyler’s not answering, but everything should be ready for you.”

“Gosh, James. This place is… wow.”

I don’t need to look at her to know how she’s feeling. The sheer grandeur of our lakefront-style home isn’t lost on me. After growing up with barely a roof over our heads, I may have over-corrected.

Three stories. A three-car garage. Expansive open floor plan. High vaulted ceilings, with walls of floor-to-ceiling windows and a multitude of outdoor balconies. Built into the side of a mountain slope and perched at the highest elevation in our small town, our home boasts the best view in all of Ruby Creek. Our closest neighbors are four miles away, making the Serrano Lodge, as Zeb jokingly calls it, more mountain retreat than bachelor pad.

“This is amazing, James. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”

I can.

Because I never wanted her here.

It’s a fucked up thing to admit, but since getting to know her this past summer, I’ve had a hard enough time keeping her out of my thoughts. The last thing I needed was a real-life glimpse of what it would be like to have her here. To see her in my space, moving through my home like she belonged. Because once I let that image in, it would have come back to haunt me on cold, lonely nights.

And yet, here you are, dumbass. Doing exactly that. Bringing her into our home. Not just for a visit. Not just for a night. But to stay.

Fuck.

This is a terrible idea.

Frustrated with myself, I shove open my door and step out of my Range Rover. Stomping around to the passenger side, I pull her door open, my focus locked on the road behind us, like staring at anything but her will somehow fix the mess I’ve created.

“Hey. Why didn’t you park in the garage?” Tyler’s voice carries from the second-story balcony above us, where he leans casually against the railing looking down at us.

“Wanted to walk her through the main entrance.” It’s a lie. And a shitty one at that, which is why I say, “Come down and meet us so you can show her around.”

The truth? I didn’t take her through the garage because I was embarrassed. I didn’t want her to see the shrine to every reckless, adrenaline-fueled obsession we’ve ever had. Snowboards, skateboards, dirt bikes, ATVs, and mountain bikes. Our collection of toys, as Zeb calls it, is a direct result of growing up dirt poor, with no childhood to speak of. The second Ty and I had the means, we made up for lost time, chasing every thrill we could find, recreating the childhood we should have had. The gear we’ve collected over the years from our long list of hobbies is something I’ve always been proud of. A reminder of how far we’ve come.

So why the hell am I suddenly feeling self-conscious about it? Why does the thought of her seeing it make me feel like some reckless idiot with Peter Pan Syndrome, instead of a man who has his shit together? And since when do I care if someone thinks I’m just an overgrown man-child wasting money on expensive toys?

Since her.

And that right there pisses me off.

I hate that I’m letting this girl get in my head.

But not as much as I hate the fact that, deep down, I want her to like my home.

My sanctuary.

My most sacred space.

I want her to feel safe here. To be comfortable. To settle in like she belongs—and that, ladies and gentlemen, is the most fucked up realization of all. Because I swore I’d never let another woman into our world. Not after what happened to us. Not after what it did to Tyler. I swore I’d never put us in a position to be wrecked by a woman again.

Yet here I am.

Getting ready to do just that.

Frustrated and pissed at my own damn thoughts, I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to shove it all down. But the second she steps out of the car—soft and uncertain, with that shy smile that does things to me—I’m fucking done.

The anger, the war raging in my head, the warning bells that were just screaming at me to be smart—instantly disappear.

One look at her, standing against the backdrop of my home, and this settling feeling rolls through me, warm and slow, like the burn of good whiskey.

Like she belongs here.

Like she fits.

And it scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.

Before I can spiral into what that means, the front door swings open, snapping me out of it.

Awkwardly, and without touching her—because God knows that would be a mistake—I waste no time guiding her around the car toward the covered entrance. Her smile and the way her green eyes widen as she steps into the foyer help to loosen some of the tension that settled in my chest the moment Ben suggested she stay with us.

Then like the shit little brother he is, Tyler swoops in to ruin everything.

“Hey, you.” He grins, pulling her into a hug like they’ve been best fucking friends for years. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he lifts her off her feet, spinning her around like an overexcited golden retriever.

I see red.

The jealousy burning under my skin at the sight of her in another man’s arms is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. And the fact that it’s Tyler —the one person in this world I gladly share everything with—damn near guts me with guilt. I’ve never been jealous of my brother. Never once have I felt the need to keep something only for myself.

Not until Annelly.

And that kills me.

It’s just another reason I need to get a grip on whatever this obsession is. Nothing— no one —in this world is more important to me than Tyler, and there is no way I’ll allow a woman to come between us. Still, it’s like I can’t help myself…

“Hands off, Ty.” My voice is low but barely controlled.

I resist the urge to yank her away. Instead, I gently pull her out of his arms, pretending the only reason I did it was to take her bag. Cool. Calm. Collected. No sign or hint of the rage simmering within me. Except Tyler, who knows me better than anyone else, smirks because he knows exactly what’s running through my head. My jaw clenches so hard; it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack. What I wouldn’t give for Annelly not to be standing here right now—because if she weren’t, I would have already wiped that smug look off his annoying face.

“Knock it off. You had her all day. It’s my turn now,” Ty announces, completely unfazed by the heat of my glare. He throws Annelly a wicked grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come on, Nell. Let’s get you settled in. I’ll give you the grand tour, and by the end, you’ll see why I’m the better brother.” Then, with zero shame, he plucks her backpack right out of my hands—like it’s his to carry—before taking her hand and leading her away.

Right past me.

Up the steps.

And away from me.

The kid has no clue the rage he’s provoking. Sure, Tyler’s well aware of my hair-trigger temper—he’s seen me at my worst—but never before has that fury been directed at him. Until now.

As I watch them disappear around the landing, heading toward the last set of steps leading to the main floor of our home, something dark and twisted knots in my gut.

It’s not just anger. It’s the sudden realization.

Tyler is twenty-three. Just a year older than Annelly. I, on the other hand—at twenty-seven—have a solid five years on her. On paper, the reality is that Tyler and Annelly together make far more sense than Annelly and me. They’re both young. Carefree. In a lot of ways, similarly naïve. He’s got that easy charm, the boyish good looks, and the humor that draws people in without effort. Meanwhile, I’m just the angry, jaded bastard with too much emotional baggage and no fucking business even thinking about a girl like her.

But the thought of them together?

The idea of Annelly with anyone but me?

It slams into my chest like a sledgehammer. That familiar itch creeps in, the one that makes my fingers twitch, my muscles coil, my blood burn with the urge to put my fists through the goddamn wall. Forcing a slow breath through my nose, I clench my fists, willing the rage to settle. But it doesn’t. It lingers, simmering just beneath the surface, devolving into something ominous. Something possessive.

Because deep down, I know the truth.

I have no business wanting her—no right to claim her as mine—but the monster inside me doesn’t give a damn. It sees this as a challenge. And no matter how much I don’t want this, no matter how hard I try to push her away, that part of me refuses to back down. It refuses to let her go. Even knowing the real fight isn’t with Bastille, Tyler, or the rest of the world, but with the broken part of me that aches to keep her—versus the jaded part of me who refuses to let me have her.

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# Chapter 21

James

The dull thud of my fists against the heavy bag echoes through the empty gym, a steady rhythm of force and control. My knuckles burn with every impact, but I don't stop. I can't. Not until I've pounded every last shred of frustration clawing beneath my skin into submission. 

I should be outside. The mountain trails are calling to me, promising miles of solitude and icy air sharp enough to cut through the tangled mess in my head. Running has always been the one thing that chases the ugly emotions away. But today, I can't. Not with her here. Not with the weight of her safety coiled around my neck like a noose. 

The idea of leaving Annelly alone, even with Tyler in the house, even with our state-of-the-art security system and Owen monitoring every inch of the property—it just sits wrong. It gnaws at me, an irrational fear sinking its teeth in deep, refusing to let go. She's safe here. I know that. But the thought of something happening while I'm gone—of being too far away should she need me—feels like a boulder pressing down against my ribs. So instead of going out for a run, instead of taking the one escape I desperately need, I'm here. Trapped inside. Beating my frustrations into the sand-packed leather bag hanging from the ceiling.

Resentment flares hot in my chest. Not at her, but at the situation. At myself. At the way my grip on control continues to slip each time I think of her upstairs, in my home. Too close. Yet somehow, still not close enough. 

Fuck.

I throw another punch, harder this time. The impact rocks the bag, sending it swinging on its chain, but it's not enough. The fire inside me still lingers, simmering just beneath the surface. Stubborn. Suffocating. 

I move to the weights, loading the bar with more plates than I probably should. The burn of the deadlifts is exactly what I need—an ache that has nothing to do with 
her
 and everything to do with discipline. With control. With forcing my body to obey, even as my mind refuses. Sweat drips from my brow, my pulse hammering against my skull. But even through the haze of exhaustion, I 
hear them. 

Upstairs. 

Laughter.

Her's
. Soft, warm—like something I have no business wanting.

Tyler's
. Easy and effortless, just as it always should be.

I set the bar down harder than necessary, the clang of metal against the rubber mats slicing through the quiet of our home gym. My jaw locks. My fingers flex open and closed. I hate this feeling. The way my chest tightens, the way something sharp and ugly twists in my gut at the thought of them upstairs, 
laughing
. Getting comfortable. Getting 
closer. 
Building camaraderie and developing a friendship that doesn't include me. 

I grab the towel from the bench, dragging it across my face, but it does nothing to wipe away the irritation pulsing through me. This is exactly what I wanted, isn't it? For her to settle in, to feel safe here. Then why the fuck does it feel like I'm losing ground with every second she spends up there with Tyler, while I'm down here, tearing my body down?

I brace my hands against my hips, forcing a slow breath through my nose. I need to get my head on straight. I need to remember why she's here. What my role in this is. 

Protection. 

That's all.

Not this.

Not the tidal wave of conflicting emotions crashing inside me. Not the suffocating fear of losing myself in someone else I care about... 
someone who might someday not care about me
.

I clench my fists again, letting the sting in my knuckles anchor me. The tension is still there, but it's manageable now, allowing me to shove it down where it belongs. Locked up tight in the darkest corners of my mind, buried under years of practiced control. 

With my thoughts returning to some semblance of order, I grab my water bottle from the floor, toss the damp towel over my shoulder, and stalk out of the gym, determined to rejoin the land of the emotionally stable. 

A shower. Then dinner. 

That's the plan. 

By the time I make it upstairs, my body is wrung out, the good kind of exhaustion settling in. The kind that should quiet my thoughts and dull the sharp edges of my anxiety. But it doesn't. Because I hear them. Their laughter is louder now, drifting down from the rec room above.

I tell myself I don't care. I tell myself it doesn't matter. But I slow my steps anyway, just for a second, drawn to the sound of her voice before I can stop myself.

"You're such a liar," Annelly teases, amusement laced through her tone.

"Scout's honor," Tyler fires back, full of charm and zero shame. 

"You expect me to believe you were ever a scout?" She chuckles, the sound tugging at the corners of my mouth before I even realize it.

"A minor technicality," Tyler quips.

A hardy laugh slips past her lips, full and unguarded, and something sharp digs into my chest. I don't
 
want to react to it. Believe me, I don't want to feel like this. But I do. Tyler's always had a way of pulling people in, making them feel at ease. And I want that for her. I do. But I hate that it's him breaking down her walls. That it's him making her laugh like that. 

Pulling her further away from me.

I shake off the thought and keep moving, grateful for once that my bedroom is on the main floor, offering the distance I suddenly need. The second I step inside, I lock the door behind me, strip off my sweat-soaked clothes, and toss them into the hamper. 

The sting in my knuckles pulls my attention. The skin is split, raw from hitting the heavy bag too hard, too many times without protection. I flex my fingers, watching as fresh blood beads to the surface, a sharp, grounding pain that settles the restlessness inside me.

Stepping into the shower, I let the scalding water wash away the blood, the sweat—everything but the thoughts tangled in my head. The heat soothes my tired muscles, but it doesn't do a damn thing to quiet my mind.  

Annelly is upstairs. 

With Tyler. 

By the sound of it, both safe and seemingly happy. 

I tell myself it's just habit—just my natural instinct to keep tabs on my surroundings, on the people I care about. The people I protect. The people who are mine. 

Except not her. 

Because she isn't mine. 

"Fuck."
 
I brace my hands against the shower wall, bowing my head as steam curls around me, burning my skin in a futile attempt to drown out the dangerous thoughts creeping in.

It doesn't work. 

Because even here, alone, with nothing but the sound of the water rushing down the drain, I can still hear her laughter. I can still see the way she looked standing in my home. And my mind wanders... 

What would it feel like to be Tyler right now? 

To be the one who makes her smile so easily.

To be the one she's completely comfortable with, relaxed around, and 
safe 
with. 

Except I don't want to be Tyler. I want to be 
me
—the man she smiles at like that. The one she turns to when she needs comfort, when she needs something 
more. 
The thought takes root, sinking deep, threading itself into the places I swore I'd never let her reach. 

I squeeze my eyes shut. Grip the tile. But it's already happening. 

I see her. 

Not upstairs with Tyler.

Not as my responsibility.

But 
here.

In my bedroom. In my shower. In my 
arms
. 

Her skin flushed from the heat, droplets clinging to the curves of her body. Her hair slicked back, her lips parted, waiting for me to close the distance. My fingers twitch against the tile, my entire body going taut as I imagine what it would be like to touch her. 

To slide my hands over her waist. 

To pull her tight against me. 

To feel the soft press of her breasts against the hard planes of my chest. 

A harsh breath leaves me and I swallow hard, my pulse hammering, my chest rising and falling faster. 

It's wrong.

It's dangerous.

But I can't stop.

I don't want to stop.

Because at this moment, in the privacy of my mind, she's 
mine. 
She looks at me with something soft, something vulnerable and needy in her eyes—like she wants me just as badly as I want her. She 
trusts
 me. Not just to protect her. Not just to keep her safe. 

But to 
take
 her. 

To claim her in a way no other man ever has.

A groan builds in my chest, my jaw clenching so tight it aches. My hand drops to my stomach, sliding down over the ridges of my abs, lower, lower—toward the heat coiling in my groin. 

I hate myself for it.

I should shut this down. I should turn the water cold. Force these thoughts out of my head. 
Get a fucking grip.
 But instead, my hand wraps around my cock, already hard and thick, already aching, my body betraying me in the worst possible way. I curse under my breath, leaning forward, forehead pressing against the cool tile as I fist my cock with slow, deliberate strokes—chasing the feel of a body I'll never have.

Her body.

Annelly.

I imagine her lips against my throat, her fingers dragging down my chest. Her body arching under my touch, her breath hitching when I push inside her, stretching her, filling her—
owning
 her.

Fuck.

A growl rumbles low in my chest, my strokes turning rougher, more desperate, my control slipping with every passing second. I picture her moaning my name, her nails digging into my back as I drive into her, as I claim every last inch of her, as I make her 
mine
 the only way I can. The pressure coils tighter. Sharp. Unbearable. And then—

I break.

Pleasure detonates through me, white-hot and punishing, leaving me shaking, breathing hard, hating myself for every second of it. I squeeze my eyes shut, my forehead pressed to the cold tile, my hands braced against the wall as the water pounds against my back. It washes away the evidence of my indiscretion, but not the 
truth
.

I want her. 

Fuck, do I want her. 

More than I should. More than is safe. And if I don't find a way to put a stop to this—soon—I don't know if I'll be able to stop at 
all
.

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Chapter 22

James

I stay under the water longer than I should. Long enough for the heat to fade, the scalding bite giving way to something cooler, crisper. It seems to help—a little. At the very least, it numbs the fire burning under my skin, dousing the embers of whatever the hell just happened.

But it doesn’t erase it.

It doesn’t erase her .

I rake a hand over my face, exhaling sharply before shutting off the water.

This has to stop. And it will . I’ll lock it down now before it gets any worse—because if I don’t, if I let myself keep slipping like this—I already know where it will lead. Like a drug, it will sink its hooks into me and become an addiction, and God knows I can’t afford to go there. Not now. Not when life is finally just the way Tyler and I need it to be.

I dry off quickly, dragging the towel over my face and chest before wrapping it around my waist. My movements are sharp, deliberate. Because if I hesitate—if I let myself dwell on what just happened—I’ll end up right back in that same goddamn headspace, jerking off to thoughts of her again. And I can’t . Not tonight. Not ever.

One time was already too many.

By the time I throw on a clean T-shirt and sweats, my pulse has steadied. Outwardly, I’m composed. In control. Looking totally chill. No one would guess that minutes ago, I was in the shower, furiously fisting my cock, coming apart over a girl I have no business wanting.

Dinner.

I head for the kitchen, shaking off the last remnants of my fucked-up emotional breakdown. If there’s one thing that always grounds me, it’s this —cooking. The process, the ingredients, the precision of it. How it has rules. Structure. The act of doing something I can control.

Right now, that’s exactly what I need.

Growing up, cooking wasn’t about enjoyment—it was survival. Making sure Tyler and I had something to eat, even if it meant scraping together whatever we could find. Even if it meant going without so he didn’t have to.

Back then, it wasn’t about creativity or comfort. It was about making something out of nothing—burnt rice, watered-down broth, stale bread softened with milk if we were lucky enough to have it. It was about keeping Tyler from going to bed hungry. About quieting the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. About numbing the ache of yet another thing I couldn’t fix.

But now? Now, it’s my outlet. A choice, not a struggle. A way to rewrite the past. To make sure my brother and I never feel that kind of need again. It’s why I only use the best ingredients—why I focus on real food, on health. Because I can. Because now I have that control. And because no one under my roof will ever have to wonder where their next meal is coming from. Not while I’m here.

This is how I take care of the people who matter to me. How I make sure they remain healthy. Strong. Safe.

The fridge door swings open with a quiet hiss, and I scan the shelves with practiced efficiency. I already know what I’m making before I even reach for the ingredients. Pan-seared steak. Roasted potatoes. Asparagus. Simple. Healthy. Balanced. Something filling, something clean. Something that says: this matters .

Because it does.

Because they matter. Both she and Tyler.

I grit my teeth, forcing down the thought of just how much she matters, as I set the ingredients on the counter. Knocking the caps off a few cloves of garlic, I press my palm against the flat of the knife, crushing them just enough to loosen the skins. Then the real fun begins. The rhythmic sound of chopping, the repetitive motion, the feel of the blade against the wood of the cutting board—it’s methodical, relaxing.

I lose myself in the process. The scent of butter, garlic, and fresh herbs as they hit the pan, the precise movements of slicing the potatoes, the slow simmer of flavors melding together, the sizzle of the pan. The tension in my shoulders eases.

This I can handle.

Then I hear them.

Their voices drift down the stairs, growing closer, until suddenly Tyler rounds the corner, followed by Annelly. I don’t react. I don’t let myself react—except for the way my grip tightens around the knife handle.

“You are so full of it,” Annelly says, laughter in her voice as she playfully shoves his arm.

“Whoa, whoa, unnecessary violence,” Tyler jokes, grinning like the smug little shit he is.

They’re both relaxed. Comfortable. Happy. Just as they should be. I remind myself that this is what I want for them—especially for Tyler. Nothing else should matter.

“Took you long enough,” I mutter to Ty, barely glancing up from what I’m doing.

Normally, the second the scent of food hits the air, my brother’s circling like a damn vulture—stealing small bites and testing my patience. But not this time. Not while Annelly was here. And I don’t know what bothers me more—that he was with her instead of hovering over my shoulder… or that she was with him and not with me.

Like it fucking matters. It’s not like I wanted her here, in my space. Not really.

I shake my head at myself, swallowing the ridiculous surge of frustration.

“What can I say? I was distracted.” Tyler smirks, then turns to Annelly. “You hungry? My chef here is cooking up something fancy tonight.”

I shoot him a look, but he just grins wider.

Annelly steps closer, her gaze flicking over the counter, taking in the food, before landing on me. “Wow.” Her voice is quiet, laced with surprise.

I ignore the flicker of satisfaction that sparks in my chest, though not fast enough to stop the half-smirk tugging at my lips.

“What? Surprised I know my way around a kitchen?” I ask her, keeping my tone light.

She tilts her head, studying me before her lips curve into a slow smile. “Honestly? Yeah. I figured you and Tyler just lived off protein shakes and takeout.”

Tyler barks out a laugh. “Yeah, right. The guy lays the guilt on thick if I even suggest ordering pizza . Lucky for him, I’m more than okay living off whatever he puts in front of me.”

I shake my head, focusing on the food as I finish plating it, making sure everything is just right. Once it’s done, I slide a plate toward her.

“Here. Take it. Go sit.” It comes out rougher than I intend, but she doesn’t flinch. She just studies me for a beat, something unreadable in her eyes, before grabbing her plate and taking it to the dining room table.

I turn to Tyler, pushing his plate toward him. “That’s yours.” Then I head to the fridge to grab each of us a bottle of water.

Ty takes the seat next to her, already digging in.

Before I can turn around, Annelly’s suddenly back in the kitchen, moving past me. “Here. I’ll help.”

Before I can stop her, she grabs my plate from the counter and brings it to the table, setting it across from where she’s sitting.

I hesitate.

It’s nothing. Just a small, simple gesture. But for some reason, it knocks me slightly off balance.

Without a word, I join them at the table. For the first minute or two, no one speaks. But to my surprise, the silence isn’t heavy. It isn’t awkward or suffocating. It’s easy . Comfortable.

As I watch them eat, something settles in my chest.

Something warm.

Something dangerous .

I don’t acknowledge it, don’t name it. I just keep my head down, focusing on my plate, pretending I don’t notice the way Tyler is already halfway through his steak, or the way Annelly takes slow deliberate bites—at times closing her eyes like she’s savoring the flavors.

It’s ridiculous how much satisfaction I get from that.

But I do.

Thankfully, this time, I know exactly what this is. Nothing more than a habit. A responsibility. I make sure the people under my roof are fed, so they never have to go without.

That’s all.

That’s all it’s ever been. 

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# Chapter 23

James

Dinner is nearly finished by the time the tension in my chest finally starts to ease.

It's not just the food. It's knowing this is something I can do for them. That for a little while, at least, I don't have to worry about anything else. They're safe. They're content.

I take a bite, chewing methodically, trying to ignore the strange sensation in my chest when Annelly makes a soft, pleased sound.

"Gosh, James." She sets her fork down, shaking her head in disbelief. "This is seriously amazing. If you're ever interested in a career change, you could always come cook at the diner. Mom and Mr. Kev would hire you in a heartbeat."

I huff out an uncomfortable laugh, shaking my head. "No thanks. Cooking for this guy—" I jerk a thumb toward Tyler. "And making sure he eats like an actual human instead of a stray mutt is already a full-time job." 

Tyler grins around a mouthful of food and winks at Annelly. "He's not kidding. I swear, monitoring my caloric intake is like an obsession for him."

Annelly's brows lift, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Really?"

Tyler nods, stabbing another bite of steak. "Oh yeah. Food is, like, his 
thing.
 You'd think he was a dietitian in a past life with the way he micromanages what we eat. If I even 
think
 about skipping a meal or loading up on junk, he gets this look in his eye... like a twitch, which is 
always
 followed by this weird, constipated look he gets."

As they laugh, I don't say anything. I just keep chewing.

Annelly glances at me like she's waiting for me to chime in. When I don't, she turns back to Tyler. "Has he always been like that?"

Tyler snorts. "No, not always. Back when we were kids, it was different. He was just trying to make sure we had food. I mean, we weren't starving-starving, but there were days it got damn close. 

My stomach clenches.

I keep my gaze on my plate, focusing on the scrape of my fork against the ceramic, but it does nothing to drown out the sound of him saying it out loud. Putting words to what I've spent years trying to shove down. 

Tyler doesn't notice my silence. Or if he does, he ignores it and keeps going.

"Our mom and aunt... well, let's just say they weren't winning any 
parent-of-the-year
 awards."

I set my fork down.

Not hard. Not loud.

But with enough force that Tyler 
notices
. His grin falters, his gaze flicking to mine for the briefest second. He knows I don't like talking about our past. Especially not in front of company. But it also doesn't stop him. It's not malicious. Just Tyler being Tyler—unfiltered, unthinking.

"Our parental figures had... problems," he says, hesitating, keeping things vague—probably for my benefit. "And James, he—" Tyler exhales, shaking his head. "He made sure we always had something warm to eat. Even if it was just a small bowl of overcooked rice or noodles. A can of something. Or some weird soup he threw together with whatever we had left in the house." His lips twitch. "The guy was a damn magician when it came to making garbage food taste good."

Annelly's gaze slides to me, soft and assessing. I fucking hate it. This. 
This
 is why I don't talk about the past. Because I don't need anyone's pity. 

I grip my fork but don't pick it back up. Just keep my eyes on my plate, ignoring the weight of her stare, the way my throat closes up like I've swallowed something sharp.

How much longer do I let him go on before I step in and shut this down?

"They were family," I finally say, my voice steady. Saying something—
anything
—feels like the only way to cut through the awkward tension hanging in the air. "They did the best they could for us."

The words taste like ash. 

Even now, after everything they did—after the hell they put us through—I still find myself defending them. Maybe it's habit. Maybe it's some warped sense of loyalty. Or guilt. 

Or maybe it's just me trying to justify the fact that I once loved two women who never truly loved us back. Not the way they should have. Not the way we deserved.

My mother.

And after she died, my aunt.

Neither of them cared enough about Tyler and me to try and save us.

As always, Tyler doesn't argue. He never does. But we both know he doesn't agree with the way I defend them.  

The silence stretches for a beat too long. Then, mercifully, Annelly shifts the subject.

"Well," she says, picking up her fork again, her voice light, easy—like she isn't trying to tread carefully around the tension still thick in the air. "Since you do all the cooking, maybe I should teach Tyler how to make something for 
you
. Like a dessert."

I glance up at that, watching as she turns to Tyler, an idea already forming in her head.

He arches a brow. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." She grins. "Those chocolate chip cookies you guys always order from the diner? I can show you how to make them."

Tyler's face lights up like a damn Christmas tree. "Shut up. Really?"

"Of course." She laughs. "They're not hard. Just a little love and the right ingredients is all it takes."

Tyler sits back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Damn. That would be 
awesome
."

I don't know why the thought unsettles me, but it does. Tyler doesn't 
cook
. He eats whatever I cook for 
him
. That's the way it's always been, and it's the way I 
like
 it. It's how I 
know
 he's well and taken care of. I get that she's offering to teach him as a way to help, and deep down, I know I should appreciate it. But I don't. 

Instead, it makes me angry.

Not because it's a bad idea. Not because I don't think Tyler should learn. But because it's 
her
 changing things. Because she's pushing her way into our lives, making space for herself in places I swore I'd never let another woman occupy. 

And the worst part?

I like it.

Too
 damn much. 

Like she's trying to take care of me. 
Of us.
 

It's something we've never had... something I never thought I'd want.

I take a slow breath, schooling my expression as I push food around my plate. "That's not necessary," I say, my tone flat. "If he wants cookies, we can get them from the diner on the nights we're there."

Annelly gives me a look, head tilting slightly. "I know. But on the nights you're not, I'm sure he'd like to do something nice for you. For 
both
 of you." Her voice softens, like she knows she's pressing against a raw wound. "Everyone likes to contribute, James. There's no better feeling than taking care of the people you love. I think you know that." 

I shrug, forcing my expression to stay neutral even through the burn choking me up. "It doesn't matter. In this case, it isn't necessary. He knows I don't mind doing the cooking."

"Doesn't mean you should always have to." Her words slip under my defenses before I can stop them, sneaking through the cracks I've worked so damn hard to keep sealed.

Tyler, oblivious as ever, just grins. "I mean, I 
would
 love to bake cookies whenever I want." He turns to Annelly. "So, when can we start? Tonight?"

I press my lips together, focusing on my plate.

This is not a big deal
, I tell myself.

It's not something to get worked up over,
 I reiterate in my head.

But as I watch the two of them talking, planning, laughing—something tightens in my chest.

I'm losing ground.

Losing control.

And it's fucking uncomfortable. Because it's change, and change has never felt safe. But what scares the ever-loving fuck out of me is that for the first time in my entire life, it's not just me taking care of everyone else. It's 
her
—trying to take care of 
us
. And that has never happened before.

Not once.

No one has ever stepped in, unasked, unwarranted, and 
wanted
 to do something for my brother and me. Not my mother. Not my aunt. Not a single goddamn person. 

Every meal I've ever made, every responsibility I've ever taken on—it's been because 
I had to
. Because no one else ever would. 

And now Annelly, without hesitation, without even thinking twice, is sitting here at 
my
 table, casually suggesting ways to 
lighten my load, while making my brother feel useful
. 

Like she's trying to carve out a place in our lives. 

Like she belongs here. 

But she doesn't. 

She can't. 

Because if I start believing that—if I let myself think, even for a second, that this is real—then I'll start wanting it to last. 

And the second I do, it'll all fall apart. 

Because people don't stay. They never do. Not for us. Not for me.

I clench my jaw, my grip tightening around my fork. 

This is nothing.

She's just a friend who needs a hand. A guest at our table, just passing through. A temporary presence. Nothing more. I just have to keep ignoring whatever the hell this is until she's gone. Because that's how this works. That's how it needs to work.

I exhale sharply, pushing back the tightness creeping into my chest. I know better. I know this is how it starts—the slow, creeping comfort. The way people slip into your life, into your routines, making you 
need
 them before you even realize you do. 

And then one day, they're gone. 

And all the spaces they filled are suddenly 
empty
, and you're left scrambling, trying to figure out how to fix something that was never supposed to break.

Because that's what happens.

That's 
always
 what happens.

My gaze flickers—just for a second—to where she's sitting, but I force myself to stop before I can really look at her. Before I see something in her face that might make this even harder. Because if I let myself see her—really see 
her
—like this, in this moment, at my table, in my home... I won't be able to lie to myself anymore. I won't be able to pretend this doesn't mean something. I won't be able to ignore the fact, that for the first time... I might actually want someone to stay. 

I press my fork down against my plate, steadying my breathing. 

It's fine. 

She's going to leave. 

That's what people do. And when she does, I'll remind myself of this. I'll remind myself why I never should've let her get this close in the first place. 

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Chapter 24

Annelly

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Tyler says, pushing back from the table with a satisfied groan. “You guys good?”

James gives a wordless nod, already stacking plates, and I force a tight smile as Tyler disappears down the hall.

And then it’s just the two of us.

I glance at the table, at Tyler’s abandoned plate, his half-empty glass, the crumpled napkin left where he’d been sitting. He didn’t even think to clear his own dishes.

Because he doesn’t have to.

As I’m beginning to see, James does everything for him.

It’s instinct now—so ingrained in their routine that neither of them even notices it. James handles the meals, the clean-up, probably every little thing in between. And Tyler, whether consciously or not, just… lets him. I wonder if James even realizes how much of his life revolves around taking care of Tyler. If he even sees how much control he holds over his brother’s world.

Or maybe… that’s the point.

After what I witnessed tonight, maybe James needs it this way. Needs the order. The responsibility. The sense of purpose that comes with knowing Tyler is taken care of.

Still, it nags at me.

Because I know Tyler. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself. He’s smart, independent, and despite the easygoing way he lets James run the show, I’d bet anything there’s a part of him that wishes his brother would let go just a little. It’s something I make a note of, something I’ll tuck away to bring up later. Because right now, there’s something else that needs my attention more urgently.

James.

The scrape of silverware. The quiet clink of glass bottles. The rhythmic sound of cabinets opening and closing as he moves through the kitchen like he’s on autopilot. Everything about him is controlled. Precise. Like cleaning up after dinner is just another part of his rigid routine. Like I’m not even here. And maybe that’s the part that stings the most.

Because I am here.

I have been since we walked through his front door hours ago. Since dinner. Since I sat through the most tense meal of my life, wondering where the kind, sweet, gentle James from this morning had gone.

I watch as he moves to the fridge, placing the neatly packed leftovers on the shelf—so perfectly arranged, you’d think he was stocking a display case instead of making room for tomorrow’s lunch. It just feels like another way for him to avoid me.

And I’m sick of it.

Before I can second-guess myself, I rise from my seat and grab the empty plates from the table, stacking them in my hands. It’s second nature to me. A habit formed from years of working at the diner. Before I know it, I’m moving around the counter to the sink. Without a word, I turn on the water and start rinsing. A second later, I feel him. Not touching me. Still tense, looking right at me. I can practically hear his jaw clenching before he finally speaks.

“I’ve got it.” His voice is low, even. “Go sit down.”

“I don’t mind helping.”

“I don’t need help.”

I grip the plate a little tighter. “It’s just dishes, James.”

“I said I’m good.” This time, there’s a little more force in his tone. A little more warning .

I press my lips together, keeping my gaze on the sink, the warm water rushing over my hands. I shouldn’t push him. I know that. But after everything tonight, after the way he’s spent the last few hours making me feel like I’m intruding in his space… I just can’t sit back and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

“ You brought me here,“ I say quietly, but there’s no missing the weight behind my words.

For the first time since dinner ended, he stops moving.

A long pause.

A deep inhale.

Then, without a word, he steps closer. The shift in the air is instant, charged. I feel the heat of him before I feel his touch, the barest brush of his arm against mine as he reaches past me. He turns off the faucet, his fingers grazing mine as he takes the plate from my hands in a slow, deliberate movement. But it’s not just that.

It’s the way his fingers linger, just for a beat too long.

The way his breath hitches ever so slightly.

The way my pulse betrays me, skipping as something unspoken pulls tight between us.

Carefully, he sets the dish back down into the bottom of the sink. Though he’s avoiding my eyes, I see something flicker in his expression—something wary, conflicted, something else I can’t quite name. But before I can make sense of it, he grabs the dishtowel from the counter, and then ever so gently he dries my hands.

It’s not fast.

Not rushed.

His thumbs press lightly into my palms, smoothing over my skin like he’s attempting to soak up the water bead by bead. His touch is methodical, focused, careful. And I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it does. Because up to now, everything about him—his words, his actions—have been cold and distant. But this? This warm, caring version of James confuses me. This back and forth, from cold to caring, leaves me grasping to figure out which one of these two versions is the real him.

When his eyes meet mine for the briefest moment, he swallows hard. Like he’s suddenly back to being angry, he tosses the towel back onto the counter. His hand moves to the small of my back, a light, hesitant touch, and then he’s moving me, steering me toward the other side of the kitchen island. His touch is firm but gentle, like he’s leading me somewhere safe, and not just moving me out of his way.

“Sit,” he murmurs, nodding toward the stools at the kitchen island.

I hesitate, but there’s something about the way he says it—like he’s asking, not ordering. Like he just needs me to give him this. So I slide onto the stool, my hands folding in my lap as I watch him go back to the sink. The moment between us fractures, slipping away like it was never there to begin with.

And suddenly, I can’t hold it in anymore. I can’t sit here and pretend I don’t notice the way he’s been avoiding me since we got back. I can’t keep brushing off the way he’s gone from the sweet, vulnerable James who begged for my trust to… this .

And maybe… maybe he’s right.

Maybe I don’t belong here.

Maybe I should just go.

I take a slow breath, steadying my voice before I lose my nerve. “I think coming here was a mistake.” The words are barely above a whisper, but they land between us like a gunshot.

James freezes. The plate in his hand stills beneath the running water. His fingers tense around the edge, his knuckles paling as if he needs something—anything—to hold on to. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look at me.

I swallow hard, forcing the words out before I can second-guess them. “I’m thinking about calling Ben in the morning. Seeing if I can stay with him and Jen instead.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

He exhales through his nose, slow. Controlled. Too controlled, like he’s forcing himself to be indifferent.

Then, finally, he lifts his gaze, his expression unreadable. His brows pull together, but there’s no shock, no immediate reaction—just a flicker of something… distant. Like he’s already resigned himself to this outcome. Like it was inevitable.

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, motionless, like he’s still processing my words. Like he’s trying to decide if he heard me right.

I hold his gaze, my heart pounding, waiting for… something . A reaction. An argument. A clipped, indifferent “do whatever you want.” Instead, his fingers tighten around the plate he’s holding. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

And then, finally —“You’re leaving.”

It’s not a question. Not a challenge. Just a quiet, resigned statement. Something about the way he says it makes my stomach knot. Because there’s no anger, no attempt to stop me. Just those two simple words. And that’s when it hits me—he’s already decided how this ends. He’s already accepted my leaving as inevitable.

And that is what hurts the most.

I nod, my voice steadier than I feel. “I think it’s for the best.”

His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Why?”

I let out a hollow laugh, shaking my head. “Are you being serious right now?”

His brow furrows like he doesn’t understand. Like, he genuinely thinks he’s been acting normal since we got here. That makes something inside me snap.

“You don’t want me here, James,” I say, sharper now. “You’ve barely looked at me since we walked through that door. You spent dinner acting like I didn’t exist. You keep pushing me away, shutting me out, pretending nothing about that is wrong.” My throat tightens. “I don’t know what I expected when I agreed to this, but I guess I thought—” I stop, inhaling sharply. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to pretend for my sake. If having me here makes you this miserable, then I’ll go.”

James exhales, the sound uneven. He looks away for a second, his hand lifting to rub the back of his neck. I can see the way his mind is racing, the way he’s scrambling for something to say, some excuse to give. But there’s nothing.

Because he knows I’m right. He has been pushing me away. He has been distant. And the worst part? This is exactly how it happened six months ago. The slow, quiet unraveling. And then the moment I realized he was never going to let me in.

I straighten, more determined than ever that this is right. I need to leave. “I’ll call Ben in the morning.”

That’s when it happens.

James moves. Fast. Before I can process it, before I can even think, he’s in front of me. His hand wraps around my wrist—not rough, not forceful, but firm, like he’s afraid I might slip away. My breath stumbles, my pulse hammering beneath his grip. His fingers are warm, his skin rough where it meets mine. And when I finally look up, it’s there. Desperation. Worry. Fear. It’s written in the tight pull of his jaw, the shadows in his eyes.

He doesn’t want me to go.

“Don’t,” he says, low and quiet, like he’s barely keeping it together. Like the word was ripped from his throat before he could stop it.

The sound of it knocks the air from my lungs. I stare at him, my pulse thundering beneath his fingers, my mind sluggish against the weight of his touch. Against the heat of his eyes. Against the raw, unguarded way he’s looking at me—like for the first time all night, I’m the only thing he sees.

“James…” My voice is barely above a whisper.

He shakes his head once, his grip tightening just slightly. “Don’t go.”

I should pull away. I should tell him it’s too late. That I’ve already made up my mind. But I don’t. Because something in his voice—something in the way he’s holding onto me, the way he’s holding himself together like he’s seconds away from coming undone—cuts straight through my anger, my disappointment, my resolve. I don’t want to feel sorry for him. I don’t. Not after everything he’s done. Not after the way he’s hurt me—after the way he’s still trying to push me away, even as he’s clinging to me like he can’t bear to let go. But I do feel sorry. Because for all his silence, all his avoidance, James looks… lost .

His fingers flex around my wrist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched so tight it has to hurt. And for the first time, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’s just as scared of me leaving as I am of him letting me go.

Except yesterday, he stood in my living room just like this, regret bleeding from his every word, begging me to forgive him. And I did. Because at that moment, he was real. Honest. Open. But then tonight, he reverted back into someone else entirely. How does he do it? How does he let me in just enough to make me stay—only to push me away the second I do?

“What is this, James,” I say softly. “What are we doing?”

His throat bobs, his grip shifting until his fingers brush against my palm, like he’s holding on but doesn’t know how.

“It’s not you,” he says, voice rough. “It’s me.”

I huff out a humorless laugh. “Wow. Original.”

His lips press together, his shoulders stiff. “I mean it.”

“You’ll have to give me more than that.” I shake my head, frustration bleeding into my voice. “Because I don’t get it, James. I don’t understand why you keep doing this—why you pull me in just to push me away. Why you begged me to trust you, to give you a second chance, to let you help me, only to turn around and make me feel like I’m this burden you don’t want?”

His inhale is sharp. For a second, I see it—that flicker of retreat. The familiar way his expression hardens, like he’s already building the walls back up, already preparing to let me go. I brace myself for it. For some clipped, dismissive response. For the moment he deems the conversation over.

But then…

He looks at me. Really looks at me. And something in him cracks.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmurs, so quiet I almost don’t hear him.

I frown. “Do what ?”

His jaw clenches. He hesitates. And then— finally —he exhales and lifts his hand to my face. His fingers curl around my jaw, his thumb brushing against my cheek, so soft it shouldn’t make me shiver. But it does.

“This,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “Letting people in. Letting you in.” The confession is raw. Unfiltered . Like he’s never said the words out loud before.

My heart stumbles. I don’t move, barely even breathe, afraid that if I do, he’ll snap out of whatever moment of weakness has him touching me like this, looking at me like this. Like I’m important to him. Like he wants

me.

But James doesn’t pull away. If anything, his grip tightens. His forehead dips toward mine, his other hand finding my waist, fingers brushing against the hem of my sweater, like he needs the contact to keep this vulnerable version of him here.

“I don’t know how to want something without being afraid of losing it,” he admits, voice rough—like the words cost him something to say them. “ I don’t know how to let myself have something good without waiting for it to fall apart.“

My chest aches. Because I understand. Because, like every other human in this world, I’ve been there. Because I also know what it’s like to be scared of wanting too much, of hoping for something only to have it ripped away. But I also know what it’s like to try anyway. And for the first time since I walked into his house—since I let myself believe that maybe things could be different between us—I see it.

James is trying. Even now, even through his fear, his walls, his tendency to self-destruct before anyone else can do it for him—he’s struggling… but he’s trying .

A slow ache blooms in my chest. Because this is everything .

Slowly, carefully, I lift my hand to his chest, feeling the unsteady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm. His breath hitches, his body going still at my touch, like he’s waiting for something—like maybe he’s afraid of what happens next.

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” I whisper. “Sometimes, finding the right answers takes time. But I’m here, James. Tonight. Right here, right now, just as scared, just as confused.” I pause, swallowing down the lump of emotion choking me up, as my hands run over the hard planes of his chest in a show of comfort. “You’re not alone in this, James. I feel it too.”

His eyes close, his breath shuddering out against my skin. For a long moment, we just stand there . His forehead against mine. His hands on me, holding on like I’m the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

And in that moment, I know I can’t leave.

Not when he’s finally letting me in. Not when, for the first time, James isn’t just pushing me away. He’s holding me close, even through the fear, unwilling to let go.

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# Chapter 25

Annelly

James doesn't move. Neither do I. We're caught in a moment that feels too big, too heavy—like one wrong breath could shatter the fragile understanding we've just built. His forehead still rests against mine, his fingers flexing at my waist like he doesn't know how to let go. Like maybe he doesn't want to.

His breath, uneven and warm, fans against my skin. Beneath my palm, his heart pounds wildly, a frantic rhythm that mirrors my own. And for the first time since stepping into his house—after hours of distance, of walls built high—he's here. Right in front of me. No armor. No mask. Just James.

And he's terrified.

I can feel his fear like this tangible thing. I know it's not of me. Not even of the moment itself. But of what it means. The vulnerability. The possibility. The risk of wanting something. Of losing it.

I should say something. I should tell him it's okay—that I see him trying. That I'll stay. But before I can, he exhales sharply and pulls back, just enough to put an inch of space between us. His hand drifts from my waist, slow and hesitant, like he's testing himself. His fingers skim over the hem of my sweater, a lingering brush, like he's memorizing the feel of it.

And then he lets go.

The absence of his touch is immediate, leaving me cold. 

James clears his throat, his jaw clenching as he takes a step back, but his eyes—God, his eyes—they stay locked onto mine. Searching. Unreadable. A silent question lingers in the space between us, hanging in the air unfinished. Unanswered.

I don't look away.

I won't.

Because I need him to see that I meant what I said. That I'm still here. That even now, when everything in him screams for retreat, I won't let him run. Not without a fight. Not without proving to him that even though I'm afraid of getting hurt—of what yet another rejection from him might do to me—I'm still here. Willing to try.

His throat bobs and something flickers across his face—uncertainty, maybe. Conflict. A war I can't see but feel anyway. And just when I think he's about to say something, just when the moment feels like it might tip into something else entirely—

Footsteps pound down the stairs.

We jolt apart just as Tyler's voice barrels toward us, shattering the moment like glass.

"Alright, Chef Annelly! Let's get this cookie show on the road!"

James blinks, his expression shutting down so fast it makes my stomach twist. Whatever battle he was fighting within himself, whatever had just passed between us, vanishes in an instant–buried beneath the familiar mask of cold detachment. 

I swallow against the disappointment rising in my chest, willing away the sudden sting behind my eyes. 

Like he's looking for an escape, James glances toward the hall that leads to his bedroom on the other side of the house, his shoulders going rigid. I expect him to walk away, to put distance between us now that the moment is broken. 

But he doesn't. 

Instead, he shifts, stepping to the side but not leaving. He stays. 

And somehow, that small, unspoken choice means more to me than anything he could have said.

Tyler is already rifling through the cabinets, his excitement practically buzzing off him. "All right, Nell," he grins, pulling out a mixing bowl. "Where do we start?"

I smile, shaking my head at his enthusiasm. "First, we make sure we have all the ingredients."

James lingers by the kitchen island, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hasn't said a word since Tyler bounced into the room, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, like he's still reeling from our conversation. Like he doesn't know what to do now that he's disclosed so much about himself.

I glance at him, offering a small smile, a quiet reassurance. His shoulders remain tense, but he holds my gaze a beat longer than I expect before finally looking away.

Tyler, oblivious as ever, starts yanking items from the pantry. "We need flour, right?"

I turn my attention back to him. "Flour, brown sugar, granulated sugar, baking soda, salt—"

"Boom. Already ahead of you." He plops the bag of flour onto the counter with a satisfied grin. "What's next?"

I scan through the ingredients in my head, mentally ticking off the list. "Butter, eggs, vanilla extract, chocolate chips."

Movement catches my eye. James steps forward, pulling open the fridge, he grabs the last few ingredients, placing them on the counter next to me. 

I glance at him, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you."

His response is a small nod, but the way his fingers brush mine when he hands me the eggs is deliberate. Unnecessary. A choice.

Heat creeps up my spine.

Tyler claps his hands together. "All right, let's do this."

I grab the measuring cups. "Okay, first, we cream the butter and sugar together."

Tyler frowns. "Cream? I thought we were making cookies."

James exhales loudly, and I swear I catch a hint of a smirk before he schools his features.

I bite back a laugh. "Creaming just means we mix them until the texture is light and fluffy."

"Ah." Tyler nods, then starts unwrapping the butter sticks, dropping them into the bowl. He glances at James, who's taken up his usual stance—leaning against the counter, arms crossed, silently watching. Tyler smirks. "You just gonna stand there and brood, or you actually gonna help?"

James glares. "I'm supervising."

"Uh-huh. Sure." Tyler bumps his shoulder against mine, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "He's only here 'cause he can't stand not being in control."

I shoot James a look. He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head, but he doesn't argue.

"Come on, James." I tilt my head, teasing. "You afraid of a little flour?"

His eyes flick to mine, something wary and unreadable swimming beneath the surface. For a second, I think he's going to ignore me. Then, with an exasperated sigh, he pushes off the counter and steps closer.

Tyler grins. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."

James ignores him, his focus shifting to me instead. Something unspoken passes between us—a flicker of hesitation, of uncertainty. His walls are still up, but I see it. That same wariness from earlier. That need to be close but not knowing how to handle it. 

I step aside, making space for him in front of the mixer, my fingers accidentally brushing against his as he moves to stand beside me. "You mix, I'll add the sugar."

His grip tightens around the machine, his expression unreadable as he does as I ask.

Tyler lets out a low whistle. "Wow. Actual participation, even through the brooding. It's like witnessing a miracle."

James scowls. "Shut up."

I laugh, and as the sound reaches him, something in James shifts—if only just a little. The tension in his shoulders eases, the hard edges of his expression softening ever so slightly.

Half an hour later, the cookies are in the oven, and Tyler is licking the last remnants of dough from his fingers. He looks entirely too pleased with himself, even though he spent most of the lesson watching James and me work as he snuck bites of cookie dough. "I think I nailed it."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "You barely helped."

"I provided emotional support. That's more important, Annelly."

James snorts. "Forty minutes of annoying commentary while tossing flour around like a feral raccoon does not equate to emotional support."

Tyler grins, completely unapologetic. "I disagree. It brought the two of you closer. Look how happy you both look now."

James's head slowly swivels toward his brother, his expression so flat, so profoundly unimpressed, that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. 

"Right," James mutters, deadpan. "Your selflessness is truly humbling."

Tyler winks. "You know me, I live in service of others."

James rolls his eyes, but there's no real heat behind it.

Dusting his hands off like his work here is done, Tyler straightens. "Well, my purpose has been fulfilled. I'll leave you lovebirds to bask in the romantic afterglow of baking perfection." He places a dramatic hand over his chest. "And before you protest, know that I must leave you now. A nobleman such as myself has many duties. Responsibilities. A reputation to uphold."

James stares at him. "You're going to your room to scroll TikTok, aren't you?"

Tyler doesn't even hesitate. "Obviously." With that, he tosses a lazy wave over his shoulder and strolls out of the kitchen, completely unbothered by the mess he's leaving behind for us to clean up. "Call me when the cookies are ready. Or, better yet, just bring me some."

James exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face like he's reevaluating every life choice that led him to this moment. 

I can't help but laugh. "You love him anyway."

James shoots me a look. "Depends on the day." But the corner of his mouth twitches, and that tiny movement—barely there, but impossible to miss—makes warmth bloom in my chest. 

He shakes his head, scanning the disaster Tyler left behind—the flour-dusted counters, the stray chocolate chips scattered like confetti, the sink full of dishes. With a sigh, he turns to me.

"Sorry about him," he mutters. "He was dropped on his head a lot as a kid."

I smirk, grabbing a rag to start wiping down the counters. "Explains so much."

James huffs a quiet breath, like he wants to object to me helping me clean up, but to my surprise, he doesn't. Instead, he grabs the dirty mixing bowls, rolling his shoulders like he's shaking off the lingering tension as he walks them to the sink.

For the next few minutes, we fall into an easy rhythm—me wiping things down, him tackling the dishes. It's quiet, but not the kind of silence that's heavy or uncertain. It's 
comfortable.
 And after everything tonight, I think we both need it.

When the last dish is put away, James dries his hands on a towel before stepping over to the counter, helping me put away the remaining ingredients. He grabs the sugar container, reaching to put it back on the top shelf, and that's when I notice it—the streaks of white dusting his shirt. 

I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

Reaching out, I brush my fingers against his chest, dusting off a streak of flour clinging to the fabric. "You look like you lost a fight with a bag of flour."

James glances down at himself, frowning slightly. "I didn't even touch the flour."

"Mm-hmm." I smirk, flicking away another smudge. "Tell that to your shirt."

He exhales sharply, like he's trying to downplay the way my touch affects him, but when he looks back at me, something shifts. His gaze softens—just slightly—but enough that I notice.

His hand lifts before I can process it, his thumb brushing against my cheek. "You have a little flour... there." 

I still, my breath catching in my throat as his fingers linger, warm and gentle against my skin. His eyes flick down, just for a second, to my lips, then back up.

And suddenly, the air between us thickens, charged with something unspoken, something weighty and deep that neither of us seems willing to name.

James swallows hard, his fingers twitching against my jaw like he's fighting some invisible battle with himself.

I don't move.

I 
won't.

Because I want him to know—want him to 
feel
—that he doesn't have to be afraid of this. That regardless of what he's afraid of wanting, of losing, I'm
 here.
 Still standing, willing to take the risk.

His breath stirs against my skin. His thumb traces one last, barely there stroke against my cheekbone. Then, slowly—reluctantly—he lets his hand drop.

James clears his throat, stepping back, but his gaze lingers on me for a beat too long before he turns away. But just before the moment slips away entirely—he hesitates. His fingers twitch at his side, his jaw clenching like he's fighting himself. His mouth opens, then closes, like he's searching for the right words.

And then—so quiet I almost miss it—he asks, 
"Are you still thinking about leaving?"

The words land between us, quiet but heavy. Unsteady. Like he's not sure he wants to hear my answer, but he 
needs
 it anyway.

I exhale slowly. Then, before I can stop myself, I do the one thing he's not expecting from me.

I push.

"What if I was?" My voice is soft, but there's no mistaking the challenge in it. "Would you let me go?"

James stills.

"Would you nod your head, let me walk out that door after convincing yourself it's for the best?"

His throat bobs, his fingers flex, his breathing hitches just slightly—just enough to tell me he wasn't expecting this. That he doesn't want to have this conversation, doesn't want to say out loud what we both already know.

But I 
need
 him to.

"James." I step closer, my heart pounding, but I hold my ground. "What do you want?" 

His gaze jerks back to mine, sharp and unguarded, like the question has knocked the breath from his lungs. 

"Do you want me to stay?"

Shock flickers across his face. He shifts, his discomfort palpable, his body coiled tight like he's preparing for something that is going to hurt. It's almost like he doesn't know what to say, most likely because he never thought I'd make him say it. But he's left me no choice. My heart can't bear to let him hide behind silence and denial anymore.

"Say it, James." My voice is barely above a whisper. "Tell me you want me to stay."

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head once—like he's frustrated. Like I'm 
frustrating him
. But his eyes... 
God
, his eyes. They tell a different story.

He 
wants
 to say it. I can 
see
 it, feel it in every tense line of his body, in the way his fingers twitch like he's resisting the urge to reach for me, in the way his chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

I don't let up.

"James."

A muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands clench at his sides. 

And then, finally—
finally
—his shoulders drop.

"I want you to stay."

The words are rough, like they cost him something. Like each syllable was pulled from somewhere deep, somewhere raw.

But he said them. 

And that's all I've ever needed.

My breath catches, and my chest tightens. I swallow, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. 
"Okay."

His eyes search mine, uncertainty flashing across his face. 
"Okay?"

I nod, my voice softer now. 
"Okay. Then I'll stay."

His throat bobs. His fingers flex at his sides like he's resisting the urge to pull me in, like he doesn't know 
what
 to do with this. With me. With the reality of what he just admitted.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself, knowing that what I'm about to say next has the power to either solidify this fragile step forward... or send him retreating all over again.  

"But James..." 

His eyes snap to mine, wary.

"I know you're scared. And I get that. I'm willing to be patient, to give you the benefit of the doubt. But the only way this works is if you're honest with me. No more running. No more pushing me away. If you need space, if you need time, then you come to me and tell me what you need." I pause, holding his gaze, making sure he hears me. "But don't shut me out. Not again."

James exhales, slow and measured, but there's something unsteady about it—like he's absorbing my words, like they're settling in places he hasn't let himself go before. 

A beat passes. Then another. 

And finally, he gives a small nod. 

"Okay," he says, voice hoarse, quiet. Then, after a pause, he adds, "I'll try."

He doesn't look away this time. He holds my gaze, steady and searching, like he's willing me to believe him. And though fear and self-doubt still flicker in his eyes, for the first time, I see something else—something stronger.

A spark of determination so fierce, it must be real.

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Chapter 26

Annelly

The silence is what wakes me. A stillness so absolute, it presses in on me, heavy and unnatural. No honking horns. No distant city chatter. No neighbor’s TV blaring through paper-thin walls. Just quiet.

That’s right.

I’m back in Ruby Creek.

I blink against the soft morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the golden rays stretching long across the hardwood floor. Outside, the mountains stretch for miles, untouched snow blanketing the land in pure white. The sky is crisp cerulean blue, streaked with wisps of silver clouds, and for a second, I just lie there, staring. Taking it all in.

It’s beautiful.

But like the warmth of the blankets, the crisp scent of pine and fresh air, the deep, quiet stillness—none of it is mine to keep.

Not really.

I’ve been back in Ruby Creek for months, but safety still feels like something borrowed, something fragile. Like every other morning since I left New York, I wake up bracing for the other shoe to drop. For the past to claw its way back in. For the fear I’ve been trying to outrun to remind me I’m still not free.

But this morning is different.

This morning, I’m waking up at James’s house. And somehow, against all logic, that thought fills me with the faintest glimmer of hope.

The realization sends a jolt through me, dragging memories from last night back to the surface. Our confrontation. The sharpness in James’s eyes when he tried to push me away. The way his breath hitched when I wouldn’t let him.

“Say it, James. Tell me you want me to stay.”

“I want you to stay.”

My chest tightens as his words replay in my head, raw and pained. It cost him so much to say them, to let them slip past the walls he’d spent years fortifying. And for the first time since I met him, he didn’t shut me out.

I should feel good about that.

I want to.

But then reality crashes down, sharp and unforgiving. Because technically, I’m not here because he wants me to be. I’m here because I’m in hiding. Because Victor is hunting me .

A wave of unease rolls through me, tightening around my ribs. Safe or not, the reason I’m here is anything but comforting. My mind starts racing, latching onto every fear, every what-if that’s been lurking just beneath the surface since I walked through James’s front door.

What if staying here is a mistake, and I only end up bringing danger to his doorstep?

What if James changes his mind about wanting me here?

What if this is all we’ll ever have, and he’ll send me on my way and out of his life once the danger is resolved?

My stomach twists. My pulse kicks up. I push up on my elbows, tension coiling tight inside me, my mind caught in an endless cycle of worst-case scenarios.

What if —

No.

I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. But then, something else pulls me back. A scent. Rich. Dark. Unmistakable.

Coffee. And something else—something warm and savory, curling through the air, wrapping around me like a tether, steadying me before I can fully spiral. I inhale deep. James must be cooking .

The thought alone eases something in my chest. Of course, he is. Even after yesterday—the tension, the stilted words, the way he nearly burned the bridge between us before pulling back at the last second—he still got up and made breakfast .

As I’m quickly learning, this is who he is.

A protector. A provider. A man who thrives on control—on knowing the people in his care have what they need.

The weight pressing down on my chest eases just slightly.

I don’t know what today will bring. I don’t know what staying here will mean. But right now, there’s coffee. There’s food.

And there’s James.

Apparently, that’s all I need to get me moving.

---

The scent of coffee pulls me from my thoughts before I even reach the kitchen. It’s rich and warm, the kind of aroma that fills the air with something comforting, something familiar.

I follow it down the hall, then down the steps to the main living area. But the second I round the corner and catch sight of the kitchen, I freeze.

James stands at the stove, his back to me, moving with effortless ease. He’s in sweatpants and a fitted long-sleeve Henley, the fabric stretched taut across his broad shoulders, accentuating every inch of lean muscle beneath. His hair is still damp from a shower, strands curling slightly at the ends. A coffee mug rests in his left hand, while his right works the skillet, flipping something with practiced ease.

I don’t mean to stare, but I do.

Because there’s something so attractive about this—about him. The quiet confidence. The unhurried movements. The way he commands the kitchen like it’s second nature, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

Warmth curls low in my belly.

It’s absurd, really. This—what he’s doing—is something so normal. So domestic. Routine. And yet, I have to swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat, forcing myself to look away before my mind wanders to places it shouldn’t go.

As if sensing me, James glances over his shoulder, his gaze locking onto mine. It’s quick. Sharp. Assessing. Reading me in a way that should feel intrusive—but somehow, it doesn’t. Instead, it’s oddly comforting.

“You were up all night thinking, weren’t you?” His voice is rough from disuse, still edged with hints of sleep.

I should answer. I should say something . But my mind blanks, tangled in thoughts I have no business entertaining. Thoughts of what it would be like to wake up to that same voice murmuring against my skin, his lips pressing warm, lazy kisses along my neck, my shoulders.

Heat rushes to my cheeks.

Mortified, I snap my gaze away. It takes effort, but I pull myself together, nodding as I make my way to the kitchen island and sink onto one of the stools.

James exhales, rubbing a hand over his face like my answer was exactly what he expected. “Figured.” He turns back to the stove, flipping whatever’s in the pan. “Let’s eat first. We’ll deal with the overthinking after.”

I blink, caught off guard. Not just by his words—but by the way he says them. Effortless. Casual. Like helping me through my anxiety is just something he does. Like he knows me. Understands how my mind works, what I need, without me even having to say it. Something flutters in my chest.

Is this what it feels like to be taken care of by James?

God, how much better must it feel to actually be loved by him?

Except he doesn’t want you, Annelly.

The reminder slams into me, almost stealing my breath. He’s made that clear. At most, we’re just friends. Mostly, I’m a job. Someone he and his team are working to keep safe, and once this is over—once the danger is gone—I’ll have no choice but to return to a life without him.

My gaze drops to the counter, the ache in my chest spreading like a slow burn.

Then James slides a plate in front of me.

Eggs. Bacon. Golden French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar. Fresh fruit salad. A glass of orange juice. A steaming mug of coffee.

“Wow,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

A lump forms in my throat. Did he make all this… for me?

The thought unsettles me, stirring something I don’t want to examine too closely. I’m not used to this—to someone taking care of me, anticipating my needs before I even realize them myself.

Embarrassed, I shove the feelings down, forcing a teasing smile to mask the sudden tightness in my chest. “I can’t believe Tyler did all this.”

James snorts, flipping off the stove. “Please. Tyler doesn’t roll out of bed before noon if he doesn’t have to. This was all me, love.”

The casual endearment slips out, effortless. Natural.

And for a second, we both freeze.

He doesn’t correct it. Doesn’t walk it back or pretend it didn’t happen. Instead, he clears his throat, takes a slow sip of his coffee, and acts like he doesn’t notice the crimson color painting my cheeks.

I grip my fork, focusing on my plate and the generous meal he made just for me. I take a bite, my stomach clenching at the warmth, the rich flavors, the way it almost makes me moan.

James leans against the counter, watching me over the rim of his coffee mug, his posture easy and unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world. Like there isn’t a dark cloud of uncertainty hanging over me, forcing us into this strange living arrangement.

Eager to fill the silence, I swallow down my food and then clear my throat. “Is Tyler home?”

For the briefest second, something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, jealousy?—but just as quickly it disappears.

He shakes his head. “No. He had class today.”

I blink. “Wait, class? Like… college?”

A slow smirk tugs at his mouth. “What, you thought he was just a pretty face with the decision-making skills of a drunk toddler?” Despite the fact he’s making fun of his little brother, there’s something else in his voice—something unmistakable. Pride.

I huff out a small laugh. “A little, yeah.”

James shakes his head, setting his coffee down. “Nah. He’s actually really smart. He goes to Penn State. He’s working on his master’s in Social Work.”

My eyebrows lift. “Social work?”

“Yeah. It’s a passion of his. He wants to help kids like us.” His voice dips just slightly, and something flashes across his face—like maybe he regrets saying so much.

Hating that he might, I press forward, shifting the conversation before he can retreat. “Wait—he goes all the way to Penn State? That’s almost two hours each way. He commutes every day?”

“When he has class.” James nods.

I frown, trying to wrap my head around that. “Why doesn’t he just stay on campus? It would save him so much time and make his life easier.”

James’s jaw tightens, his grip shifting around his mug. He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s weighing his words, considering how much to say. Then, finally—

“My brother and I… we have our issues.” His voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. “Back in the day, one of our state-mandated therapists put a label on it. Co-dependence. Turns out, growing up the way we did—relying only on each other for company, love, safety, support—it fucked us up. It makes it hard for us to spend any real time apart. We get it’s not normal. But it’s us. It’s just how we’re built.”

I go still, my heart twisting at his words. The more I learn about their past, the more the pieces click into place.

Tyler—carefree, charming, always joking—has never seemed like someone who carries that kind of weight. But looking back, I see it now. The way he always sticks close to his brother. The way he lets James hover, lets him have all the control. The way those things keep them tethered to one another in every way.

To the outside world, that type of relationship would seem unhealthy, untenable. A dependency too deep, too tangled to let them thrive. But to them, in their world, it’s survival. And as the full weight of everything they’ve endured settles over me, my chest aches with something I don’t know how to fix.

I swallow, pushing past the tightness in my throat. “And you?” My voice is softer now. “Did you go to college too?”

James exhales, shaking his head. “Nah. I was too busy working. Trying to get him back.”

Something sharp and painful twists in my chest. “Get him back?”

He nods, his face passive, controlled… even as his eyes refuse to meet mine. “After our mom died, things went to hell fast. We were with our aunt for a while, but when that didn’t work out, I ended up in a juvenile detention center. Tyler went into foster care.” His voice is steady—just stating facts like he’s reciting events from someone else’s life. “When I aged out at eighteen, my only goal was getting my little brother back. Didn’t have time to think about anything else.”

My throat tightens.

There’s no bitterness in his tone, no self-pity. Just cold, hard reality. Like he’s spent so long pushing it down that it barely even registers anymore. But to me? It registers. It hits in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Because for all the little pieces I’ve gathered about his past, this… this is different.

This is sacrifice.

This is a little boy who never had a childhood. A little boy who at one time lost everything, including the only person he had left in his life—his baby brother.

Unlike other kids, James never had the luxury of dreaming about the life he wanted.

And the realization is devastating.

Suddenly, I’m not hungry. I set my fork down, my appetite lost beneath the weight of everything he’s just told me. The silence stretches between us, thick and unspoken. James doesn’t shift, doesn’t fidget. He just watches me with that unreadable gaze, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll press for more.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t need to.

Less than twenty-four hours of living here, and I already know enough to understand them, to not judge them. I just want to support them, to see them happy, to contribute to the peace and stability they’ve spent their entire lives chasing.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself as I force out the question that’s been clawing at me since I woke up this morning.

“So, what happens now?”

James doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me for a moment, his jaw tight.

“You settle in,” he finally says. “We keep tabs on Victor. And we take this one day at a time.”

I nod, but the words don’t settle me. Not really. “And if he finds me?”

James’s expression darkens, his grip tightening around his coffee mug. “Then he dies.”

His voice is flat. Absolute. A simple truth, delivered with the same certainty as if he were talking about the weather.

My breath catches in my throat.

It should make me feel safer. It should fill me with relief. But instead, a strange kind of panic grips me, curling low in my stomach, pressing against my ribs.

I shake my head. “You can’t kill him, James. Not for me. I won’t have you getting in trouble because of me. Plus, Tyler needs you, and—”

“Relax,” James interrupts, his voice smooth. “I was kidding.”

He wasn’t.

Not really.

I can see it in his eyes. But he must notice the way my body coils tight because his tone softens.

“Look, it’s simple. If he finds you, the team and I will deal with him. He won’t get to you. He’ll never get the chance to hurt you again.” His gaze locks onto mine, steady and unwavering. “That, I can promise.”

Something about the way he says it—the certainty, the absolute finality—sends a shiver through me.

I don’t know what to say.

James watches me, his sharp gaze tracking the way my fingers tighten around my coffee mug, the way I keep my eyes fixed on the table like it’ll help will my thoughts into submission.

And then, just like that, he makes a decision.

“Come on.” He pushes away from the counter. “You need to get out of your head.”

I frown. “What?”

“Get dressed. Something warm.” He tilts his chin toward the door, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “We’re going outside.”

“Where?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

His smirk deepens. “Ever been snowboarding?”

I blink. “Once. A long time ago.”

His expression turns downright smug. “Well, then you better get ready.” He’s already moving, already setting his mug and dirty dishes in the sink, making it clear there’s no room for argument. “Because today, you’re going to learn.”

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# Chapter 27

Annelly

The cold air nips at my cheeks as I step outside, my boots crunching against the packed snow. The world beyond James's house is breathtaking—an endless stretch of untouched white, rolling hills, and towering pines dusted with fresh powder. The sun hangs high in the sky, casting a bright glow over the landscape, making the ice-crusted branches sparkle like glass.

A few steps ahead, James carries a snowboard, his broad shoulders cutting a sharp silhouette against the brilliant blue sky. The wind ruffles his dark hair, but he doesn't seem to notice—too focused on leading me toward the clearing he's chosen for my so-called lesson.

"This is my favorite spot," he says, nodding toward the open space ahead. "Minimal incline, best views in the house... and no trees to crash into." His lips quirk into a teasing grin.

"Thank goodness for that." I smile back.

He's right about the view. The land slopes gently, stretching out toward the valley below, where the world unfolds in a vast sea of white and deep evergreen. A light breeze carries the scent of pine and fresh snow, crisp and pure in a way that makes me want to stand here and breathe it in forever. 

And it's clear—this place isn't just a spot he likes. It's a place he and Tyler have made their own.

A firepit sits at the heart of the clearing, encircled by heavy stone benches dusted with a fine layer of snow. The setup looks permanent, built to withstand the elements, and meant to be used no matter the season. Nearby, a neatly stacked pile of firewood waits beneath a small overhang, shielded from the weather, ready to be burned.

My gaze drifts, cataloging the details—the subtle signs that he spends a lot of time out here. A metal lantern sits atop one of the benches, its glass fogged from exposure to the cold. A thick, weather-worn log rests beside the firepit, half-buried in snow, its surface smoothed from years of use—maybe as an extra seat, maybe as a footrest.

The entire space feels... lived in. A place of solitude. Of comfort. A place where he lets himself breathe.

I tuck my hands into my pockets, swallowing hard as nerves coil in my stomach. "I'm kind of nervous," I admit, shifting from foot to foot as James squats down, setting the snowboard on the snow in front of me. I don't know why it matters if I impress him, but for some reason it does. "I wasn't very good at this the first time I tried."

James smirks, rolling his shoulders, the movement smooth and effortless, like he's shaking off tension before a fight he already knows he'll win. "That's fine. I'll teach you."

And just like that, my stomach flips.

Because that shouldn't affect me—the quiet promise in his voice, the easy confidence, the way his eyes flick up to mine, sharp and steady. But it does.

"First things first." His voice shifts—calm, all business now—as he rises to his feet. His gaze drags over me, checking my layers—the thick insulated jacket, the waterproof bibs, the gloves. "Anything feel too tight? Too loose?"

"I'm good," I murmur, though the warmth crawling up my neck has nothing to do with the snow gear.

Still, James doesn't take my word for it. He squats down again, reaching for the straps on my boots, testing the fit before showing me how to step into the bindings. His fingers are deft, efficient, yet careful as he tightens the buckles, tugging gently to make sure everything is secure.

He rechecks. Then checks again.

I watch him, unable to help myself. The way his brows knit together in concentration. The way his hands—strong, roughened by work and weather—handle the gear with precise care. He's reckless with himself, an adrenaline junkie who thrives on risk, but when it comes to me?

He's meticulous.

The realization makes my chest feel tight, too full of something I'm too afraid to name.

When he's done strapping me onto the board, he stands in front of me, those deft hands now checking my jacket, zipping it up like he's making sure I'm warm enough. His focus never wavers, his movements deliberate. 

As he does, my gaze drops to the jacket and bibs I'm wearing—a woman's set that just so happened to be tucked away with Tyler and James's snowboarding gear.

My stomach twists as I remember his explanation. How they keep extra gear around for friends who come over. But I can't help but wonder how many of those friends are women. And how many of those women are more than friends?

I bite my lip, trying to shake the thought away. It's stupid. He's a grown man. Of course, he's had women in his life. But then—like a cruel, unwelcomed ghost—the image of him kissing that girl outside of Souder's Bar flashes through my mind. Her hands fisting his jacket, her body pressed against his like she belonged there.

Did she wear this jacket too? 

Did he bring her out here, to this same spot, to teach her how to snowboard, just like he's doing with me?

I clench my jaw, hating how much I suddenly want to rip this jacket off.

James tilts his head, watching me like he can see exactly where my mind has gone. "Stop thinking so hard."

"What?"

"You know what." His gaze holds mine, unwavering. "I need you here. With me. Think you can shut off that beautiful mind of yours long enough to get through this?"

My stomach flips.

He didn't call 
me
 beautiful. He called my 
mind
 beautiful. Even so, the words settle inside me, warm and dangerous.

Get over yourself, Annelly. It doesn't mean anything
.

I nod absently, a halfhearted answer to his questions.

 "Good. Now, are you warm enough?" His gaze drags over me again, checking my layers, his brow slightly furrowed.

I swallow down the irrational tangle of emotions crushing my chest and force a nod. "Yeah. Thanks for checking."

He doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go, returning his focus to my bindings. I watch him work, my stomach still knotted, but I shove the feelings down because it doesn't matter. It's not like I have a claim on him. Even if some stupid, jealous part of me wishes I did.

"You said you did this once before?" James asks, glancing up at me.

I nod. "A long time ago."

"Okay. Basics first." He adjusts my stance on the board to demonstrate. "Heel edge stops you from sliding. Toe edge is how you steer. Distributing your weight between the edges, like a falling leave, is how you maintain control."

I nod, watching him carefully as he demonstrates. His hands guide my posture, making subtle adjustments here and there—tilting my hips, steadying my stance. 

"Got it."

"Good." 

Then he moves impossibly closer. His eyes stare right into mine as he takes my hands. Slowly and ever so carefully, he lowers me to the ground until I'm sitting on the snow. 

"Now, time to learn how to stand up."

I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. His voice is calm and patient as he teaches me how to stand—measured in a way that shouldn't affect me. But it does.

"There. Great job," he praises me, as his fingers close around mine, warm and strong.

The moment I'm back on my feet, I immediately wobble, tilting too far forward. But before I go down, his hands find my waist.

"Easy." His grip steadies me, his palms firm against the thick fabric of my jacket. "Find your balance first."

I nod, but I can't focus. Not with his hands on me. Not with his body standing so close to mine. Not with his clean, woodsy scent wrapping around me, each time the breeze blows.

He adjusts my stance, one hand on my hip, the other guiding my shoulders.

"Weight slightly back," he murmurs. "Bend your knees. Relax your stance."

I try. I really, really do. But relaxing is out of the question when his hands are on me like this, when every inch of my body is acutely aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with snowboarding.

"Good," he says, voice quieter now. "Now, let's see what you've got."

I expect him to let me go. Instead, he takes my hands in his, stepping back just slightly, waiting. 

I take a deep breath. Turning the front of the board like he showed me, I slide forward in a shaky, unsteady line. It lasts about three seconds before I start tipping sideways. Panic flares in my gut, but James is there in an instant. His hands grip me before I can fall, grounding me, steadying me like it's second nature.

"You alright?"

I nod quickly, embarrassment prickling under my skin. "Yeah. Just... I suck at this."

A quiet chuckle rumbles from his chest. "You do not suck." His smirk is pure amusement. "You just need more practice."

I blow out a breath, shaking my head. "I don't know... my ego feels kind of fragile right now."

James tilts his head, wholly unsympathetic. "Alright. Try again."

His fingers flex around mine for half a second—like he doesn't want to let go. But then, with a slow exhale, he forces himself to step back.

He lets me go. 

And this time, he doesn't hover. Even though I can 
feel
 his hesitation. Even though I can see how much it unsettles him.

I try again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Each time, James watches like a hawk. His stance is tense, his body coiled, like he's ready to lunge forward if I so much as wobble too hard. His presence is impossible to ignore—the weight of his stare, the barely restrained energy vibrating off him. The man is holding himself back. I can feel it. Like he's battling the need to intervene every time I stumble.

But then—after what feels like a dozen shaky attempts—I finally manage a short, smooth run. Pride swells in my chest. "Did you see that?"

James's lips part in a rare, 
wide 
smile, his stance loosening for the first time since we started. "Yeah. I saw." His voice is softer now, tinged with something else. Something warm. 

Pride.

And the way he looks at me—like maybe, just maybe, he's seeing me differently, too—makes my breath catch.

I grin, my confidence blooming. 

"Alright." I reset, determination humming beneath my skin. "I'm going again."

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Chapter 28

Annelly

I push off, my board gliding smoothly over the snow. The crisp air bites at my cheeks, and the fresh powder crunches beneath me as I carve an unsteady line through the clearing. The motion is exhilarating, a rush of freedom I wasn’t expecting.

But then I shift my weight wrong.

Too far forward.

My balance tilts.

Shit.

The ground rushes up fast. I twist instinctively, trying to correct myself, but it’s too late. Pain flares sharp and hot as my knee twists beneath me, my body hitting the ground hard. The impact rattles through me, knocking the breath from my lungs.

A sharp gasp rips from my throat.

James is already moving. Before I can even blink, he’s there.

“Annelly.” His voice is rough—sounding too close to something like panic.

I grit my teeth, wincing as I try to move.

“Stop.” The command snaps out of him, sharp and unyielding, his hands firm on my leg before I can shift again.

I freeze.

His touch is careful, but his fingers flex like he’s barely holding it together.

“Where does it hurt?”

“My knee,” I mumble, wincing when his fingers press against the joint.

His jaw tics, his entire body coiled tight. “You shouldn’t have fallen like that,” he scolds.

I let out a breathy, pained laugh. “Oh, so now you tell me.”

James doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even acknowledge the joke. He’s too focused, his expression dark as he carefully assesses, his hands tracing over my leg with practiced precision, testing for serious injury.

“Does this hurt?” His fingers press lightly against the tender spot.

I nod, biting my lip. “A little. But I don’t think anything’s broken.”

His exhale is sharp.

Frustrated.

“James, I’m okay,” I reassure, but he doesn’t look convinced.

He kneels there for a second, his eyes locked on mine, unreadable. His nostrils flare, his jaw clenching like he’s biting back words he doesn’t want to say. Then, just like that, he moves.

Before I can process what’s happening, he’s unbuckling the bindings, and then once I’m free, he slides an arm beneath my legs, lifting me effortlessly against his chest.

“James—”

“Don’t,” he grits out.

His voice is tight. Controlled. But the way his arms tighten around me? The way his fingers flex like he’s afraid I’m going to slip away? That’s not control. That’s something else entirely.

“James, I can walk,” I try again, but he doesn’t slow. He doesn’t even acknowledge the words. He just holds me closer, his body rigid as he starts up the trail toward the house.

The silence between us is thick, stretched taut with something unspoken. I don’t fight it. Because I can feel the truth in the way he carries me. This isn’t just about my knee. This is about him.

About the way I got hurt on his watch.

About the way it rattled him.

The hike back is slow, each step deliberate as James carries me through the snow. His grip is firm, his arms locked tight like he’s bracing for a fight he’s already lost.

Neither of us speaks.

The only sounds are the distant whisper of the wind through the trees, the crunch of his boots against the packed snow, and the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

I shouldn’t notice it.

Shouldn’t let myself sink into the warmth of him, the quiet strength in the way he holds me like I weigh nothing.

But I do.

I close my eyes against the steady rise and fall of his chest, against the scent of cedar and something distinctly James wrapping around me like a shield. And for the first time in a long time…

I feel safe.

Too safe.

My fingers twitch against his chest. I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t let myself crave something that isn’t mine to have. Because the second I let my guard down—

James tightens his grip, shifting me slightly in his arms. His fingers flex against my side, like he needs to hold me closer, like he needs to reassure himself I’m still here. His breath ghosts over my temple, warm against the cold.

“I can feel you overthinking,” he murmurs.

My heart skips.

I blink up at him. “I’m not overthinking.”

A humorless huff leaves him. “Yeah, you are.”

His gaze flicks down, catching mine.

And there it is.

That thing between us.

Tangible. Electric. Dangerous.

It stretches between us like a frayed wire, sparking with unspoken things neither of us is ready to face.

I swallow, my pulse hammering. “James—”

“Don’t.” His voice is quiet, raw. But it’s not a warning. It’s a plea.

Don’t push.

Don’t ask for more than I can give.

I close my mouth, choosing to let it go. Because he’s not ready. And to be honest… maybe neither am I.

The house comes into view just as the silence starts to suffocate me. James doesn’t slow. He doesn’t hesitate or set me down. Instead, he carries me up the long flight of stairs leading to the back porch, then through the French doors that open into the living room. From there, he carries me straight to the couch.

The moment he lowers me, his hands are on me again. Removing my jacket. Undoing the bib. Helping me pull it off. Then he’s tugging off my boots, his movements efficient, precise. Focused.

Before I can protest, he’s rolling up the leg of my sweatpants, exposing my knee. His hands brace around it, steady but firm as he gently bends and flexes the joint.

I shift, trying not to wince.

But I do.

James stills. His jaw tightens, fingers flexing near my knee like he’s not sure what to do.

It stirs an ache inside my chest.

“See?” My voice softens. “It’s not that bad.” Though extremely sore and tender, I’m fairly certain the injury isn’t serious.

He ignores me, his fingers pressing gently around the joint, his focus razor-sharp. When I suck in a breath at the pressure, something inside him cracks. His exhale is sharp. Angry. The panic and fear radiating off him in waves is palpable.

He drags a hand down his face, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Fuck. I need to get you to a doctor.”

“No—”

“It’s not up for debate.” His tone is firm, absolute. “You’re going.”

“James, no. Wait.” I reach up, cupping his face, my other hand resting over his where it still grips my knee.

His breath catches.

He freezes.

His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and startled. Like he wasn’t expecting me to touch him. Like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I swear to you,” I whisper, my thumb brushing along his jaw, grounding him, trying to anchor him. “I’m alright.”

His throat bobs, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m a dancer, remember? I know my body, which is how I know that for tonight, all I need is RICE. Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. I promise you, if it’s not better by tomorrow, then we’ll go to the doctor.”

He shakes his head like he’s preparing to argue, his other hand comes up, fingers curling around mine where it still rests against his face. Gently, he pulls my hand away—but he doesn’t let it go.

“James.” I squeeze his fingers, trying to get him to hear me. “I swear, I’m okay. I would never lie to you, especially not about something like this.”

Something flickers across his face. Unreadable. But heavy. Like maybe that promise means more to him than it should, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

Then his shoulders deflate, and he looks away.

But his fingers—they don’t let go. They still flex around mine, like he’s bracing for something. Like he’s preparing to do or say something he’s sure he’s going to regret.

And then, finally—his voice lowers, barely above a whisper. “You scared the shit out of me, Annelly.”

The confession slams into my chest. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to breathe past the weight of those words. Because I don’t know what to do with this. With him. With the raw, unfiltered emotion packed into just that one sentence.

So I do the only thing I can think of.

I intertwine my fingers with his. And I squeeze. Just once. Just enough to let him know I hear him. That I see him. That I feel him.

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

His throat bobs. For a second, it looks like he’s going to pull away. Like he’s going to shut down, run, put the walls back up where they belong.

But then—

He sighs.

And nods.

“Yeah, okay. We’ll try it your way.”

For a moment, I just stare at him, a stinging sensation burning behind my eyes. Because I know what this means. I know what this cost him.

James doesn’t let go easily. Of control. Of decisions. Of the responsibility that’s weighed on his shoulders since the moment he was old enough to carry it.

But right now?

That’s exactly what he’s doing.

He’s trusting me. To know my own body. To make this call. To decide what comes next—not just for me, but for us both. And for James… that’s no small feat. It means everything.

So I make a decision too.

I won’t ever betray that trust. For as long as I’m here, I won’t let him carry the weight of everything alone. Even if he doesn’t see it yet, even if he doesn’t realize I can take care of him too —that I want to .

But I’ll show him.

No matter what comes next, I’ll prove to him that when it comes to us—whether friendship or more—he’ll never have to carry the burden of our relationship alone.

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# Chapter 29

James

The house is quiet. 

Except for the low hum of the TV and the occasional rustle of fabric as Annelly shifts on the couch, adjusting the ice pack I gave her. 

But that's it. 

Tyler's upstairs, already passed out after a long day of school, which means it's just the two of us now.

Her, lying on the couch, resting her injured knee.

Me, pacing around the house like a damn lunatic.

I drag the dishrag over the kitchen counter again, even though I already wiped it down twice. Then I straighten the barstools, adjust the stack of mail on the counter, then open and close the refrigerator door like I'm looking for something—like I didn't just finish putting dinner away minutes ago.

I can't stop moving. I can't sit still.

Because when I try, the second I stop, my mind replays that moment all over again. The way she went down. The sharp gasp of pain that tore through her throat. The way she clutched her knee. How fucking helpless I felt when I realized I had no way of stopping what was happening.

My jaw tightens.

I shouldn't have taken her out there. I should have thought of another way to pull her out of her head, or at the very least, I should have prepared her better. Teaching her how to fall, how to protect her body if she lost control. That should have been at the top of my list, but I let my guard down. I let her smile get to me. Let myself believe—for one reckless fucking second—that distracting her from the thoughts consuming her was worth the risk.

And now she's hurt.

I exhale hard, gripping the edge of the marble counter, my knuckles going white as I try to shove down the frustration curling tight in my gut. But it's useless. Because the image is already there, playing on a loop.

The way she grinned when she finally got the hang of it. 

That beaming, proud-as-hell smile right before she fell.

And 
that
's the worst part. She was happy. She was proud of herself. And I fucking loved it. For the briefest second, I wasn't thinking about consequences. I wasn't thinking about keeping my distance, or protecting myself, or all the ways being this close to her is going to backfire. 

In that moment, all I cared about was 
her
. 

All I wanted to do was make 
her
 happy.

It was a fucking mistake.

From the couch, Annelly shifts, adjusting the ice on her knee. The second she winces, a quiet little hiss slipping past her lips, something inside me snaps. 

My spine locks up. My pulse kicking hard against my ribs. My hands flex at my sides—fists clenching, then unclenching—like I don't know what to do with them.

I mutter a curse under my breath. 

I fucking hate seeing her in pain.

It was my job to protect her. 

And that I let this happen? The fact I let her get this close—close enough to matter, close enough to make me 
feel
 responsible for her? That's a whole different kind of mistake. One I sure as 
hell
 can't afford to make, yet here I am, feeling like it's already too late. Like I've already fallen for her. 

And fuck if that's not the most dangerous realization of all.

I know she's watching me. I can 
feel
 her gaze tracking my every move from across the room, catching every telltale sign that I'm spiraling. But I 
can't
 stop.

I've already checked her knee 
three times
 since dinner. Made sure the compression bandage was secure. Brought her fresh ice. Fluffed her damn pillows like some idiot who doesn't know what else to do with his hands. 

It's quite pathetic.

And still, it's not enough to make me stop.

Because she's still hurt.

And I'm the reason why.

I glance at her again—she's curled up on the couch, her injured leg propped up on pillows, the ice pack balanced carefully over her knee. She looks comfortable. Relaxed, even. 

And she's so fucking beautiful it cracks something in my chest. 

But her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes I've been working so damn hard to avoid—are locked on me. 

Watching. 

Tracking. 

Like she sees straight through me. Like she knows I'm not actually doing anything—just pacing, circling, pretending I have a reason to keep moving.

And yeah. I get it. The furrow of her brow. The slight tilt of her head. I probably do look like a caged animal. 

"James."

The way she says my name—soft, steady, knowing—makes my chest go tight.

I don't answer. 

I can't. 

Instead, I pretend I didn't hear her. I move again, this time crossing the room, as I check the door and windows—making sure they're still locked, which of course, they are.

Annelly sighs. "You know, for a guy who hates inefficiency, you're doing an awful lot of unnecessary busywork. Why don't you come and sit with me?"

My steps falter. 

Do I want to sit with her? 
Maybe
. 

But should I? 
Fuck no
. 

I don't trust myself that close to her. Not right now. Not when I can still hear her sharp intake of breath when she fell. Not when my hands are still itching to fix it, to take away her pain, to make sure she's alright even though she's told me a dozen times she is.

I drag a hand down my face. I should keep my distance. I should—

The couch shifts as she scoots over, making room. Then she pats the space beside her. "Come on, James," she murmurs, her voice warm and gentle. "I won't take no for an answer. Watching you like that is making 
me
 anxious."

I hesitate.

I should walk away. I should ignore her. But before I know what I'm doing, before I can stop myself, I'm already moving. 

Sinking down on the edge of the couch beside her. 

Letting myself get close. 

And fuck—

I know instantly that I've made a mistake. Because the second I sit, the second I breathe her in, all the fight drains out of me. Like she's my kryptonite, there's something about this girl that weakens me.

Still, I try to fight it. 

I don't relax.

Not even a little.

I sit on the edge of the couch facing her, elbows braced against my knees, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles ache. My jaw is locked. My shoulders tense. Every muscle in my body wound up like a live wire.

She's too close. 

So goddamn close, I swear I can feel the heat of her body teasing against the fabric of my sweatpants.
 
The scent of her—jasmine and vanilla, soft and warm—wraps around me, digging under my skin, sinking into my bloodstream, making my cock stir. 

Fuck.

My pulse ticks faster, my grip tightening between my hands as I will my body to calm the fuck down. She's hurt. This isn't the time. This isn't the place. And yet here I am. Sitting beside her, fighting a war against myself—one I already know I'm going to lose. Because no matter how much I try to resist her, no matter how many times I tell myself to pull back... this is what she does to me.  

Unable to look at her, I stare at the flickering fireplace across the room, forcing myself to focus on something—anything—other than the beautiful girl beside me.

"How's the knee?" 

"The same as when you asked five minutes ago." And somehow—don't ask me how—I can hear her smile as she answers.

That fucking smile.
 

That same one that no matter what I do, I just can't get out of my head.

I swallow hard. The need to say something pressing hard under my skin. "I'm sorry." The words scrape out like gravel in my throat. "If I'd taught you how to fall properly, this never would've happened."

She shifts. Not much, but enough that I feel the movement. Then suddenly, she's sitting up, bringing us even closer, her face so near to mine I swear I feel her breath skim across my skin.

I don't look at her. 

I can't.

Not when I know what's coming.

Not when I know she's about to say something that will gut me.

"James..." Her voice is soft. Steady. Unshakable. 

I brace myself. 
Here it comes.

"You didn't do anything wrong. I don't blame you for what happened. Not for a second. In fact, I appreciate what you did for me today. You gave me something I haven't had in a long time—something that had nothing to do with heartache, or the past, or running." Her voice drops even lower, like she's sharing something sacred. "Just... fun. A moment to just be. To be free. "

Something inside me cracks. Like she just found the weakest part of my armor and drove a blade straight through it.

I squeeze my hands together, forcing down the sharp, foreign sensation clawing its way up my throat. I want to argue. Hell, I need to argue. Need to tell her she's wrong. That I should have done better. That if I'd been paying more attention, if I'd done my damn job, if I hadn't taken her out there in the first place—

But then I make the mistake of looking at her.

And 
fuck.

The way she's looking at me. It wrecks me.

Awe. Reverence. Something softer. Something deeper. No one has ever looked at me like this before. Like I matter. Like I'm worth something. Like she doesn't blame me. Like she doesn't see me as the man who let her down. Doesn't see me as a failure.

And suddenly, I can't breathe. 

I feel unmoored. Unsteady. 

Because something about the way she's looking at me—the quiet trust, the quiet belief in me—reminds me of the things I've spent my whole life chasing.

Home. Safety. Security.

The things I swore I'd fight for. The things I built my entire life around. The things I've always thought I had to protect for everyone else—but never let myself have. But now? 

As I sit here looking into her beautiful green eyes, I can't help but wonder...

Maybe home was never a place at all. 

Maybe it was always meant to be a person.

My jaw ticks, clenched so tight it's damn near aching. My hands flex, twitching like I'm barely hanging on. But before I can look away, before I can shut this down, bury it, lock it away like I always do—

She reaches for me. Her fingers lace through mine. Soft. Warm. Delicate.

I stop breathing.

Jesus Christ.

I should pull away. 

Fuck
, I totally should.

But I don't.

Instead, I just sit there. Absorbing the perfect feel of her hand in mine. Absorbing her. 

My pulse hammers, my body exhausted from being caught in a war it doesn't want to fight anymore.

Because of her. 

And when she looks at me like that, when she holds me like this? 

I don't want to run. 

Not from her. 

Not from whatever the hell this is.

For the first time since my world came crashing down at twelve years old, for the first time...

I want to run towards it.

Towards her. 

Because maybe, just maybe—she is my home.

My safety.

My security.

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Chapter 30

James

I should pull my hand from hers, shove to my feet, and put distance between us before she makes me forget who I am—what I live for—why I have these rules. But the tenderness of her touch, the slow featherlight brush of her thumb over the skin of my knuckles, stops me cold.

I inhale sharply.

She must feel it—the tension rolling off me, the way my muscles go rigid beneath her fingers,—because she shifts, tilting her head slightly, studying me. Then her gaze drops back to my hand. The one she’s holding. The one she’s still tracing, her fingertips skimming over the rough, jagged lines like she’s memorizing them.

That’s when I realize what she’s looking at.

The scars.

The scabs splitting across my knuckles, still raw from earlier, when I worked my fists into bloody pulps—desperate to burn off the guilt. The failure. The way my own fucking heart nearly stopped when I heard her cry out in pain.

Her brows pull together, fingers brushing lightly over the bruised skin. “James…” Her voice is quiet, careful. Worried .

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

She looks up at me, waiting, and I instantly know what she wants. What she’s asking without saying it. An explanation.

I exhale a long, slow drag of air, then force myself to tell her the truth. “I lied to you.”

Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t speak. She just waits me out .

“I wasn’t working earlier,” I clarify, my voice tight. “I was in the gym.” My jaw flexes. My chest squeezes. “Taking it out on the bag.”

Her fingers flex around mine. “Taking what out?”

I shift, tense, my free hand curling into a fist on my lap. “The fact that I let you get hurt.”

She stares at me, eyes soft, unguarded. “James—”

“I should’ve done better.” The words rip from me before I can stop them. “I should’ve taught you how to fall. Should’ve paid closer attention to your stance, to how much weight you were shifting forward. I should’ve been closer. Should have been there to catch you before you went down.”

Her grip tightens like she’s trying to hold me together, but there’s no point. It’s too late.

And I hate it. Hate how reckless I was with her. Hate that I let her get so fucking close. Close enough that when she fell, it felt like my entire fucking world tipped over with her.

She looks down at my hand again, frowning. Her fingers trail over the fresh cuts, the scabbed-over wounds from yesterday, over the old, now healed-up scars I’ve collected like trophies over the years. Her touch is slow, deliberate—like she’s trying to understand. Like she’s trying to process what they all mean.

“Is this… normal for you?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Hurting yourself when you’re angry or frustrated?”

I

freeze.

I should lie. Should tell her this was a one-time thing, that she’s reading too much into it. That it doesn’t matter.

But I don’t.

Because the truth is right there, beneath her fingers where she’s still touching me. Where she’s still looking at my hand like she feels my pain. Like, she gives a damn.

And I don’t know how to fight that.

So I swallow hard and force myself to say it. “Yeah.” A bitter laugh scrapes from my throat. “Been this way since I was a kid.”

She flinches—just slightly—but I catch it. And I hate it. Hate that she’s seeing me like this. That my past and the things I’ve done might affect how she sees me going forward.

“James…”

I shake my head, looking away. Because if I keep staring at her, I’ll break open completely.

“It helps. The pain. It…soothes me.” My throat works to force out the words as I keep going. “When I get stuck in my head, when the anger’s too much—” I exhale roughly, running a hand down my face. “It gets it out.”

Silence.

Then softly—gently—she says, “I don’t like it.”

It knocks the air from my lungs.

I look at her, stunned. Because no one’s ever said that before. My brother, the men I call my friends, the women I’ve been with—they’ve all noticed the scars. The fresh cuts where I’ve regularly ripped my skin open. And not once has anyone bothered to call me out on it. Not until now.

Not until her.

She shakes her head as she takes my other hand, examining them both, fingers ghosting over old wounds and fresh ones alike.

“I don’t like that you do this to yourself. I don’t like that you think you deserve it.” She swallows, her voice turning soft but fierce. “And I hate that I was the reason this time.”

My stomach drops. “Annelly—”

“No, I mean it.” She cuts me off, her eyes locking onto mine, raw and earnest. “Knowing that you did this because of me? It hurts, James.” She looks down, inhales deeply, then meets my gaze again. “I don’t want to be the reason you bleed.”

Her words hit me hard. A punch to the gut. A sledgehammer to my ribs. They steal the breath from my lungs and burn behind my eyes.

Because fuck —no one has ever cared enough to wonder why I do this to myself. To tell me that when I hurt, they hurt too. And I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with that either.

I don’t know what to do with her.

She’s undoing me.

Piece by fucking piece.

And now she’s just… sitting there, watching me, waiting. Like she knows I’m still unraveling. Like she knows I don’t have a single defense left to stop it. To stop her.

I drag in a slow, controlled breath, trying to find my footing again.

But then—she shifts.

Not fast. Not sudden. Just a gentle lean forward. Slow enough that I feel her before I even process what’s happening. Before her forehead makes contact with my shoulder.

I go completely still.

Her weight is barely there—the lightest touch—like she’s giving me space to pull away if I want to.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

She’s warm. Soft.

The scent of jasmine and vanilla wraps around me, sinking deep into my bones, into my bloodstream, into every fucking part of me.

I exhale—slowly.

The tight coil of guilt, tension, frustration… unraveling under the weight of her touch.

This isn’t a hug. She’s not forcing a physical connection, nor is she forcing me to talk. She’s not demanding that I explain myself or justify the way I cope. She’s not asking me for anything at all.

She’s just… here.

With me.

I swallow hard, my gaze locked on the floor as I fight the urge to wrap my arms around her. To pull her close. To hold onto her like she’s the lifeline I never knew I needed.

Maybe that’s why—without thinking, without meaning to—I turn my head. My nose brushes her hair. Soft. Lighter than I imagined. And before I can stop myself, before I can think about what I’m doing—

I inhale.

Deep. Slow.

I draw her scent into my lungs, branding it into my memory.

Fuck.

This is dangerous.

I should move. I should pull away, put space between us before I do something stupid, something I can’t take back. But I don’t.

My fingers twitch, and for one reckless second, I think about reaching for her. About tangling my hands in her hair, dragging her closer. Closing the last few inches between us and finally tasting her lips—

By some miracle, I catch myself just in time. Instead, I mutter an unfiltered, “What are you doing to me?”

It’s not a question I expect her to answer. It’s not even a question I want answered.

Because I already know.

She’s undoing me. Piece by fucking piece, she’s taking me apart.

Annelly shifts just slightly, a soft chuckle slipping past her lips. And somehow, that sound wrecks me more than anything else. Because it’s proof she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. And what’s worse? I don’t mind it at all. Not as much as I probably should.

Before I can stop myself, before I can think of all the reasons I shouldn’t, I lace our fingers together. A move that feels natural. Perfect. Like we fit in ways I never knew were possible.

As if she’s surprised it’s me initiating the contact, her head lifts. Slowly, her eyes meet mine, wide and searching—like she’s trying to understand this. Like she’s waiting for me to explain why I’m doing this after spending so much time convincing us both that we shouldn’t.

I don’t have an answer. At least not one I can give, while she’s this close. While we’re touching. While her eyes are hooked on mine, tethering me to something I don’t know how to escape from.

It’s like I’m under some sort of spell.

It’s the only explanation for why I do something worse . Something stupid. Something I know I shouldn’t. I lift our joined hands. Turn hers over. And press my lips to the inside of her wrist.

Soft.

Fleeting.

But I feel it.

The way she shudders. The way her breath catches. The way her fingers tighten around mine like she’s trying to anchor herself. Trying to hold on to whatever the hell this is between us.

I shouldn’t have done it. But I did.

I shouldn’t want this. But God help me, I do.

And when she inhales sharply, when I feel the flutter of her pulse against my lips, I know—

Without question.

I’m completely and irrevocably fucked. Because the feel of her bare skin against my lips? That one small, stolen, selfish moment?

It ruined me.

It shattered every last piece of control I had left. And the worst part? I don’t even regret it. Because for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m carrying the fate of the world on my shoulders. I don’t feel like I have to fight. I don’t feel like I have to run. I don’t have to be anything.

Not the protector.

Not the enforcer.

Not the man who carries everyone else’s burdens.

With her… I can be just me.

Just James.

Sitting on a couch, in a quiet house, with a woman who somehow—without even trying—is unraveling every last defense I have. And the way she makes me feel, the things she makes me want… it

terrifies the hell out of me .

Which is why to deflect, the next words out of my mouth are rough. Firm. Absolute.

“You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

Her breath catches.

Hard.

I see it happen. Feel it, through the connection of our hands. The way her fingers flex in mine. The way her chest rises just a little faster. The way her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something—like she’s trying to process the words I just said.

Hell. I would be, too.

Because that … that sounded like so much more than what I meant.

Shit.

I shake my head, already backtracking. “I mean—” I clear my throat, finally pulling my hand from hers as I rub at my face. I can’t think while touching her. “You should take my bed tonight.”

She blinks. Still trying to process what’s happening.

“It’s on the main floor,” I add, my voice calmer now. “No stairs. Easier on your knee.”

Her brows lift slightly like she’s piecing everything together, settling into the reality of what I actually meant.

“I’ll take your room,” I continue, already knowing she’s going to argue. “You’ll be more comfortable in my bed, and I don’t want you struggling with the stairs.”

As predicted, she opens her mouth to protest. But I shake my head before she can get a word out. “Annelly. I’m not asking.”

Her lips press together. A moment of hesitation. Then, finally—she exhales. “Fine.”

I nod. “Good.”

Except it’s not good.

Because the second she agrees, something unexpected happens.

A sharp, unmistakable warmth spreads through my chest.

Relief.

Strangest of all, a sense of satisfaction. Like some primal, territorial part of me is too damn pleased with the thought of her — warm, soft, tempting—curled up in my bed.

And the worst part?

My body reacts to the thought before my brain can even catch up. A slow, smoldering heat unfurls deep in my gut. My fingers twitch with the instinct to reach for her. To pull her close. To press her against me, to feel her body mold to mine, to claim those lips, mark her skin, to make sure when she falls asleep in my bed, she dreams of only me.

And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.

Because that thought?

That image?

It doesn’t scare me at all.

And that right there is what scares me most of all.

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# Chapter 31

James

The smell of coffee and bacon fills the kitchen, the soft sizzle of eggs on the stove blending with the occasional scrape of my spatula against the pan. I should be focused on breakfast—on making sure Tyler doesn't bitch about his eggs being too runny, or on flipping the pancakes before they burn—but my attention keeps drifting.

To her.

Annelly moves around the kitchen, her steps light despite the slight limp I pretend not to notice. She's wearing one of my hoodies—the same one she stole three nights ago and conveniently forgot to return. The sleeves are too long, the hem skimming just past her hips, and every time she reaches for something, she has to push the fabric up her arms, revealing brief glimpses of soft, smooth skin.

I shouldn't be watching her. 

I shouldn't care how good she looks in my clothes.

My grip tightens around the spatula, my brows furrowed, as I force my brain not to go there and instead focus on the pancakes.

Angry at her for being so damn distracting, I grumble, "You're not supposed to be on your feet."

Completely unfazed, she reaches for the coffee pot. "And you're not supposed to be so grumpy, yet here we are."

My eyes narrow at that sassy mouth, but before I can argue, she wobbles slightly when she shifts her weight wrong.

Before I even register it, I'm already moving. Catching her arm, I help steady her while she regains her footing.

"What the fuck, Annelly?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, then yet again... she deserves it.

She exhales dramatically, like I'm the unreasonable one here. "James."

"Sit. The. Fuck. Down."

"I'm fine," she huffs.

"No. You're not."

"It's just a little sore," she argues, brushing past me to check on the bacon. 

My jaw ticks as I track every step she takes. She's been moving better the past couple of days, the swelling on her knee almost completely gone. But that doesn't mean she should be standing, let alone trying to help. Yet instead of forcing her to sit like I normally would, I let her move around the kitchen with me, the two of us working in easy rhythm—like we've been doing this forever.

Like this is normal.

Like this is how it always should be.

Five days ago, that thought would have sent me spiraling into a panic. But now? Now, it doesn't. Which would probably be unsettling if I were actually thinking straight. 

The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts just as Tyler strolls in, looking half-asleep as he drops onto a stool at the kitchen island. He rubs his face, then blinks slowly at the sight of Annelly and me, standing side by side, cooking together.

Then, like the little shit he is, he grins.

"Well, well, well," he drawls. "If it isn't my two favorite people looking suspiciously domestic."

Annelly smirks as she sets a plate of bacon on the counter. "Good morning, Tyler."

He ignores her, his eyes locked on me, like he's 
onto
 something.

"Eat your damn breakfast," I grumble, sliding his plate of eggs in his direction.

Tyler hums approvingly, reaching across the table to grab some bacon. "You're really bad at pretending this isn't a thing."

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "What 
isn't
 a thing?"

Tyler gestures vaguely between Annelly and me, stuffing a piece of bacon into his mouth. "That."

Annelly lifts a brow. "What? Us making breakfast?"

"Yes! Just the fact he let you into his..." He does air quotes. "Kitchen to cook alongside him is rather telling." 

Then, he leans forward, eyes dancing with mischief. "Plus the soft smiles, the weird come hither looks full of longing, then all the extra touching, and then the—" 

He drops his voice into a deep, exaggerated version of mine. "You're limping. You shouldn't be walking... let me take care of you, 
Annelly.
" 

He snickers, shaking his head. "Dude. It's kind of a lot."

Annelly giggles. 

She fucking giggles.

I glare at Tyler. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Not until ten." He pops another bite of bacon into his mouth, looking way too entertained. "This is better than TV, though. So I'm staying."

I mutter a curse under my breath and focus on plating the eggs, but Tyler's words stick with me.

Because he's not wrong. But there's no way in hell I'll ever admit it. Not to him. Maybe not even to myself.

Like she's testing my patience, Annelly limps her way to the fridge, reaching inside to grab the orange juice. The second she winces, my entire body goes rigid. 

"Jesus, Annelly." I scowl, setting down my coffee. "I told you, you shouldn't be up."

"I 
swear
 to God—" she mutters, setting the juice down on the kitchen island.

"Wow, the chemistry between you two is off the charts," Tyler chimes in, his smile looking too damn close to that of an overeager golden retriever. "And you," he points at Annelly. "You're really committed to this whole 'I'm good, I'm fine' while walking around looking like a ninety-year-old grandpa, huh?"

Annelly freezes mid-pour, slowly turning her head to glare at him. "Did you just—?"

Tyler doesn't even flinch. "Yep. I said it. Totally went there." His smirk is pure, unrepentant mischief.

A pancake suddenly comes flying across the space, hitting him square in the chest.

"What the hell?!" Tyler stares down at his now buttered and syrup-stained shirt.

Annelly shrugs innocently, setting down her fork. "Must've slipped."

I exhale hard, dragging a hand down my face. "Really? What are you, six? You've been around long enough to know that the best course of action is to ignore him."

She looks at me, completely unbothered. "Oh, come on. You know he had it coming."

I glance at my brother, who's inspecting the mess on his shirt like it personally offended him.

Tyler sighs. "I regret nothing. Except that now I have to change my shirt."

I shake my head. These two are too fucking much.

But then I notice Annelly is back on her feet, this time wincing as she comes around to where I'm standing to grab a napkin I could just as easily have handed to her. 

And that is fucking it. 

I'm done.

In two steps I'm standing over her, her eyes wide with surprise as I slide my arms around her knees and back, lifting her with zero effort and carrying her straight back towards where she should be sitting. 

Annelly lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Oh my God. James. What are you doing?"

"Keep testing me," I mutter darkly. "I have no problem carrying you everywhere if you don't stop doing whatever the hell you want and start listening to me."

Tyler smirks, way too entertained. "Of course. Any excuse to get your hands all over her again, right?"

I level him with a glare. "Shut it, Tyler."

But it's too late. I see it—the way his smirk grows.

"Man," he continues, shaking his head. "I 
never
 pegged you as the handsy type." He turns to Annelly. "I mean, does this do it for you, Nell? This whole alpha dominance thing?"

"Eat your damn breakfast," I growl.

Tyler just grins.

Annelly, on the other hand, turns beet red, looking far 
too
 tempting in my arms, for her own damn good. The warmth of her, the jasmine vanilla scent, the weight of her soft body against mine, and now that sexy flush creeping down her neck sends all the blood in my body pulsating down to my groin.

What the fuck is happening? 

I need to reclaim control over this situation. Fast.

"Sit." My voice is rough as I set her back down in her chair.

Annelly blinks up at me, still looking slightly frazzled, before attempting a half-hearted glare. "Bossy." 

That weak-ass glare is fricken adorable. My lips twitch, a barely there grin forming before I can stop it.

"Stubborn," I fire back, then grab her coffee cup off the counter, pouring her a fresh one before setting it back down in front of her. 

She watches me, baffled as if trying to process why I just did that. Then, when she reaches for the cream, I beat her to it.

She scowls this time.

I pour in just the right amount, knowing damn well she only likes a splash. I hand it to her without a word.

Her eyes narrow. Then she takes a sip and 
visibly
 enjoys it.

Tyler side-eyes the entire exchange, chewing obnoxiously slow with a mischievous grin on his face. "Damn. Should we start wedding planning now, or are we skipping straight to the baby shower?"

I ignore him, uttering a gruff, "Both of you. Eat."

For the next few minutes, everything is peaceful. Tyler's busy shoveling food into his mouth, while Annelly takes small bites and sips on her coffee. She still looks a bit flustered, probably still embarrassed by her body's reaction to the way I handled her earlier. 

Not that I'm thinking about that. 

Because—fuck, I'm not going there.

I'm halfway to convincing myself that this is normal. Just a regular morning sitting in our kitchen with a friend, enjoying breakfast.

But then, because Tyler can't go more than five minutes without stirring shit up, he just has to go and ruin it.

"So Annelly," he says casually, cutting into a pancake. "When do you think you'll be ready to get back on a snowboard?"

I freeze mid-chew and level him with a look. "No. She's not getting back on a snowboard. Not ever."

Annelly's brows shoot up like she wasn't expecting that answer. Which is fucking crazy. She has met me. "Wait. Why not?"

Tyler perks up, immediately invested.

I take a sip of my coffee. "Because it's dangerous. Look what happened the last time."

"When you first helped me up on the board, and I almost fell, you told me I just needed more practice."

"At that time, you did. But now... you're still hurt, Annelly. And the worst part? It could have been so much worse."

"But I'm okay." She sighs dramatically. "Come on, James. It was fun. And my knee is almost fully healed."

"You threw a pancake at Tyler five minutes ago because he said you walk like a grandpa with all your limping."

She scowls. "That wasn't about my leg. He was being annoying."

"Hey—" Tyler cuts in, sounding genuinely offended, which is fucking ridiculous, given I tell him he's annoying every chance I get.

I arch a brow at her. "Really? It had nothing to do with the fact you're limping?"

"Yes. I mean no." Annelly huffs, exasperated. "Falling is part of learning, James."

"So is not falling."

"That's impossible."

"Not if you don't snowboard again."

She gapes at me. "You cannot be serious."

I sip my coffee. "Try me, snowflake. You'll see just how serious I am." The second the nickname leaves my mouth, I know I'm screwed. It was meant to be a dig—fitting considering she wiped out on the mountain, nearly gave me a heart attack, and is now permanently banned from all winter sports. But the moment I say it, I realize I kind of like the way it sounds.

Tyler's trying so hard not to laugh. I can see it—the way his lips twitch, the way he's just waiting for his chance to chime in and stir the pot.

"I'm a grown woman. And—and, you're not my dad," Annelly says flatly.

"No, I'm the guy making sure you don't break your damn leg on a mountain."

"Oh my God," she groans, setting her fork down to gesture wildly between us. "You're unbelievable. You realize I could get hurt doing literally 
anything
, right? Walking down the stairs, slipping on ice, choking on my coffee—"

"Which is why we eat together, why where you go, I go, and why you'll continue to sleep in my bed," I mutter absently, pushing some eggs around on my plate.

Silence.

Then I realize what the fuck I just said.

My grip tightens around my fork.

Tyler stops chewing. "Wait—what?"

Annelly blinks slowly, like she's processing my words one by one.

Fuck.

I keep my expression blank, like I didn't just completely humiliate myself.

Tyler's grinning now, his fork suspended in midair. "You guys are sleeping together?"

I glare at my eggs, refusing to look at either of them. "No. We're not. You know what I meant, so don't be a dick. She's better off staying in my room since it's on the main floor. Saves her from having to do the steps with an injured knee."

Tyler stares at me, one brow arched high, looking like a bad cop trying to trick a master liar into a confession. "So, to confirm your whereabouts..." He leans forward, his grin stretching wider. "While she's been sleeping in your bed, where exactly have you been laying your head at night?"

If looks could kill, my little brother would be dead.

"I refuse to dignify that with an answer," I say flatly.

But I can already feel it—the heat creeping under my skin, my body betraying me as memories from the past three nights invade my thoughts. I should feel guilty. And maybe I kind of do, but the thing is... a man like me has only so much restraint. 

Now, sure. I could have changed the sheets and saved myself the humiliation of jerking off twice a night before bed to images of her. But the minute I walked into that room and caught her lingering jasmine vanilla scent all over the damn pillows, I was wrecked. 

And it didn't stop there. 

Because the second my brain started down that road, it didn't just picture her sleeping in my bed—it pictured her naked between my sheets, her body soft and warm, her breath hitching as I pulled her against me. Skin to skin. Me behind her. My arm wrapped tight around her waist, my lips at her neck, my hand gripping her thigh, pulling her flush against me—

Fuck.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face, mentally drop-kicking myself for even letting my brain go there when she's sitting right here, ten feet away, completely unaware of what she's doing to me.

But now? 

Now, it's all I can think about. 

Which is fucking insane.

I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the fact my body is absolutely on board with where my thoughts have gone.

Fuck.

Annelly tilts her head, studying me. Like maybe she knows exactly what I was just thinking about.

I clear my throat, reaching for my orange juice, desperate for a fucking break and a shift in the conversation.

Tyler—clueless as ever—shrugs. "You know, maybe James could take you snowmobiling instead."

I almost choke on my drink. I cough once, wiping my mouth, and setting my cup down harder than necessary. "Absolutely not."

Annelly perks up. "Why not?"

Tyler, seeing his golden opportunity, smirks. "Yeah, James. Why not? You're, like, a snowmobiling god."

I drag a lethal look toward him. "Because I said no."

Annelly grins. "Tyler, you know how to, right? Why don't you take me?"

I choke. 

Full-on, airways-close-up CHOKE.

What the actual fuck did she just say?

Nope. 

Not happening. 

Over my dead fucking body.

I fight to breathe, barely recovering as they both watch me struggle, clearly entertained by my impending cardiac arrest. 

Once recovered, my voice still hoarse, I deadpan, "No snowboarding. No snowmobiling. If it has the word 'snow' in it, it's a hard no."

Tyler snickers. Then, under his breath, he leans toward Annelly and mutters, "That's alright. Spring's right around the corner. We'll take you out on the dirt bikes instead. That doesn't have the word 'snow' in it."

Annelly beams.

I bite back a groan while rubbing my hands down my face. 

I need to shut this shit down now, before these two lunatics come up with yet more ways for Annelly to get herself killed. 

And because I can't exactly kick Tyler out of his own damn kitchen, I take the only out I have left.

I stand, grab my empty plate, and turn to her. "You remember we have a call with Ben at 11:30, right?"

Annelly's smile fades.

And I instantly hate myself. Regret kicks me in the ribs the second the words leave my mouth, but there's no taking them back now.

Annelly sets her fork down. "That's right."

Unable to take the sudden brokenness in her voice, I stalk to the sink, my jaw clenched so tight I might just break a damn tooth. If I did, it'd be no less than I deserve. 

In the meantime, Tyler lets out a long dramatic sigh before muttering, "You always know just what to say to kill the vibe."

Annelly smirks faintly, picking up her coffee. "At least the call will keep him from obsessing over my knee."

Tyler perks up. "That's true. If we keep him stressed out about the hitmen, he won't have time to—"

"Enough." I cut in, my voice low and firm.

He's joking. I know he's joking. But fuck if it doesn't settle like a weight in my chest.

Because that's the problem, isn't it?

We shouldn't be here, joking over breakfast like there isn't a target on her back. Like I haven't already imagined a hundred different ways this could all go to hell. Like there isn't a very real possibility that something might happen to her before I can stop it.

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Chapter 32

James

Even born into a world stacked against me, I never saw the point in dwelling on what-ifs. I was too busy fighting to survive, too focused on clawing my way out of the hellish hand fate dealt my brother and me.

No.

Thinking about that shit—wondering what could have been—does nothing but rip open old wounds better left buried. It leads to heartache. Bitterness. Regret. A cocktail of emotions I’ve never been able to afford. It’s why I’ve never wasted time questioning what kind of man I might have been if I’d grown up with parents who gave a damn. Never let myself wonder what life would have looked like if safety and stability had been a given, instead of something I had to bleed for.

That is until now.

Five days since she moved in, and I can’t stop thinking about all the ways life has cheated me. What I went through as a kid… those experiences robbed me of the chance to have a normal adult life. Until recently, I thought I was okay with that. That I’d made peace with the life I built—the one where I put my past behind me, made damn sure my brother had better, and left it at that.

But having her here, in our home, has opened my eyes to something I didn’t know was missing. A hint of possibility I never dared let myself consider.

Something in me has clearly shifted. I feel it in the quiet moments, in the stolen glances, in the way my fingers twitch with the urge to reach for her. I feel it in the way she moves through my house, through my life, like she belongs. Like she’s always belonged. Even when she’s driving me crazy.

The way her presence fills the hollow spaces inside me only makes me see just how empty I’ve been. A discovery that was jarring as hell at first, but now? Now, it just has me craving her more.

Being so close to her feels right.

And that’s what’s so fucking wrong.

I should want distance. I should want space. But I don’t. Not really. Not when the thought of her not being here twists something sharp and ugly deep in my gut. Not when the weight of her absence is already pressing down on me, suffocating, even though she hasn’t left yet.

I shake the thought away, forcing my focus back to the present. Ben’s voice cuts through the speakerphone.

“Emilia had the baby about an hour ago. A boy, George Wyatt.”

I nod absently, flipping through the paperwork on my desk, pretending like I haven’t just been sucker-punched with emotion. It’s not the news that hits me—it’s what it represents.

Lucas has everything I swore I’d never want. A family. A future tied to a woman he loves and who loves him back just as fiercely. And not for the first time since watching the two of them dance at their wedding, I find myself wondering what it would feel like to have that. To be that kind of man.

Ben keeps talking, oblivious to the mess going on inside my head.

“Given the circumstances, I’ve given Lucas the next three weeks off. For now, we’ll leave him out of this and all other OTS business. He’ll come to us if he’s ready to come back before then.”

It makes sense. The baby Emilia just gave birth to isn’t Lucas’s—it’s Creed’s. She hadn’t known she was pregnant when she and Lucas found their way back to each other, and when the truth came out, he was given the choice: walk away or stand by her as she carried another man’s child.

In the end, he chose her.

Technically, he chose them .

“Understood.”

Movement catches my eye, and even before I see her face, I already know it’s her. Annelly steps into my office, her presence like a gravitational pull I can’t fight. She’s still favoring her injured knee, her steps hesitant, but it doesn’t detract from how incredibly beautiful and sexy she is. The sight of her—wearing yet another one of my hoodies, her hair still slightly damp from a shower—hits me harder than it should.

Jesus.

I’m a grown man. A hardened bastard. And yet, here I am, sitting at my desk, smiling like some lovesick fool, just because she walked into the damn room.

“Emi had the baby?” she asks, her voice soft as she settles on the chair beside my desk. There’s a small hitch in her breath—almost imperceptible, but I catch it. Her knee is still bothering her, but of course, she won’t say a damn thing about it, let alone admit it to me.

I nod, muting the phone before answering. “A boy. George Wyatt. If you want, we can stop by the hospital to see him later.”

Her face lights up, and something in my chest clenches hard.

I clear my throat, unmuting the phone. “Annelly’s here, Ben. You’re on speaker. What’s the update?”

Ben doesn’t miss a beat. “Still no movement on the Victor front. No sign that he’s tracking Annelly, or preparing to make a move, but we’ll continue to monitor the situation—”

“I’m all over it.” Owen’s voice cuts in. “If he even hints at something, even indirectly, we’ll know.”

It’s meant to reassure me.

Because Owen, like Tyler and Zeb, knows exactly how deep my paranoia runs when it comes to keeping the people I care about safe.

Ben picks up again. “As for the link between Zappalla and Bastille, we spoke to Creed and Agent Hunt. They sorted through the list we pulled together and confirmed several high-ranking agency officials are involved, which means we can’t work the case through the usual channels. Instead, Hunt and Owen will be working together to establish backchannels, so we can share intel and get access to whatever we might need. Did I miss anything?” His question is directed at the guys sitting in the room with him at Offset Tactical Headquarters.

“Just that you were right, James,” Owen chimes in. “Bastille reached out to Zappala immediately after your confrontation with him at Annelly’s that night. We can assume Zappalla filled him in on what little he knows about our investigation. So yeah, it’s a damn good thing we took the precautions we did.”

I force my breathing to stay even, locking down the fury that flares in my gut at the memory of that smug bastard standing on her doorstep. He’s fucking lucky I didn’t know then what I know now. Because if I had—if I’d known the full extent of the vile, unforgivable shit he put her through—he wouldn’t have walked away that night. Instead, he’d be six feet under, his final breath ripped from his lungs at my hands.

That’s for damn sure.

“We expected that,” I say. “At least we’re ahead of him in that regard. Anything else?”

A pause. Then Zeb’s voice comes through the speaker. “There was a flower delivery to their house this morning.”

My stomach drops.

“The security system flagged it, so I stopped by to check it out. The flowers were addressed,” Zeb hesitates, like he’s making sure he gets it right. “To my Dove.”

Beside me, Annelly inhales sharply. I turn just in time to see the color drain from her face.

“Zeb, give us a minute,” I say, already muting the call as I push up from my chair.

She’s shaking. Not just trembling— shaking . Her breaths come too fast, her fingers digging into the arms of the chair like she’s trying to anchor herself, but it’s not working.

I crouch in front of her, my hands gripping her legs just above her knees so I don’t hurt her.

“Annelly, look at me.”

Nothing.

“Snowflake, breathe.”

Still nothing.

I don’t think, I just act .

I cup her face, my thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones, forcing her to focus. “Angel, look at me. Breathe with me.”

I take slow, deliberate breaths, guiding her through it. In. Out. Until, finally, she follows my lead. Her breathing evens out, but her eyes—those green eyes I love so damn much—are drowning. Sorrow. Hopelessness. Like she’s barely keeping her head above water.

And I hate it.

“Talk to me,” I rasp, my own emotions thickening my voice. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She swallows hard, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s him.”

I already knew. Could see it the second Zeb said the words. But hearing it? Having the confirmation slip past her lips? It still sends fire blasting through my veins.

“The flowers,” she chokes out. “They’re from Victor.”

And just like that, she breaks.

I pull her against me without a second thought, her arms winding around my neck as she buries herself in my chest. I don’t think about what I’m doing. I don’t question it. I just hold her. Tight. Fierce. Like I can shield her from the past. From him. From everything.

Her body trembles, small and fragile in my arms. I breathe her in. The scent of her hair. The warmth of her body pressed against mine. My grip tightens. Too tight. Too desperate.

I can’t lose her.

The thought slams into me like a sucker punch. A blinding, gut-wrenching realization that sends a ripple of unease through my chest.

Not just because she needs me.

But because I need her.

My pulse hammers. My skin feels too tight. Too much. She’s too much.

“Please, James,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Don’t let him get me.” Her words land like a dagger, sinking deep, twisting, carving into something I don’t want to acknowledge. Something I swore I’d never let myself feel again.

My arms lock around her like a vise. “Never,” I growl, my voice rough and raw. “I’ll die before I let him touch you again.” I mean it. Every goddamn word. But beneath the rage, beneath the fury scorching through my veins, I know the truth.

This isn’t just about keeping her safe.

This is about me.

About the way she’s gotten under my skin. About the way she’s making me want things I can’t afford to want. Making me believe—for one reckless, dangerous second—that I could have this. That I could be the kind of man who gets to keep her.

And that’s when it hits me.

The depths of this.

The depth of her.

The depths of how far I could fall.

Because the last time I felt this deeply for a woman, she left me broken and so damn shattered it destroyed me.

I gave her everything . I loved her so purely. So innocently. So completely, that the day she shot poison into her veins for the last time, she didn’t just end her own life. She took mine with her. My mother’s last act on this earth was leaving her corpse behind for me—her twelve-year-old son—to find. That was the day I learned. The day I understood.

Loving a woman more than yourself is the stupidest, most dangerous mistake a man can make.

That’s the day I vowed I’d never let my heart beat for another woman again.

Because I tried. God, did I try.

I cleaned her up the best a kid could. Pulled her out of her own vomit more times than I could count. Over and over again, I begged her to get clean. I did my best to save her from herself, from the johns who so callously abused her body. I protected her. Covered up her neglect so child services wouldn’t take me and Tyler away. And in the end, no matter how much I loved her, how much I gave and sacrificed to help her… it wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough.

The realization slams into me like a freight train, barreling through every carefully constructed defense I’ve spent years fortifying. My heart pounds. My breath shortens.

Because this?

This is the kind of love that destroys men like me. And I know how this ends. I’ve lived it before. Which is how I know I can’t ever go through that again.

I pull back, clearing my throat, forcing myself to let her go. “Better?” My voice is quiet. Detached. A lie.

She’s nowhere close to being okay.

But neither am I.

So what the hell does it even matter?

She nods, even as her chin quivers, even as more tears slip down her face. It guts me. But I still turn away, retreating to my chair, putting space between us before I do something reckless. Before I let myself need this more than I already do.

I unmute my phone, my jaw tight. “We’re back.” The words grind out through clenched teeth. When silence follows, it takes a second for me to realize the team has no idea what just happened. “The flowers, Annelly confirmed it’s him. What else did the card say?”

“Just two lines.” Zeb pauses. “To My Dove: I promise someday soon, you will be mine.”

My pulse spikes.

“Does that mean anything to you, Annelly?” Ben asks.

Beside me, she shudders. I don’t look at her. I can’t. I just wait. When the silence stretches too long, I roll my chair toward her, just close enough to reach for her hand without breaking my focus from the phone. My fingers find hers, her grip tight, trembling. The moment she holds on, my resolve nearly shatters.

Then, finally, she speaks.

“It’s what Victor calls me.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s from a poem by John Keats. He said it reminds him of me.”

My grip tightens around her fingers.

“Nelly, it’s Owen. Any chance you have anything he gave you where he refers to you as Dove? A text, an email, a birthday card, a gift—anything?”

Her breath hitches. “Not anymore. I left everything I owned back in New York. I didn’t have time to pack before I came home.” Her voice quivers as she tries to keep from crying, and the sound slices straight through me.

Part of me wants to run. To hand her over to the guys, let them handle this, so I can get back to my simple, uncomplicated, predictable life.

But then the other part of me—fuck. That other part of me wants to run away with her. To hold her close, to bury myself in her warmth, and let her drown out every jagged piece of my past.

Unfortunately, neither of those are options I can consider.

“That’s okay, Annelly,” Ben reassures. “I don’t want you worrying about this. We’ll make sure this guy leaves you alone. Sound good?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracks, but still, the only comfort I offer is my hand.

A throat clears on the line, the silence stretching, thick with unspoken tension.

Finally, Ben steps in to do what I can’t. “Okay, we’re good then. Annelly, we’re done for now. We’ll let you get back to your day. James, stay on the line. I need to discuss something with you privately.”

Relief floods through me. An excuse. An escape.

I push to my feet, my grip still firm around Annelly’s hand as I walk her to the door. She’s favoring her knee again, making me grit my teeth. Her steps slower, more hesitant—not just physically, but emotionally too. She looks up at me, eyes searching—hopeful. Waiting.

I should say something. I should tell her I meant what I said. That she’s safe. That I won’t let anything happen to her. That she matters. But the words wedge themselves in my throat, lodging there like jagged glass.

Instead, I step back and open the door, clearing the path between us. A silent dismissal.

She hesitates. “James—”

But I can’t.

So, like the coward that I am, I take the easy way out.

“I’ll see you later, Nelly.”

The hope in her eyes dims, just slightly, but enough that I feel it like a punch to the gut.

But still, I close the door.

Because if I don’t shut her out now… it’s only a matter of time before she destroys me.

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# Chapter 33

James

For a second, I just stand there, my hand still on the doorknob, my chest heaving like I just ran a goddamn marathon.

I did the right thing.

This is for the best.

So why the hell does it feel like I just ripped my own heart out of my chest?

Annelly's tears are still fresh in my mind. The way her voice broke. The way her whole body wilted the second I shut down on her. And now, she's upstairs alone and hurting because of me.

I should go to her. Tell her I didn't mean it. That this isn't about her, it's about me. But if I do that, if I open that door again, I'll only be prolonging the inevitable. 

Yeah, this is definitely for the best.

With a rough groan, I drag my fingers through my hair, the bite of my nails against my scalp doing nothing to ground me. 

Over the phone still sitting on my desk, I hear Ben sigh. It's a reminder that this moment of self-inflicted agony is about to get a whole lot worse.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, blowing out a breath, then walk over and grab it.

"You back man?"

I sink into my chair, elbows on my knees, my head still spinning. "Yeah," I mutter, my voice hoarse. "I'm here." 

"I sent the other guys out so we could talk. I need to know where your head's at. You seem distracted."

"I know." Sitting up, I rake a hand through my hair in frustration.

When I leave it at that, Ben exhales sharply. "What's the problem? You're the one who took point on this. Should I ask one of the other guys to take over?"

"No." The word snaps out of me before I can think better of it. I drag in a breath, forcing my voice to level out. "I mean, I don't..." I trail off, swallowing past the conflict clawing at my insides. 

Letting someone else take over would be smart. 

Logical. 

The best call. 

But the thought of losing her, of handing her over to someone else? It damn near blinds me with pain. 

Ben's patience is razor-thin, and hell, I can't even blame him. 

"What. Is. The problem, James?" he barks. "You better speak up now, or I'm sending Dominick over to come get her."

Dominick? Are you fucking kidding me?

That arrogant, by-the-book jackass who thinks a structured legal plan is the answer to everything? There's no way in hell I'd trust him with Annelly's safety. Not with the kind of man Victor Bastille is.

I grit my teeth, breathing deeply to tamp down my rising anger. "I told you I got her, and I meant it." I grind out, my tone leaving no room for argument.

"So, then tell me what's going on, because you sound like you're hanging on by a fucking thread."

My jaw locks so tight I have to drag a palm over my mouth to ease the ache, all the while buying myself a few extra seconds to think.

What the fuck am I supposed to say? That I just slammed the door on the one woman who makes me feel things I don't want to feel? That I pushed her away so hard—when she most needed me—that she probably won't ever look at me the same way again? That I feel like I just ripped my own damn heart out, and now I'm sitting here bleeding out while he asks me questions I can't fucking answer?

Yeah. Not happening. 

So instead, I latch onto the one thought that's been festering in my head since this whole damn mess began.

"It's almost seven months to the day since Kessler and his goons kidnapped Lucas's family and damn near killed us with that RPG." I shake my head as the memory crashes through me. 

"Tyler and I could have died in that explosion. We almost lost Emilia and her girls. And now, here we are, facing the same fucking threat. What are the odds of that happening? That all these assholes are connected and that, yet again, another woman we care about is caught up in their web?" 

Ben exhales hard, the silence stretching thick between us. 

"I can't shake the feeling that by helping Creed—by trying to clear his name—we're effectively painting a target on the backs of everyone we love."

Ben's voice hardens. "Are you suggesting we turn a blind eye? That we just look the other way while the rich and powerful profit off the exploitation of women and children?"

I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes as the weight of it all presses down on me. I knew he'd say that. Knew he'd remind me why we can't walk away. Still, the reality of what we're up against guts me. 

Ben doesn't wait for an answer. "Because I don't know if I can do that. Not with everything we know, and sure as hell not after what they tried to do to Emilia, the girls—to you and Tyler." His voice dips, frustration laced with something heavier. Something personal. 

"When Dom and I started Offset Tactical, it was so we could help those abandoned or overlooked by our justice system and social institutions. That was and is still our primary mission at OTS. It's why we take corporate security jobs, why we, as you like to say, 'babysit rich assholes'—because those jobs bring in the money that lets us bankroll the clients we actually want to serve. "

My throat works around the emotion suddenly building there. I know all of this. Hell, I believe in our mission, too—especially since, as one of Offset Tactical's first clients, I've benefited firsthand from the kind of work we do.

At barely eighteen, I got picked up when the cops raided the underground fighting ring where I'd managed to finally make a name for myself. I was thrown in jail and would have probably rotted there if some cop hadn't seen something in me worth saving. 

He made one call.

Ben answered. 

Before even meeting me, Ben got the charges dropped. Then he showed up, pulled me out of that hellhole, and instead of subjecting me to some lecture, he handed me a job—one that paid more than I'd made in any of my fights. He gave me a way out. A real way out. 

And it didn't stop there. 

Ben and Dominick then co-signed an apartment for me. Paid six months' worth of my rent—out of their own goddamn pockets. When I told them I needed my brother back, they didn't ask questions. Instead, they stood up for me in court, vouched for me, called in favors to get the system to fucking listen. 

Because of them, I got Tyler out. Because of them, I put a real roof over our heads, made sure he never had to fight for food like I did, for warmth, for a fucking chance. For the first time in our lives, we had a home. We had safety. Security. A life that finally resembled something normal. 

So yeah, I get it. As one of the first Offset Tactical success stories, I owe these men and the organization they founded everything. 

But right now? None of that matters. Not the past. Not the second chances. Because if I can't keep Annelly safe—then what the hell was it all for?

"The people they exploit—the ones who don't stand a chance? They're why we exist, James. It's why, in good conscience, I don't feel like we can walk away from this." Ben's tone is firm, but beneath it, there's something else. Something heavier. Maybe guilt. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe both.

"I know." The words scrape out of me, raw and bitter. Because he's right. 

And that pisses me off. 

Because knowing we're doing the right thing doesn't change the fact that Annelly is upstairs, scared and hurting. Doesn't change the fact that it's our fight—our mission—that may have put a target on her back in the first place. 

 "But how do we protect our families and ourselves in the meantime, Ben?" My voice is tight, frustration bleeding into every word. "We can't work the case if we're constantly scrambling to save the ones we love."

"I'm aware. It's something Agent Hunt, Owen, and I are working on. For now, I need you and the team focused on Annelly's safety. By the time we neutralize the threat to her, we should have a plan in place."

"You make it sound so easy." I let out a humorless laugh.

"Believe me, I know it's not. I'm just trying to hold onto hope. Like you and the rest of the guys, I too have a lot to lose. My wife, my daughter, all of you. The company. But if nothing else, know that if I'm forced to choose between the investigation or protecting my family, there's no question... I'll choose my family. A term that includes the members of this team, including you and your brother. But until it comes to that, we at least have to try."

I exhale slowly, my throat tight.

I know what he's saying is true. But that doesn't make it any easier. Because I don't give a damn what happens to me, but Tyler? Annelly? The rest of our loved ones? 

I don't know how we'd go on if we lost any of them.

"So, you good?" he asks. "Because I need you sharp, James. She's a member of this family, and I know how important she is to you. Her safety is our number one priority."

"I'm good." The words are automatic. Empty. "Just needed to get that off my chest, I guess." 

It's a lie. 

Because there's no getting this weight off my chest. No unburdening the what-ifs, the looming fear clawing at the edges of my sanity. There's so much shit pressing down on me, I'll need a miracle just to breathe again.

Ben hesitates, then adds, "Promise me something? If things get to be too much, you'll call so I can bring one of the other guys in to help."

Yeah. That's not happening. 

Not now. Not ever.

But instead, I force out a short, clipped, "Copy that."

A loud knock at the door cuts through the silence.

Actually, not a knock—more like relentless pounding.

I don't need to ask who it is. The sheer force behind it tells me everything. 

Tyler.

And he's pissed. 

"I gotta go, Ben. Someone's at the door. I'll reach out later to work out a plan to get Annelly up to the hospital so she can see Emi and the baby."

"Sounds good. I'll be available, just call my cell."

I hang up, exhaling hard, before scrubbing a hand down my face. Just one fucking minute. That's all I wanted. A second to breathe. To pretend like everything isn't unraveling around me. 

Apparently, that's too much to ask. 

"Come in," I call out, already turning back to my laptop. I need something—anything—to focus on besides the shit storm in my head. "Whatever it is you want, spit it out fast. I got shit to do."

Tyler doesn't just enter—he bursts through the door like a wrecking ball. And before I can even lift my head, his voice slices through the room.

Sharp. Accusing. 

"What the hell did you do to her?" 

I jerk my head up, surprised by the fury in his tone. Then I see his face. His scowl is dark, furious—unlike anything I've ever seen on him. 

And it's aimed straight at me. 

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Chapter 34

James

“The fuck are you talking about?” I snap, thrown off by his tone.

Tyler doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t back down. Instead, he just stands there, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.

“She’s crying, you dick.” The words land like a punch to the gut. “Whatever you did, you need to get out there and fix it.” He jerks his chin toward the hallway, his voice sharp with disbelief, like he can’t wrap his head around the fact I’m still sitting here.

My heart sinks at the thought of her crying because of me. But the idea of going to her? Of facing the wreckage I caused? That feels worse.

“Did you…” I glance away, raking a hand through my hair as shame burns hot under my skin. “Did you try and talk to her?”

Even I can’t believe I went there… but yeah. It would be great if he could help smooth things over. If, for once, he could use his charms and sense of humor for something other than annoying me.

“I tried,” he grits out. “She ran right past me. Locked herself in your room. She’s in there crying, James. Fucking crying. I could hear her from the hall.”

He sounds rattled—borderline hysterical—which, under any other circumstance, would be hilarious. But right now? It just makes me feel like an even bigger piece of shit.

Fuck.

I scrub a hand down my face and lean back, tipping my head toward the ceiling.

Christ, why does shit have to be so goddamn hard? Why am I this fucked up over some girl? And why the hell did I think bringing her into our home was a good idea?

Tyler’s reaction is exactly why I’ve never brought a woman into our world before. Not like this. Not to stay. Not to get close enough to tangle herself into the fabric of our everyday lives. Because deep down, I’ve always known I’d be the one to fuck it up in the end. It’s why I never let anyone in.

“What the hell happened, James?”

The answer is brutally simple. “I fucked up.”

“How? Tell me. What did you do?” He drops into the chair beside my desk, arms crossed, eyes locked on mine.

Frustrated and strung so tight I can barely breathe, I shoot to my feet and stalk toward the far wall of my office. The window looks out toward the long, winding road that leads to our house.

“I’m fucked up, Ty. That’s what happened.” I shake my head, then turn to face him.

He’s watching me. Serious. Concerned. Like he’s really trying to understand, and it fractures something inside me.

I brought her here.

Made her part of our lives.

And if I’m about to take that away from him, the least I can do is be honest.

“I like her, Ty. Too fucking much. And no matter how hard I try to fight it, there’s this part of me that refuses to let it go.” I exhale roughly, my fists clenching at my sides. “But you know me. You know how I’m built. I’m not capable of love, of being anything close to the kind of man she needs.” My throat constricts, my voice cracking with frustration. “Plus, I don’t fucking want this. Any of it. Not the angst. The confusion. All these damn feelings.” I gesture sharply, as if I can physically rip them out of me.

“The complications. I want no part of it, but I can’t fucking stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about her. And it’s messing with my head, Ty. Because suddenly it’s like I…” My voice dips, rough with disbelief. “Like I fucking need her . Like I can’t breathe without her.”

By the time I’m done, I’m pacing the room, heat burning under my skin, sweat dampening the back of my neck as my lungs refuse to expand.

God fucking damnit!

I spin toward the window. My eyes locking on the snow-covered ridge that cuts across the mountain landscape, while I fight to pull myself together. There’s a reason I bought this property. Acres upon acres of isolated land, far away from almost anyone or anything. Because outside of Tyler and the few trusted friends, I’ve never had much faith in people. Truth is, the only person I’ve ever been able to truly count on is my brother, which is why he’s the only person I’ve ever really needed… until now.

Until her.

“And you know what’s worse than that?” I ask, my voice quieter this time. “The fact that right now, she needs me, too.” I scrub both hands over my face. “Which leaves me with no choice. I can’t walk away. Not when she’s in danger. Even though I know I probably should.”

A long pause descends over the room. Heavy and damn near stifling.

Then Tyler, ever the smartass, deadpans… “So let me get this straight. You like her. She’s all you think about. You need her, and she needs you. Am I following so far?”

I don’t answer. Annoyed by his oversimplification, I just glare at him.

Wasn’t he fucking listening?

“Gotcha.” He nods, clearly pleased with his assessment. “Okay. So, on top of that, there’s a part of you that wants to go for it. That doesn’t want to let her go. That’s what you said, right?”

“I also said that I don’t want this.” My voice drops, tinged with something that sounds way too much like desperation. “That I’m not capable of being the man she needs.”

“I heard that too,” he says, waving his hand like it’s completely irrelevant. “But that’s beside the point.”

“How is that beside—” I start, then cut myself off, shaking my head. I know better. Arguing with him is pointless. “Never mind. Just get to the fucking point, Tyler?”

The look of delight that spreads across his face makes me want to knock him on his ass.

“My point is, you should go for it. At least try. You want her. You say you don’t want the complications that come with having her, but what I’m actually hearing is that you’re scared.”

I blink.

What?

“That’s not what I said. Fear has nothing to do with it. It’s a matter of convenience. I like my life the way it is—simple. Uncomplicated. Plus, I don’t want to hurt her. Which, as you’ve seen, is an inevitability the longer she’s around me.”

Tyler just smirks wider, and that smug expression only pisses me off more. “Sounds to me like it’s too late…” he snorts. “Your life’s already a massive complication because you’re hung up on her and are too chicken shit to admit it. And in the process, it’s your aloofness that’s hurting her.”

“Oh my god, what the fuck are you even talking about?” I’m pouting. Jesus Christ . I can hear it in my voice—I’m pouting like a goddamn little kid. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Tyler lifts his hands, exasperated. “Come on . She’s beautiful. She’s smart. You like her. She likes you—which, believe me, shocks the fuck out of me, too. And what? You’re just gonna sit here stewing in your own bullshit?” He leans forward, pinning me with a look. “What exactly are you afraid of? I mean, seriously. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I blow out a breath and drop back into my chair, shoulders sagging. The words fall out before I can stop them. “Honestly? That I’ll hurt her. That I’m not good enough to keep her. That she’ll wake up one day, realize I’m not worth the trouble, and leave me all kinds of fucked up.”

Tyler’s eyebrows shoot up. Then he lets out a low whistle. “Jesus, when did you become this emotionally constipated?” He shakes his head like I’ve disappointed him on a spiritual level. “Seriously, big brother. The way I see it, if a girl’s already got you by the balls, you might as well give in and enjoy the perks of having her hands that close to your dick.”

The smug grin on his face is so over-the-top proud I can’t help it. I choke out a laugh.

“You’re an ass.”

“What? That was insightful advice.”

“That was fucking awful. And unnecessarily vulgar.”

“Okay, maybe,” he shrugs. “But it doesn’t make it any less true. Look, relationships aren’t built in a day. It takes time, which the two of you have in spades right now, seeing as you’re stuck together for the foreseeable future. You don’t have to declare your love today or marry the girl tomorrow. Just… stop overthinking it.”

He leans forward, all fake sincerity and rare wisdom. “Don’t put any pressure around it. Spend time with her. Take things slow. See where it goes. In a week or two, maybe you’ll realize you’re better off as friends and all this stress and worry was for nothing. Or maybe you come out on the other side, grateful as hell to have found your person. Either way, you’ve got way more to lose if you don’t try.”

Christ. Could he be right?

He’s not wrong that there’s no need to define anything right now. Maybe there’s a way we could ease into something more. No pressure. No expectations. Just… see what happens. Dipping our toes instead of diving straight into the deep end. That way, neither of us gets hurt.

Would she even be open to that? A little more closeness. A tad bit more intimacy… without the strings?

Something casual. Controlled. Safe.

Because casual means control. And control means I don’t have to feel like I’m free-falling every time she looks at me like I matter . Like I’m someone worth believing in.

But even as the thought forms, I know it’s bullshit. Because there’s nothing casual about the way I feel when she looks at me like that.

And walking away?

Fuck. That ship may have already sailed.

But then again, maybe if we both agree to take it slow—if we set rules, boundaries, keep things light—maybe then walking away won’t seem so impossible. Maybe then it won’t hurt so damn bad when it all inevitably falls apart.

Tyler smirks like he can read every damn thought in my head. “Ah, there it is. You’re finally getting it.”

Pushing to his feet, he stretches with an exaggerated groan. “Now, either you go up there and console our girl… or I will. And just so we’re clear—if you fuck this up, I’m not above stealing her for myself.”

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# Chapter 35

Annelly

The second he shuts the door between us, it's like I can't breathe. Not from the fear—though that's there, pulsing through my bloodstream like a second heartbeat—but from him. From the way he just... shut down. Eyes blank. Voice cold. His walls slammed into place so fast, I nearly staggered from the blow.

And that—
that's
 what breaks me.

Because I know that silence. I've felt it before. Months ago, when I stumbled onto him kissing that girl. When he looked me dead in the eye that next morning and said we couldn't be friends. That I'd misread everything between us. That whatever I thought we had was all in my head. A schoolgirl crush. That's what he made it sound like.  

God, the shame that came with his words... I swore I'd never let him make me feel that way again. Yet here I am, right back in that place, because I let myself believe this time was different. Because I let myself hope. And that? That's the cruelest kind of lie.

I barely register the blur of movement as I limp quickly up the stairs. My chest is caving in, my throat tightening around a sob I refuse to let out. I round the corner and nearly slam straight into Tyler.

He startles, blinking fast like I just knocked the wind out of him. "Annelly? Whoa, hey—what—?"

But I can't stop. Can't speak. 

I shove past him with a broken, breathless, "Sorry," and rush down the hall.

James's room swallows me the second I slip inside and lock the door behind me. For a moment, I just stand there frozen. His scent hits me all at once—leather, cedar, soap... and something unmistakably James. It's in the pillows. The blankets. The air itself. The first night I slept here, I found it so comforting. But now? Now, it feels like punishment. My penance for daring to believe, even for a second, that things between us had changed.

My legs give out before I reach the bed. Ignoring the pain in my injured knee, I crawl across it, sobs tearing free before I can stop them. My fists clutch the comforter—
his
 comforter—and I drag it to my chest like maybe his scent alone can fill the hole he just ripped through me.

But it doesn't help. 

If anything, it makes it worse, because now all I want is 
him
. Not Tyler—who is kind and patient and trying so darn hard to be there for me. 

But James. 

James, who's hot, then cold. Who worries constantly about my knee. Who makes sure I've eaten enough, that I'm comfortable, that I'm okay. But who, not two minutes ago, looked straight through me like I meant nothing to him. Like I didn't matter at all. 

He said he would protect me. Said he'd keep me safe. And then he walked away the second I actually needed him. 

I press my face into the pillow and cry harder.

It wasn't just his silence or the way he shut me out. It was the 
timing
. The flowers. The message. The punch-to-the-gut reminder that I'm not safe. Victor still wants me. He's watching. Waiting. And the second that realization slammed into me, I needed something to ground me. I needed James. But instead... he disappeared. Vanished into whatever emotional bunker he hides in when things get too real. 

What the hell is wrong with me? 

How could I let myself forget what this is? 

That I'm only here because I'm in danger. Not because he wants me in his home. Not because he wants me close so he can get to know me. Certainly not because this is anything more than an obligation to him.

And yet... I did forget. 

Somewhere between his guarded smiles and reluctant care, I let myself believe there could be something more. No wonder he's pulling away. The flowers weren't just a message for me, they were a wake-up call for him, too.

But God... doesn't he feel it? 

This pull? 

This thing consuming me from the inside out? 

I hear footsteps in the hall. Then... a pause. A shadow under the door.

It's Tyler.

He doesn't knock. Doesn't speak. He just stands there, silent. Waiting. I feel his presence, his need to check on me, and I'm grateful when he doesn't attempt to come in. Because as much as I appreciate him, as kind and good as he's been to me... He's not the brother my heart aches for.

I'm relieved when his shadow disappears and the silence returns. But it's not peaceful. It's deafening. Because James's rejection still echoes louder than everything else.

One minute I'm sobbing so hard my ribs ache. The next, I'm just lying here, staring at the wall. Numb. Empty. Wrung out.

The minutes stretch. Blur. Fade. 

Then—

A soft knock.

My body jolts, the sound breaking through the fog in my head like a spark in the night. I go still. Then it comes again. Another knock. Firm. Controlled. 

My heart stutters because it's James. I don't know how, but I can feel it deep in my bones.

For a few long seconds, there's nothing. No voice. No retreating footsteps. Just silence... and him on the other side of the door.

He's waiting for me to answer. To unlock the door and let him in, but I don't move. I don't speak. I make no effort to acknowledge him in any way because I'm done. I have no interest in hearing his excuses. Or in subjecting myself to more of his rejection. 

Been there. 

Done that. 

And the way I see it, if he's here to shatter me all over again, then he might as well do it through the damn door. 

Another long moment passes.

Then I hear it—a key sliding into the lock. 

The soft click as it releases.  

The quiet turn of the knob.

I blink, frozen, a fresh wave of disbelief crashing over me. 

He has a key?
 

Of course he does, it's his bedroom, after all. But letting himself in without an invite? Refusing to take my silence as a sign I don't want to see him?

This is so James. 

And though I want to be mad—furious that he's invading my privacy—what I feel instead is... relief. 

Why does it feel so different with him? 

His constant need to be in control, his overbearing tendencies... it should drive me insane. It should set off all kinds of red flags. 

But instead, I feel safe. 

Seen. 

Cared for. 

It makes no sense at all, especially when this same kind of behavior from Victor terrified me to my core. But with James... it's different. And I really wish I knew why.

He enters quietly without announcing himself. 

I stay where I am—curled up in his bed, my back to him, tears drying on my cheeks.

He doesn't speak or rush toward me. It's like he's just standing there. Watching. Waiting. Maybe for me to lash out, or to demand that he get out. But I give him nothing. Because I'm done with hope. With waiting. With silently begging for something that will never be. 

He lingers by the door for what feels like forever. Then I hear the soft sound of it closing behind him. His footsteps are quiet as he crosses the room. 

Still, I don't look. 

I can't. 

My hands stay fisted in the blankets. My body curled in on itself like that might shield me from whatever damage he's about to inflict.

The mattress dips behind me. Then, softly—like he's not sure the words will hold—he says, "I'm sorry."

I squeeze my eyes shut, emotion clogging my throat.

He exhales hard, like even that much cost him something. 

"I shouldn't have shut down like that. I just... I didn't know how to handle it. The flowers. Your face. The look in your eyes. I panicked."

When I don't respond, he keeps going, his voice low. Rough. 

"You didn't do anything wrong, Annelly. I swear to you, this wasn't about you. It was me. My... reaction. My shit. And I'm sorry for the way I made you feel."

I wait another beat before I find my voice. "Why are you here?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

"You don't get to apologize to me," I say, turning my face just enough for my voice to carry. "Not if you're just going to shut me out again the second things get hard."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then I hear him shift, the sound of his hand scrubbing over his face.

"I know," he groans. "You're right. I just... I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Every time I get close to you, every time it feels like something's happening... it's like I can't breathe. Like I'm slowly coming apart at the seams. Like I'm unraveling, and I don't know how to fucking stop it."

My heart twists as he struggles to make sense of his feelings.

"I'm scared," he admits, and there's no hiding the pain in his voice now. "Of the danger you're in. Of the fact that I might not be able to protect you. That something could happen and it'll all be my fault. I'm scared of how much I care about you—how much I 
feel for you
—because I don't know what the hell to do with it all."

His voice cracks on the last word. He sounds like a man barely holding on.

"I've never done this before," he says quietly. "Whatever this is. You... us... I don't know how to be the man you need, Annelly. And it's not because I don't want to. But I also can't stand the thought of hurting you. Or of you being hurt because I couldn't protect you. And the most fucked up part?" He exhales, defeated. "I can't stand the thought of not being near you."

I stay silent. Hearing the cracks in his armor hurts more than I ever expected. Because some small, foolish part of me still wants to turn around. To throw myself into his arms and pretend it's that easy. That with words alone, he can fix the hurt he's inflicted.

But it's not that easy. Not when my heart is still bleeding from the silence he left me drowning in. Not when he's still trying to figure out whether or not he wants this. 

Us. 

Me.

I don't respond. Not with words. Just more tears. Silent. Endless. Hot against my cheeks, each one carving a path down to the pillow under me.

James doesn't speak again. I can hear him breathing—steady, but tight. Like he's trying to hold something in. Or maybe to hold himself back.

Then, without warning, the bed shifts behind me. A soft creak of the mattress. Then stillness. I know he's there. Still sitting close but not touching me. Still waiting. Then slowly—carefully—his weight shifts again.

I feel the first brush of his arm as he slides in beside me. 

My breath hitches. 

And then he's there. Curling his body behind mine, moving with agonizing tenderness as he slides one arm beneath my neck and the other around my waist. 

No space between us. 

No armor to separate us.

His body molds to mine—warm, solid, real. Every inch of him pressing close like he's anchoring me back to the surface. His hand finds mine, his fingers trembling just slightly as they close around it. And when our fingers lock—when his thumb traces gently over the back of my hand—I feel it. That quiet ache of everything he can't say yet. The promise he's tucked away in that single touch.

His breath ghosts along the back of my neck as he exhales—slow and shaky. And just like that, something inside me softens.

I don't know how long we stay like that. His chest pressed to my back. Our hands tangled together. His breath steady against the curve of my neck like it belongs there.

But eventually, the need to speak overtakes me.

"I know it's the last thing you want to hear," I whisper, my voice so quiet I'm not sure he'll actually hear me. "But I need to know I'm not alone in this. I need to know I'm not the only one who feels this... this pull. This inexplicable longing."

A long pause stretches between us.

And then—

"You're not," he says just as quietly. "I feel it too. I feel all of it. Too much of it." His hand squeezes mine. The rawness in his voice nearly guts me. There's no pretense. No defense. Just a man clearly spiraling.

"I don't know how to do this. How to move forward. How to hold onto something this good without screwing it all up."

I swallow, eyes burning again. "Is that what you think? That this is good?"

He's silent for a beat. 

Then he breathes, "Being with you—being around you—it's the only thing that feels good. And that scares the ever-loving fuck out of me."

I shift just enough to glance back at him. His face is so close. His expression unreadable, like he's trying to hide whatever battle he's fighting within himself.

"Then what do you want, James?" I ask. "What are you so afraid of?"

His jaw flexes. His throat works like the answer hurts to say.

"You," he finally whispers. "I'm afraid of you. Of how much I want you. Of how much I need you. Of what it'll do to me if I let this happen... and then I lose you."

That breaks something open inside me.

Because God... I know that fear, too.

"Think you'll ever be able to get past it? Do you even want to?" I ask softly.

He doesn't answer right away.

But then he presses his forehead to the side of my head, his breath shuddering. "I don't know. But I think I want to try."

I close my eyes. Breathe. And in that moment, I decide to let that be enough—for now. Because though it's not a promise, though he's not offering me a fairytale, he's being honest. And maybe that matters more than pretty words and empty promises.

Silence settles over us again. His arms remain around me, solid and warm. My breathing syncs with his without even meaning to, our bodies molded together like puzzle pieces meant to fit together.

Then his voice breaks the quiet. "I don't know where we go from here..." he murmurs, his words brushing the shell of my ear. "But I meant what I said. If you'll let me... I'd like to try."

Try.

The word lodges in my chest. Not a promise. Not a beginning. Just... a door cracked open.

"Try?" I echo, soft, uncertain.

His hand tightens slightly around mine. "Not now," he says quickly. "Not today. Not with everything going on. But... later. When things are more settled." He pauses, then adds with quiet sincerity. "I just... I want the opportunity to figure out what this could be. Maybe sometime soon, we can sit and talk it out. Come up with some sort of arrangement. Something that works for us both."

His voice dips, and I feel the hesitation threading through his every word. The resistance still clinging to him. The fear.

I know exactly what he's offering—something cautious. Measured. Something safe enough for him to survive, in the event he gets scared... or if something goes wrong. A way to keep one foot in and one foot out.

My heart sinks because this is not what I want. But even I can admit it's more than I expected. And maybe, for today, it has to be enough.

I don't say anything. I don't push for anything more. Instead, I let my thumb glide gently across his knuckles. Then I squeeze his hand.

Just once.

Hoping that's all the answer he needs.

But even as I do, something inside me aches. Because I heard what he said. And I heard what he didn't. And while I don't have the energy to push back tonight, that doesn't mean I've forgotten. I meant what I told him at Lucas and Emilia's wedding:

I don't have the space in my life for people who don't know what they want. 

So no... I won't challenge him tonight. Not while we're both still bleeding. Not when he's finally found the courage to try. 

But the second he brings it up again, the moment he tries to define me as something 
safe
 and 
easy
?

He's going to find out I'm not that girl. 

Not now. 

Not ever.

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Chapter 36

James

The silence between us is thicker than anything I’ve ever felt. Not angry. Not tense. Just… heavy. Like it’s weighted down by the events of the day—by everything we said, and maybe even more by everything we didn’t.

Tyler bolted the second his plate was clean. Mumbled something about a call, then vanished up the stairs like his ass was on fire. Not known for his ability to read a room, that he could feel it tells me I’ve got reason to be worried.

Now it’s just me and Annelly in the kitchen. The clatter of dishes, the faint hum of the fridge, the soft clink of silverware being loaded into the dishwasher. But no words. Not from her. Not since I left her so I could prepare dinner. Not since that soft, aching moment in my bed when I opened up more than I have in years.

I thought it would bring us closer.

Hell, maybe I even hoped it would fix what I’d broken or, at the very least, loosen the vice that’s been constricting my chest since she broke down over those fucking flowers.

But she hasn’t looked at me since we sat down to eat.

Not once.

She moves like she’s on autopilot—quiet, efficient, precise. Plates rinsed. Dishes stacked. Cabinet doors opened and closed without so much as a glance in my direction.

And the longer the silence stretches, the more I spiral. Did I say too much—or not enough? Was it wrong to crawl into bed with her, to hold her like I had the right?

Because God , that’s what it felt like.

Like she was mine.

Like I belonged there—with her in my arms, her body pressed against me like we were two pieces of the same damn whole.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Then again… maybe this isn’t even about me. Maybe it’s Victor. Maybe her mind is stuck, replaying everything he did before she ran.

But what if it is about me?

What if it’s what I said that’s got her so upset?

I told her I’d try. Told her I wanted to figure this out. So why the hell does she feel further away now that I’ve finally let her in?

My grip tightens around the towel. My shoulders tense as I dry the last of the pans slowly, stalling like an idiot because I don’t know how to fix this. Because I can’t afford to get this wrong.

Not now.

Not when I’ve finally gotten a taste of something I’ve spent months thinking I didn’t want.

Not now that there might actually be a way for us to both get what we want.

I glance over my shoulder. She’s at the sink, rinsing a glass, her hands steady as she stares off into space. Lost somewhere inside her head.

I take a breath and let my feet carry me closer, like my body can’t take the distance between us any longer. Without thinking, I almost reach for her, my hand halfway lifted before I catch myself and pull back.

I need to stop that.

Reaching for her. Holding her. Touching her without knowing if it’s what she wants.

Fact is, after what happened this afternoon, I don’t know where I stand with her. Not after shutting her out. Not after letting her walk away. Certainly not after what I told her—after the way she just… nodded. Like she heard me, but wasn’t sure she could trust me.

Maybe she still doesn’t.

I wouldn’t blame her.

Hell, maybe it just wasn’t enough.

Maybe I wasn’t enough.

But fuck… that’s the thing. I want to be. Even if I don’t know how. Even though it feels like the worst goddamn idea in the world, I have to find a way to show her there’s a path forward. Even if it means some small concessions on both our parts.

Because I can’t lose her.

Not yet.

Not before we see what this could be.

She finishes rinsing a glass and sets it on the rack with the rest. She doesn’t dry her hands or glance my way. She just stands there for a second, frozen, like she’s somewhere else entirely.

I grab the towel and start drying the pans a second time, even though they’re already dry. It’s a compulsion now—something to keep my hands busy. Something to distract me from the silence, I swear, might kill me.

“Tyler sure took off quick,” I say, aiming for casual. Light. Normal. “Didn’t even ask for dessert.”

A faint sound escapes her. Might be a laugh. Might be a breath. I can’t tell.

She gives the smallest nod and says, “Yeah.”

That’s it. Just one word. Then she reaches for the next dish like she didn’t just gut me with the silence that followed.

I watch her carefully, heart pounding. Her movements are too deliberate. Too quiet. No teasing. No subtle smiles. No warmth. Which isn’t like her.

My throat tightens. A slow burn rises in my chest, like a weight pressing in. She’s slipping through my fingers. And maybe I deserve it. But I can’t… I won’t let her go. Not like this.

Fuck.

“Annelly, are we okay?” The words are out before I can stop them. Soft. Strangled. Like I had to rip them out of my chest to get them past my throat.

Annelly stills. Her hand frozen mid-reach for the dish towel. Her spine straightens, but she doesn’t turn to look at me.

The silence stretches so long it feels suffocating.

God, snowflake.

Just say something.

Anything to let me know you’re still here with me.

I swallow hard, jaw clenched, regret thick in my throat.

“Never mind,” I mutter. “You don’t have to answer that.” My gaze drops to my hands, fisting the towel like it will help alleviate the helplessness simmering under my skin. “I know what I did. I know I screwed things up, and I know you don’t owe me a damn thing. I just…” I force out a breath, shaking my head. “I don’t know. It just felt like I should ask.”

She turns then. Slowly. Her eyes meet mine, wide and startled. And in that moment, I realize, I might have said too much. Or maybe not nearly enough.

Fuck if I know.

This girl has me so twisted up, I can’t tell what’s right anymore.

She just stares. Those wide green eyes flickering with something I can’t name. Shock. Fear. Hurt. A dozen other things I might have caused. Unfortunately, none of them good.

And then, quietly—so quietly I almost miss it—she finally says, “I don’t know.” Her voice wavers. “I want to say we’re okay. That I’m okay. But I truly don’t know.”

My lungs lock up.

“I’m scared, James.” Her fingers fidget with the edge of the dish towel, twisting it tighter with every word. “Of Victor. Of what he’ll do. What he’s capable of. He hasn’t let go, and I fear he never will. I know him. He’s watching. Waiting. Biding his time. He told me I’d be sorry. Promised I’d regret it if I ever defied him again. He swore I would pay, and after all this time, I’m inclined to believe him.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and it takes everything in me not to move. Not to cross the room and pull her into my arms.

But she’s not done.

“And now… it’s not just him I’m scared of.” She looks up then, meeting my eyes like it costs her something. “It’s you, too.”

The words land like a gut punch, violent and sharp.

“I don’t want to be afraid of you,” she says. “But I am. Because you make me feel things that terrify me. And when you shut down like you did earlier—when you make me feel like it’s all in my head, like I imagined it—when you look straight through me like I don’t matter…”

She swallows hard. “Like none of this matters… I can’t take it.” Her throat bobs again, her voice breaking with raw truth. “Because it’s not just Victor who makes me feel unsafe.” Her voice trembles. “It’s also you.”

I flinch.

Like she slapped me.

Because God, that fucking hurts.

“I know it’s the last thing you want to hear. And I’ll probably regret saying it… But I have feelings for you, James. Real ones. And that scares the living daylights out of me—more than anything else—because I know…” She drags in a breath, tears pooling in her eyes. “Because I know you don’t want this.”

Something inside me caves. I want to deny it. Pretend I didn’t hear her. But I did —and every word hits too deep, too true, too real.

She’s right.

I don’t want this.

And yet, to my horror… hearing her say she has feelings for me warms my chest.

Not with shame.

Not with panic.

But with relief.

Like I’m glad. Like I needed to hear it.

What the fuck is happening?

Because, God—

No.

This is not what I want. At all.

I can’t.

I won’t—

Annelly draws in a shaky breath, and I realize too late what I’ve done.

I’m shutting down.

Again.

Because of course I am.

“See?” she says, her voice rising just enough to sting. “There it is.”

Her hands drop to her sides. “You said you wanted to try. Just a few hours ago, you told me you wanted to see what this is between us. But I’ve been trying , James. For days, I’ve been the only one trying. To reach you. To meet you where you are. To respect the walls you keep building.”

She’s shaking now, but not from fear—from anger. From frustration. From heartbreak. And all I can do is stand here, taking the hits, bleeding from her every word.

“It’s all one way. It’s always one way. Me making space for your comfort. Me holding back. Me handing you pieces of myself one breath at a time while you keep backing away like I’m something you need to endure. Like I’m something you need to survive .”

I look at her, speechless.

Gutted.

Because she’s right.

And it’s killing me.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I manage, voice hoarse, rough with emotion. “I swear to you, Annelly… that’s the last thing I want.”

She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t soften. Just watches me. Waiting to see what else I have to say for myself.

“But you’re right. About everything. But it doesn’t change that I meant what I said. I want to try.” My jaw tightens. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t even know what this is. But I want to figure it out. With you. I want us both to try.” I’m pleading now, and I don’t even care how pathetic I sound.

At first, she just blinks at me. Her face unreadable.

But then—softer now, like she’s giving me one last chance to understand—she says, “You’re not the only one who feels powerless here, James. I hope you know that.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I look away. Desperate to hide just how deep those words cut.

“Just as you’re afraid of what I might do to your life, to your heart… You have the same power over me. And that’s what scares me most. Because if we’re not careful… if we keep walking this line the way we are… this thing between us? It might destroy us both.”

The words knock the air right out of my lungs.

Because see, I was right!

This is exactly what I tried to warn her about all those months ago, when everything between us fell apart.

For a second, I want to say See? I told you so.

For a moment, I want to agree with her. To affirm for us both that this is a mistake.

But suddenly I can’t.

Because it’s too late.

Whether it’s the monster inside me, or the broken boy who’s never known what it feels like to be loved—some part of me… Some desperate, fucked up part of me wants her. Needs her. C hose her.

A terrifying revelation for sure, especially as I don’t know how the hell to keep her. But I do know one thing for sure: no part of me is ready to let her go.

Not yet.

Determined to close the distance between us, I step forward. She stiffens just slightly, but she doesn’t move away. Gently, I reach out and turn her toward me, giving her no choice but to look up at me.

My voice feels like gravel as I force the words out. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She blinks, jaw tight, eyes searching mine like she’s bracing for impact.

“I know I probably will,” I admit, swallowing the bitterness of that truth. “Because I have a long track record of screwing things up. Of sabotaging anything good.”

Her expression shifts—wounded but listening.

“But I promise…” I stop and shake my head. Needing that second to pull it together so I can try again. “I promise to be more careful. With you. With your heart. I just—” I drag a hand through my hair. “I think we should take this slow. Give ourselves a chance to figure out what this is. To feel it. Explore where it could lead without rushing into something we’re not ready for.”

Still, she says nothing. Just watches me, all that quiet hurt still lingering behind her eyes.

I reach out–almost without thinking–and gently brush a strand of hair behind her ear. My knuckles graze her cheek. She flinches—not in fear, but from emotion. And damn it, my chest aches with the weight of it.

“Not tonight,” I say softly, letting my hand drop. “But maybe in a few days, when we’re not so emotional, we can sit down and talk. Really talk. About us. About… whatever this might be.”

I pause. My voice drops lower. “Because you’re right. There’s a lot on the line. And the last thing I want is to lose you. I already made that mistake once. I don’t want to go back there. Whatever happens… I don’t want to lose you as my friend.”

Friend.

The word hits the air like a goddamn grenade. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But it’s too late. I see it hit her like a blow to the gut—watch the flicker of something shatter in her eyes.

She flinches again—but this time, I know what caused it.

Her expression shutters, her arms folding loosely across her chest like armor. She gives a small nod, but it’s not agreement. It’s surrender. Resignation. A quiet, exhausted okay without the energy to fight me on it.

And fuck… I hate it.

Because I know that wasn’t what she needed to hear. Not really. And once again, I offered just enough to keep her close… but not enough to give her certainty.

My chest tightens, knowing I should say more. That I should try again to reassure her. Remind her that I feel it too. Admit that this thing between us doesn’t feel like friendship—not even close. And that what scares me the most is how badly I want to claim her. How fast it’s all happening. How I already know I’m fucked. Done for. Completely and irrevocably lost in her.

But I don’t say any of that.

Because I can’t.

I already feel too damn exposed, and if I stand in this emotional minefield any longer, I might actually fall apart. Implode. Ruin any chance of keeping her in my life at all.

So I move.

“Come on,” I say, reaching for her hand and curling my fingers around hers before she can argue. My grip is gentle, but there’s no room for debate.

She hesitates… but she lets me lead.

Every limp she takes behind me is a knife in my gut. I grit my teeth, trying not to let the guilt show on my face. She’s been on her feet too long today—between the kitchen, running up and down the stairs, then standing at the sink, helping me clean up.

Another mistake on my part.

Another thing I’ll fix tomorrow.

“I’m taking you to bed,” I say as we reach the hallway. “You need rest. We both do.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t let go either.

And that small detail alone might be the only thing keeping me moving forward.

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# Chapter 37

James

We don't speak as we walk down the hall. The silence stretches long and wide between us, but this time, it's not the kind that cuts, it's the kind that clings. Fragile. Heavy. Needy. Like if I say the wrong thing, we might both come apart. 

Her limp is worse now—more noticeable because I'm watching for it. She's exhausted, probably hurting, and honestly, I'm the last person she should trust to lead her anywhere. Yet here she is. Giving me another chance. One I'm grateful for... but with my track record, I'm pretty sure it'll be wasted on me.

I'm trying hard not to read too much into her silence, but I'm failing miserably. She's unraveling, and after the day she's had, I can't blame her. 

But you know who I 
can
 blame? 

Myself. 

Because sure, it was Victor who sent her the flowers. But I'm the one who turned my back on her when she needed comfort. I'm the one who made her question whether she mattered. One second, I was there—holding her through her fear like she was everything—and the next, I pushed her away like she meant nothing. 

That's
 what wrecked her.

Not the threat.

Not the danger.

Me.

Because at least with Victor, she knew what to expect. But with me? She hoped for something more. And I took that hope and crushed it under the weight of my own fear.

When we reach my bedroom, I open the door and lead her inside, careful to keep my grip steady as she limps across the threshold. I pause at the bathroom door and steer her gently toward it.

"Go," I murmur, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. "Get ready for bed."

She blinks at me. Tired. Uncertain. 

When she doesn't move, I nudge her hand with mine. "Go on, snowflake. Wash your face. Brush your teeth. I'll grab something for you to sleep in." 

It comes out bossier than I meant it to, but I don't take it back. I won't—because this is all I know how to do right now. This is me taking care of her in the only love language I've ever known. And when she finally nods and steps past me into the bathroom, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. 

Relief rushes in—quiet. Soothing. Cleansing. Like the tide washing away the wreckage I caused. Because she's here. In the room that's become hers over the past five days. Her space. The place where she can be the most vulnerable, and instead of asking me to leave, she's allowing me to be here for her. She's s
till
 giving me her trust, even after everything I've done to almost ruin it.

The weight of that settles in my chest as I cross the room. 

I pause at my dresser, hand hovering for a second, before pulling the top drawer open. I don't reach for just any shirt. I reach for 
the
 
one
—my favorite. My oldest. The softest T-shirt I own. The faded navy one I never lend out. Hell, I don't even wear outside the house anymore for fear something might happen to it. The neckline is frayed, and there's a small bleach stain near the hem. But I've kept it safe for the past nine years because it's the shirt I was wearing the day I got my little brother back. 

The day everything changed.

The day we agreed would be the start of the rest of our lives.  

To this day, it's the shirt I reach for when the world feels like too much. When I need the reminder that no matter what's happening, we're alive. We're still here. Together. Because we survived. 

The last time I wore it was seven months ago, the night Emilia and the girls were taken. Tyler and I were banged up from that RPG blast, and for hours after, I couldn't stop thinking about how close I came to losing him. That thought alone damn near crippled me. Had me shaking, damn near crying, out of my fucking mind with terror and grief. 

And this shirt... 

It was the only thing that helped me breathe through it.

And now I'm sharing it with her, because tonight, she's the one who needs the comfort. The reassurance that she's here, safe—with us—and that everything's going to be okay. And for the first time since that rainy day my fourteen-year-old brother wrapped his skinny arms around me with tears in both our eyes, I want to share the comfort this shirt brings with someone else.

I want to share it with her.
 

I hold it for a beat as I breathe through the memory, the worn cotton stretched between my hands. And suddenly, all I can see is her in it. Bare legs. Soft curves. Her beautiful body swallowed up by my favorite shirt, clinging to her like she belongs in it. 

My chest tightens. 

Heat pulses low in my gut as the image takes root—dangerous, immediate, too damn vivid.

Jesus. Get it together, man.

I take a minute to breathe through the ache in my groin. With my jaw clenched, I adjust my erection, doing my best to hide the evidence of the shameful direction my brain just took. 

I need to knock this shit off.

Tonight isn't about me.

It's not about what I want.

It's about her.  

Disgusted with myself, I make my way to the bathroom and knock gently on the door. 

Me. Knocking. In my own damn house.

I scoff under my breath, shaking my head at the ridiculousness. But the thing is... something about tonight feels too fragile to push. Not again. Not after everything I've already put her through. 

"Come in," she calls softly.

I open the door. 

"Here, snowflake," I murmur, holding the t-shirt out to her. "You can sleep in this."

She doesn't hesitate. Just takes it with both hands like it's the most natural thing in the world. 

Something warm unfurls in my chest, slow and dangerous.

I should go.

She needs sleep.

I need to get upstairs, wash off this day, and forget the mess I've made of things.

But I don't move.

She's still standing in front of me—barefoot, looking exhausted, holding my shirt to her chest like it's a lifeline. Her eyes meet mine, vulnerable and uncertain, and I swear to God, it takes everything in me not to close the space between us and pull her into my arms.

"Well," I say, dragging a hand through my hair, "I—I should go. Get some rest."

But I stay rooted where I am. 

And so does she.

A beat of silence stretches between us.

Then, just as my feet finally get the memo, she steps forward—just a little. Just enough to stop me from leaving. There's something raw in her expression, something that looks an awful lot like panic.

"James?" she whispers, her voice so soft I almost miss it. "Would you... could you stay with me? Just for tonight?"

My breath catches, and for a second, everything inside me freezes. My brain short-circuits as her words settle over me. That part of me that's wanted her—ached for her—dives headfirst into the deep end, and just like that, all the blood in my body rushes south as it jumps to the wrong conclusion. 

Images flood in—her in my shirt. In my bed. In my arms. Me, losing myself inside her the way I've imagined too many times. It all crashes through me—five days' worth of pent-up sexual frustration slamming into me with the force of a freight train. 

But then I look at her—really look at her. And I see it.

The fear. The fragility. The silent plea tucked behind her eyes.

This isn't about sex or desire. This is about protection. Safety. Comfort. 

And I'm a fucking bastard for even letting my mind go there.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," she says, her voice even smaller now. "I just... I need to feel safe again. Even if just for a few hours while I sleep."

That damn near guts me.

"Yeah," I breathe. "Of course."

It's a terrible idea. Dangerous. The kind of thing that's bound to blow up in both our faces. So why the hell am I suddenly 
glad
 I don't have to leave her?

"I just..." My voice catches. The words stick to the back of my throat like glue. I clear it and try again. "I need to shower first." 

I shift my weight, avoiding her eyes. My hands fumble like I don't know what to do with them, so I shove them into my pockets. 

"I'll go upstairs. Then come back down when I'm done." 

That's right. 

Because I need space. 

A buffer. 

Just a few minutes alone so I can cool down. So I can stop imagining her in my shirt. Stop thinking about how she'll feel in my arms, bare skin pressed up against me. 

And most important of all—so I don't climb into that bed all wound up and too far gone to show restraint. 

She bites her lower lip, then says, "Can't you... can you just shower here? Your stuff's already in there, right? I don't mind."

My pulse stutters. 

Shower here? 

Stripping down, while hard as stone, with her just feet away? 

Jesus. 

With my brain starved of blood, all I can do is nod. 

"Okay. Thank you. If you want... go ahead and shower," she says gently. "I'll get changed out here."

Fuck... is she trying to kill me?

I turn toward the bathroom, biting back a groan. The idea of both of us undressing at the same time, with just a thin door between us, has my dick throbbing with a vengeance.

Every part of me is wound so fucking tight I feel like I might snap.

How the hell am I supposed to do this?

How am I supposed to walk back into that room, climb into that bed, and lie beside her like it's no big deal? Like I'm not already burning alive with everything I can't say—and everything I can't touch?

How the fuck am I supposed to make it through this night without breaking us both?

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Chapter 38

James

The door clicks shut behind me, and I just stand there.

Silent.

Frozen.

My palms pressed to the cool wood like it might steady me. Like it might disentangle the mess of thoughts and emotions that detonated inside me the second she asked me to stay.

I close my eyes and try to breathe through it—deep, steady, controlled—but it’s useless. Because she’s out there now. Undressing. Slipping into my shirt like I told her to. Because she trusts me to be the man who protects her… not the one who can’t keep his thoughts or his damn hands to himself.

And fuck… I want to be that man.

More than anything, I want to be the man she needs.

But there’s this other part of me—the one I’ve been trying to cage since the day she walked into my life—that won’t stay quiet. That part wants her in my clothes, lying in my bed, waiting for me to own her. To take her. To make her mine. Completely. That part of me doesn’t care about honor or boundaries or timing. All it knows is what it wants. What it needs. What it craves.

I should lock the fucking door.

It’s the right thing to do. The respectful thing.

But in my twisted, sex-hazed mind, I can’t fathom the idea of locking her out.

Just in case…

You know.

In case she needs me.

Jesus Christ, James. The girl out there is scared. So knock it the fuck off.

Angry, frustrated, and barely holding it together, I strip fast. Yanking my shirt over my head, I toss it onto the counter. My jeans come next. Then my boxers—my cock springing free, hard and ready like this is some goddamn porn shoot, and not a night where the woman I care about is out there, struggling and waiting for me to help her feel safe again.

With a low growl, I turn the shower on, the sound of rushing water doing nothing to quiet the pounding in my chest.

It’s just a natural reaction to a beautiful girl.

That’s all this is.

A build-up of months of wanting what I can’t have. The by-product of not having touched a woman since the day Annelly came back to town. Not once in four goddamn months. And not for lack of trying, either. But because out of nowhere, to my absolute misery, my dick decided she is the only woman it wants.

It’s totally fucked up. And now that she’s here, within reach. No wonder I’m losing my goddamn mind.

But like a glutton for punishment, I let my mind go there, imagining her on the other side of that door. Maybe still naked. Or lying in my bed, wearing my shirt, possibly bare underneath…

Fuck me !

I brace a hand against the tile, head bowed, the water not even hitting me yet, and try to breathe myself back under control. But all I can think about is her—how she looked when she took the shirt from me like it was normal for us. Like it was her right. Like we’d done something so domestic a thousand times before. Just as she would if she were mine.

It’s too fucking much.

This shouldn’t feel so right. So perfect.

Yet it does.

My cock twitches, thick and aching, precum already slicking the tip. I hiss through my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, overcome by the sudden rush of heat coursing through my veins.

Don’t.

Don’t you fucking dare.

But my hand’s already moving, wrapping tight around the base of my hardness as my hips jerk forward, desperate for contact. Like my body doesn’t give a damn what my brain is trying to say.

Because she’s in my bed.

Bare skin against my sheets.

My shirt clinging to every curve.

My grip tightens, stroking slow and hard, and I swallow down the groan rising in my throat. This is wrong. She’s out there scared, needing comfort, while I’m in here losing my goddamn mind like some selfish bastard.

But fuck…

Restraint…

I’m trying…

I’m really, really fucking trying.

But it’s no use because I keep seeing her—how she looked earlier when I lay next to her and held her in my arms for the first time. Her breath catching as I pulled her close. Her fingers curled into mine. Her body pressed against me with no space between us.

Now I know the sweet scent of her skin. How she sounds when she breathes. How her warmth seeps into me and quiets the monster clawing inside me.

And now that I know?

Now that I’ve gotten a taste?

I can’t stop wanting more.

Her on her back beneath me. Eyes wide, lips parted, legs wrapped around me like she never wants to let go. That soft gasp as I sink into her, stretch her, fill her completely. Her hips lifting to meet mine, hungry and giving and fucking perfect. That desperate, needy look in her eyes before she breaks apart.

Because I’d make sure she came first. Again and again, until she was shaking beneath me. Until I was shaking. Aching. Desperate to fill her with my cum.

“Fuck,” I rasp, low and hoarse, as my hand moves faster, harder, tighter—chasing the image of her unraveling beneath me.

I barely manage to choke down the groan that rips its way out of my throat as I come.

Hard.

My release hits the tile with obscene force as my body shudders from the high.

It’s almost too good.

Too intense.

Too fucking much.

And then… comes the crash.

The cold tile.

The silence.

Guilt settles in my gut like wet cement. The thought of her curled up in my bed, just beyond the door, scared out of her mind while I’m in here jerking off like some goddamn teenager damn near guts me.

What the hell is wrong with me?

She’s out there. Vulnerable. Needing me. And this… this is what I do?

But even as the guilt coils through me, I know I’m no match for what I feel when it comes to her. It’s why I’ve resigned myself to only this. The only way I can have her.

Alone. In the shower.

Alone with her… but only in my thoughts.

At least until things settle. Until she and I can finally sit down and talk. Figure out what’s happening between us. Come up with some kind of plan—one that ensures whatever happens… whatever this is… doesn’t destroy us both.

By the time I dry off and pull on a clean t-shirt and sweatpants, my heart rate has finally started to even out. The storm inside me is quieter now—barely. But at least I can breathe again.

Shame still clings to me like the steam on my skin, but at least the edge is off. At least I won’t walk into that bedroom wound so tight I can’t think straight.

After pausing for one last breath, I crack the door and step into the darkened room. She left one of the small lamps on, the soft amber glow washing over her where she’s curled up on the bed.

On my side.

Normally, that would drive me insane. It’s my side. Always has been. It’s closest to the door, closest to escape, and the fastest route to my brother if something goes wrong.

No one touches my side of the bed.

E ver.

Even Tyler knows that.

But somehow, seeing her there—wearing my shirt, tucked under my blankets, head resting on my pillow—settles something inside me. Something that shouldn’t be soothed by the sight of her in my space… but yet again, it is.

I step quietly around the bed, careful not to look too closely. Not at the way her legs are curled beneath the covers. Not at how my shirt slips off one of her shoulders. Not at the way her eyes follow me, like she’s waiting for something I don’t know how to give.

I ease the covers back on the side I never sleep on, then lower myself onto the mattress, slow and careful, like one wrong move might shatter whatever fragile truce exists between us.

I turn out the light and climb in, the mattress shifting beneath me, the quiet rustle of the sheets deafening in the silence. Once settled, I keep my body still. My breathing purposefully even.

I don’t reach for her. Don’t even let my hand brush the sheets between us. Instead, I just lie there, rigid, hands on my stomach while staring up at the dark ceiling like it holds all the answers.

Every muscle in my body is coiled tight because I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do now. The only time I’ve ever shared a bed with a woman was to fuck. A few hours tops. Just long enough to get what we both needed. Never to sleep and definitely never like this.

The only thing I’m here for is to help her feel safe. To bring her some small comfort amid today’s events. I’m here because she asked. Because she needs me.

But what if being this close only makes it worse? What if, like everything else I’ve done today, one wrong, unconscious move in the dark is all it takes to fuck this up too?

Oblivious to my panic, she shifts just slightly, her head turning toward me.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Two words.

That’s all it takes to nearly level me.

I force myself to keep breathing. To keep my voice even when I say, “Just sleep.”

But my mind is a goddamn war zone.

Don’t touch her.

Don’t need her.

Don’t fall harder than you already have.

Because this? This is already way too much. Way more than I ever thought I’d get. Far closer than I wanted her to be.

I keep staring at the ceiling. Counting my breaths. Wishing I could be anyone but me. Wishing I could hold her without wanting more. Praying for my mind to shut the hell up.

And then—

“James?” My name. Soft. Barely audible. Just a breath in the dark.

I turn my head toward her, the moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows casting her in an ethereal glow that steals my breath.

“Can you…” Her voice catches. I hear her swallow, and then—“Can you hold me?”

The words land like a fist to the chest, punching what little air remained in my lungs. Not just because I didn’t expect them—but because it’s like she reached into my brain and pulled the words straight from my thoughts.

My answer should be a simple no.

I know this .

Hell, she probably expects it.

But I can’t say no to her. Not when she sounds like that. Not when she’s lying in my bed, scared, fragile, and asking for something that costs me nothing but could mean everything to her.

So I move.

Carefully.

Slowly.

Like she’s made of glass, I slide closer. My arm eases around her waist. I tuck my other hand beneath her pillow. And then I pull her in—flush against my chest. Every line of her body pressed to mine.

And then something miraculous happens.

She lets out the softest sigh.

And just like that… she softens. Her whole body surrendering to me. Trusting me. Relying on me.

And my heart?

It damn near stops. Because I know I’ll never be the same again. Not after this. Not after holding her this close.

She doesn’t speak again. She just breathes—soft and steady—her body slowly syncing to mine like it was always meant to be. And somehow, each inhale, each exhale, is like a quiet reassurance that she’s still here. Still with me. A reassurance I didn’t know I needed until now.

Unable to sleep, I keep my arm around her, holding her close, afraid that if I let go—even a little—this will all disappear. She feels so fragile in my arms. Like she might break if I so much as breathe wrong.

And maybe she already has.

Maybe we both have.

But right now… none of that seems to matter, because this—this right now—is the only thing in my life that feels good. Right. Like something meant only for me.

I close my eyes and just listen.

To her.

To the quiet.

To the promise of something I’m terrified to want.

I can’t promise her a future. Hell, I can barely promise her tomorrow. But tonight?

Tonight I can give her this.

My arms. My silence. My presence.

Tonight, I can give her peace. I can give her safety.

But the more I lay here thinking of those things, the more it becomes clear she’s giving me the same.

Her presence, her body, her peace, her trust.

Without even trying, she’s giving me everything I need. 

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# Chapter 39

James

The sky outside is still dark when my eyes snap open. I don't move. I don't breathe. I just lie there—stiff as a board, alert, completely overwhelmed by the feel of her body curled so trustingly against me.

Her leg is draped over mine. One hand pressed to my chest like she's soaking up the warmth of my body—my presence. Me. And fuck, it feels perfect. Like this is where we belong. Like this is how we were always meant to be. 

I shake my head in disbelief.

After everything I've put her through—especially yesterday—somehow, by some miracle, she still asked me to stay. To hold her through the night. To help her feel safe. 

That has to mean something. Just like the fact that I did stay—all night—has to mean something, too. Right?

So then why... why does something that feels this good also leave me feeling so fucking inadequate? Like I don't deserve it. Like I'll never be enough.

It's why I barely slept. 

Every time I closed my eyes, all I could feel was her. The heat of her skin. The steady rise and fall of her chest. The scent of her hair under my nose as I breathed her in, unable to stop myself no matter how hard I tried.

And now, with the first hint of dawn bleeding through the windows, the room feels smaller. Tighter. Like if I spend one more minute in this bed, I won't be able to escape. Because now I know—lying here, just holding her... it will never be enough. 

Which is why, before I do something reckless—something I can't take back—I need to get the hell out of this bed. 

Shifting carefully, I peel myself away one slow inch at a time. She makes a soft sound—a quiet whimper—and I nearly change my mind. My hand freezes on the sheets, because that sound... it doesn't just sound like sleep. It sounds like need. Like she misses the feel of my touch. Like she can't settle without it—without me. 

To my relief, she eventually stills. Her face softens like she's dreaming of something good. Something gentle. She looks so damn beautiful I almost reach out, my fingers hovering just above her cheek, twitching with need as I fight the urge to touch her.

Frustrated, I pad across the room and grab a sweatshirt, careful not to let the floorboards creak. My muscles ache from lying in the same position all night, but I'm too damn desperate to get out of here to bother stretching the kinks out.

Later. I'll deal with it after breakfast. After I get some air and find some much needed perspective. 

But just as I reach the door, something stops me.

Her words from last night. 

How I make her feel like she doesn't matter. How by constantly pulling away I make her feel unsafe. She might as well have sliced my chest wide open and left me to bleed out, with the way her words gutted me.

I don't want her to be afraid of me. And I'm smart enough to know I can't keep doing this to her—not if I don't want to lose her. So I grab a pen and notepad from the nightstand and scribble the one thing I need her to know. The one thing I know will matter to her the most:

I'm not running. 

Just making us breakfast.

I'm here if you still need me.

I tear the page from the pad and leave it on the pillow beside her, right where I know she'll see it the second she opens her eyes.

Then, without letting myself look back, I walk away. 

Because I have to. 

Because the thought of waking up beside her after holding her all night feels like a line we shouldn't cross.

Downstairs, my head's still so scrambled it takes a full minute just to get started.
 
Cooking usually helps—keeps my hands busy, my mind focused—but nothing's going right this morning. I start the coffee, only to forget the damn carafe, which results in a hot stream of liquid hell spilling down the counter, over the cabinets, and onto the floor. Then I drop the eggs. Burn the butter in the pan. No matter what I do, everything I touch turns to shit. And the more I try to push through it, the worse things seem to get.

As I stir my second pan of eggs—because I burnt the first batch—the smell of burnt toast permeates the air.

"Motherfu—"

"Whoa, hey," a voice cuts in, followed by the unmistakable thud of Tyler's boots. "Language. What the hell is going on down here? You trying to burn the house down?"

I don't turn. "Not in the mood. So unless you've got something helpful to say, save it."

"Damn." He steps closer, nose wrinkling. "Smells like you tried to cook a dirty sock."

I sigh, finally turning to face him. He's dressed for class—jeans, a black hoodie, hair still damp from a shower. He takes in the mess on the counter—the scorched toast, the half-runny eggs, the broken shell pieces that haven't made it to the trash yet—and lifts a brow.

"Dude. You look like shit." He gestures to the plate of charred bacon I tried to salvage. "And this? Did you forget how to cook overnight?"

I grunt. "Bit distracted. Got a lot on my mind."

"Yeah, no shit," he mutters, grabbing a fork and helping himself to the eggs. He takes one bite, chews, then frowns. 

"Did you actually cook these? Cause honestly, I'm thinking it might be easier to drink them down."

I shoot him a glare, then glance down at the mess on his plate. Yeah... guess they do look a little runny. Not that it stops him. He's grinning as he shovels in another bite. They can't be 
that
 bad if he's still eating them. 

"So." He chews. Swallows. "Something happened last night, didn't it? Between you and her?"

"Nope."

"You're such a fucking liar."

"Not lying." I keep my tone flat, careful to give nothing away. "We cleaned up dinner. Went to bed. That's it."

Tyler leans against the counter, chewing slowly, eyes narrowing like he's trying to peel back the layers of my bullshit. 

"Okay. Fine. If you're not going to tell me, I'll let my imagination fill in the blanks. Honestly? More fun that way." His grin widens. "The kind of scenarios I'm picturing? Epic. I'm talking handcuffs. Annelly in leather. Maybe a whip. You kneeling on the ground in front of her, begging—"

"Oh my 
God,
 stop," I snap. 

The image slams into me—Annelly. Leather. A wicked little grin curling those sexy as fuck lips.

Fuck me. 

My mug slips, thunking against the counter and sloshing coffee everywhere. 

"Jesus Christ, Ty."  

He laughs like I've just given him the exact reaction he wanted.

"Look," I mutter, grabbing a towel to mop up the mess. "I fucked up yesterday. You already know that. I tried to make it up to her. Apologized. But..." I shrug. "I don't know. I'm not sure it was enough."

Tyler sobers slightly. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

I stare at the towel in my hands, wishing like hell I had an answer to that exact question. 

"I'm cooking her breakfast."

"Burning her breakfast, you mean."

I flip him off. He grins wider.

Then, without missing a beat, he adds, "Because if you're not gonna man up and fix things, you gotta let me know now—so I can step in. Show her what it's like to be with a real man."

I throw the towel at his head. He dodges it easily, laughing loudly like the little shit he is.

"Just drop it," I mutter. "And hurry up and eat your fucking food. You're going to be late."

Tyler's halfway through inhaling the still-questionable eggs when he glances over at me. "So... what's your plan after this gourmet disaster?"

I scowl, rinsing the pan. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're clearly trying. Too hard, by the looks of it—which, don't get me wrong, is 
adorable
. And probably part of your problem. But you and I both know breakfast isn't gonna fix whatever the hell's going on between you two."

My grip tightens around the edge of the sink. "I don't know. Maybe we just need a break. From this house. From yesterday. From... everything. We've been cooped up for almost a week now."

Tyler raises a brow. "So... you want to take her somewhere?"

I sigh. "Yeah. But I've got no clue where. Her knee's still jacked, so that kind of limits us. And with that asshole still out there, the safest place for her is here. On the property."

He sets his fork down, eyes lighting up like I just handed him a stack of blank checks and a Sharpie. "Wait. Are you asking 
me
 for date ideas? Yes. Oh man, this is gonna be fun."

"It's not a fucking date," I growl, instantly regretting opening my mouth.

"Right, right," he says, waving a hand. "Just a super chill, emotionally delicate outing between two people exchanging soul-crushing stares and unresolved sexual tension. Totally not a date."

I shoot him a glare. 

He ignores it.

"Okay, how about mini-golf?"

"There's snow on the ground, dumbass. And it's freezing."

"Oh! Well then... you could take her to the mall. Nothing says 'I'm sorry' like Auntie Anne's pretzels and a sparkly new phone case."

"Tyler."

"Fine. Got it. A romantic picnic in the woods. You could lay out the bearskin rug on the snow, strip naked, cuddle together for body heat. Classic winter romance vibes."

I give him the flattest look I can manage—doing my best not to picture that layered over the one already stuck in my brain.

Leather. Snow. Naked cuddling on a bear skin rug. 

Fucking hell.

He grins. "Okay, okay. Fine. But hear me out. I've got it now. What about Val? Why not take her up? Show her the mountains."

I pause, towel in hand. "Val?" The name catches in my throat. "Really?"

Tyler shrugs. "Why not? Think about it—she gets to relax, which means you can finally unclench your cheeks. Plus, it's safe. No way Victor's getting her up there. And bonus: you get to look cool while pretending it isn't a date."

"It's not a date."

"Sure. Of course not." He nods solemnly. "We'll just call it a scenic aerial bonding session with the girl you can't stop thinking about but are too emotionally constipated to actually date. Sounds super casual. Tons of fun."

Pouring myself a fresh cup of coffee, I deadpan. "I swear to God, one of these days, I will fly you out to the middle of nowhere and leave you there."

He grins, unfazed. "Someone's feeling defensive. Wonder why that is?"

I ignore him—and thank God, he finally drops it. He polishes off his eggs, downs the last of his coffee, then stands with a dramatic stretch.

"Well," he says, grabbing his backpack, "I'm out. I'll leave you to your tragic love story and undercooked breakfast. Try not to burn down the house while I'm gone."

"Drive safe," I mutter, not bothering to look up from the counter I'm wiping down.

"Text me when she dumps you. I saved my best date ideas for myself, just in case."

"Asshole," I grumble, the corner of my lip twitching despite myself.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, the house falls quiet again. And for a moment, I just stand there—hands braced on the counter, heart pounding in my chest like it's trying to break free. Not from panic. But from something dangerously close to hope. 

Because if I'm really going to do this... whatever 
this
 is with her... I need to get it right.

I can't undo yesterday. Can't rewrite the past. But maybe I can give her something today. Something small. Intentional. A first step that slowly eases us toward what we both seem to want. 

A fresh start. A new beginning. 

Someplace safe, where nothing, and no one—not even the bastard hunting her—can touch her.

My eyes drift to the back windows. To the hangar nestled between the trees.

Yeah.

I'm taking her up.

Now all I need... is for her to say yes.

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Chapter 40

James

She’s awake.

I know it before I hear the creak of the floorboards down the hall. Before the soft shuffle of her footsteps gives her away. Before the quiet click of my bedroom door closing, like someone trying not to be heard.

She’s been up for a while. Probably since before Tyler left. And yet, she waited this long to come out—leaving me here, pacing the length of the kitchen like a caged animal, pretending the silence doesn’t feel like a judgment I’m not strong enough to face.

Did she even see the note?

Or did I just make things worse?

I drag a hand over my jaw, rough with stubble, my stomach twisted in knots I haven’t been able to untangle since the second I woke up with her still in my arms.

I shouldn’t be this nervous.

I tried to treat this morning like any other. Got up early. Made breakfast. Told myself it was no big deal. But the truth is, I’ve been holding my breath since the second I left that room—hoping it meant something. My apology last night. The note I left for her this morning. The fact that I stayed, held her in my arms all night. Can she see how hard I’m trying?

The sound of her approaching footsteps brings me to a stop. They’re slow. Measured. Like she’s taking the extra time to fortify her walls before facing me.

I glance up as she rounds the corner into the kitchen—and everything inside me goes still.

Because there she is.

Wearing a cream-colored sweater and jeans that hug her curves in all the places I shouldn’t be noticing right now. Her hair is down, loose around her shoulders. A little messy. A little damp. She looks like she stepped straight out of a dream I haven’t earned the right to have.

She looks beautiful.

And for one breathless second, I feel like maybe—just maybe—everything’s going to be okay.

But then her eyes drop.

And they don’t come back.

Instead, she scans the kitchen slowly, her gaze flicking over my shoulder to the stove, the counter, the floor—anywhere but me. Like she’s back to being the girl she was when we first met. Trying to be polite, but really, she’s just being careful. Guarded. Like she doesn’t know what to do with me now. Like whatever we were starting to build got washed away in a single night.

It’s crushing.

Made worse when I notice that for the first time in days, she’s not wearing one of my sweatshirts. Not even the one she called her favorite, the one that swallowed her whole and made her look so soft and safe I could hardly resist touching her.

That she’s wearing something of her own shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

Way too fucking much.

The awkwardness thickens between us, building like pressure behind a sealed valve. Unspoken, but loud as hell. We’re standing in the same room, breathing the same air, and it feels like she’s a million miles away. Just like she was when she first came back to town before I convinced her to give me a chance.

A chance that, by the look of things, I’ve already blown.

I swallow hard, my fingers twitching at my sides.

In that note, I told her I’m still here. But it feels like I’ve already lost her.

Again .

Fuck me.

“Hungry?” I manage to croak through the lump in my throat, gesturing toward the place I set for her at the table.

“Sure.” Still unwilling to meet my eyes, she nods. Then, with a forced smile, she adds, “I could eat.”

Why won’t she look at me?

Was it what happened yesterday?

Something I did while we slept?

Did getting up and leaving her this morning break what little trust she had left for me?

“Did you see my note?” The words escape in a desperate rush before I can stop them.

Her eyes soften. Then finally—finally—she looks at me. And just like that, she gives me the smallest, most genuine smile.

It hits like air. Like oxygen.

Like the only breath I’ll ever fucking need.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “I did. Thank you.”

Relief rushes through me so fast it makes my cheeks burn. Just as quickly, I turn away, hoping she doesn’t notice. “I’ll, uh… grab our plates. Go ahead and sit down.”

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She’s still here. I’m still here.

Which means there’s still a chance for me to make this right.

With two plates of hot food in hand, I join her at the table. “If your coffee’s cold, let me know. I’ll grab you another.”

“It’s okay. This should be fine. Thank you.”

The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled too tight. The only saving grace is that she’s eating the food I made. Small mercy, but I’ll take it.

Maybe I should say something.

Anything.

Compliment her sweater. Ask if the food’s okay. Make a joke about the disaster Tyler walked in on earlier or the questionable eggs I fed him before he left. But try as I might, none of those words make it past my lips. So instead, I blurt out the one question I’ve been dying to ask.

“You ever seen the mountains from above?” Okay. So that sounded way cooler in my head.

She lifts her head, blinking. “From above?”

“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like a goddamn idiot. “Like… from up high. In the sky. Whole view stretched out in front of you.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “No. I don’t think so. Though I’m not really sure what you mean.”

By now, our forks are down. Neither of us is reaching for more food.

So I stand, grab my keys from the hook by the kitchen door. The jingle of the metal feels louder than it should in the quiet morning light.

“Come on,” I say, voice low. “I’ve got something to show you. We can clean up breakfast once we’re back.”

She doesn’t move.

Her gaze flicks to the window, to the snow still crusting the trees. And yeah, I don’t blame her for hesitating. The last time she stepped outside, she got hurt because of me.

So I soften my voice.

“We’ve been cooped up for days, Nell.” I take a small step toward her, careful not to get too close. “I think we both need this. Fresh air. Time outdoors. A moment to breathe outside these walls.”

Still, she doesn’t answer. Just watches me—like she’s waiting for the catch.

“You’ll be comfortable,” I add, gentler now. “Warm. And where we’re going… you’ll be safe. No one can touch you there.”

That gets her attention.

She draws in a breath—slow, shaky—and studies my gaze for a beat longer than I can take.

I force myself to not look away. To not shift under the weight of her questioning stare.

Then finally…

She nods. Just once. Quiet and sure.

And I swear to God, the breath I didn’t know I was holding damn near knocks the wind out of me.

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# Chapter 41

James

I don't waste a second. Just lead her downstairs without a word. Straight to the coat room, where we keep our arsenal of cold weather gear. She hesitates just inside the doorway, eyes darting to the bench like she's unsure whether to sit or wait for instructions.

For some reason, it makes me smile.

I don't say anything. Just move to the far wall, and grab the snowboarding jacket she wore the day of the accident. When I turn and hold it out to her, my voice is low, steadier now that it feels like we're getting somewhere.

"Put this on."

She steps forward slowly, and I help her ease her arms into the sleeves. Once the jacket's zipped up, I grab a scarf and gloves from the basket near the bench and offer them next. She takes them without a word, and somehow, that silent acceptance feels like trust.

Still no conversation.

No small talk.

Just movement. Me taking care of her. A rhythm that goes a long way to helping me feel more centered.

"Here. Wear the snow boots. We won't be out there long. But just in case."

She sits when I gesture toward the bench. As she pulls the boots on, I take a second to grab the helmets from the top shelf—mine, and the brand-new one I'm now calling hers.

When she's back on her feet, I pass her the helmet, ignoring the furrow between her brows. 

"Come on." 

Feeling braver than I have all day, I take her hand and lace our fingers together as I lead her out through the side door, straight into the garage.

"Wow..." she murmurs, her gaze sweeping over our collection of "toys"—as Zeb and Owen like to call the lineup of snowboards, ATVs, dirt bikes, snowmobiles, and even jet skis, all parked along the back wall. 

Thank God the boating gear's stashed in the hangar out back, or I'd be drowning in even more shame than I am right now. 

Oh right. 

The same goddamn hangar where Val is waiting for us. 

Nice going, dumbass.
 

Why didn't I set everything up beforehand? 

Now she's going to think I'm just trying to show off.

"I uh... Tyler and I—" I exhale sharply, dropping my head as that familiar weight of shame presses in. "Those issues I told you about—from how we grew up? This is another one of them. We get it's... not normal. I just don't want you to think..." I trail off, hoping she gets the meaning I can't seem to articulate as I press the button to open the garage's back door.

She doesn't say anything. But when I glance her way, her eyes are soft. She looks thoughtful. Not judging. Just quietly taking it in.

I pull her gently toward my ATV, setting my helmet on the seat before turning to face her. 

"Because of your knee, we'll need to take this to get where we're going. Think you'll be okay? I promise I'll be careful."

Her eyes widen just a little, a hint of fear bleeding through. But then she nods.

That small act of bravery? It knocks the air from my lungs. Fills me with something that feels a lot like awe. Like pride. It makes me smile.

Without a word, I ease the helmet over her head, careful not to jostle her. I adjust the fit slowly, methodically, making sure every strap, every buckle, every curve is just right. As I finish, my fingers graze along her jaw... then her neck.

Goosebumps rise beneath my touch.

She stills. Her breath catches. But she doesn't pull away. 

Knowing I affect her like this?

Jesus. 

It's a dangerous kind of high. One I can't afford to chase right now, so I shove it down. Lock it up tight so I can focus on the one thing that matters: getting her to our destination safely.

"I'll get on first. Start it up. Once I give you the okay, just step here with one foot, then swing your other leg over. Then all you've gotta do is hold on to me." I try to sound casual. Like the idea of her pressed up behind me—arms wrapped tight around my waist—doesn't short-circuit every part of my brain.

She nods, but the tension in her shoulders gives her true feelings away. 

I step closer and take her helmet gently in my hands, tilting it back until her eyes meet mine.

"I've got you," I say, my voice low. Steady. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Her breath leaves in a slow, shaky exhale. And this time, when she nods, there's something different behind it. A quiet certainty. A flicker of trust. 

It relights that spark of hope that was starting to die out inside me.

This has to be good, right? A sign it's not too late.

I shove that thought down too, before I can overanalyze it. Then I pull on my helmet, climb onto the ATV, and fire up the engine. The low rumble fills the garage as I glance back and give her a nod. 

She steps up—slowly, carefully—and settles in behind me. I take her hands in mine, guiding them around my waist, showing her it's okay. That she can hold on as tight as she needs. 

And she does. 

Tentative at first... but as another second passes, her arms tighten. Not quite sure, but getting there.  

And just like that, we move.

Outside, the cold hits us like a wall. Crisp. Biting. 

When I'm far enough out of the way, I pause to hit the button on the garage door remote. We wait, watching the door slide closed behind us. Then I steer us onto the narrow trail behind the house.

The tires crunch over frozen ground, the path winding us through bare trees and snow-dusted pines. The chill slices through my jacket collar, but I welcome it. 

It's real. Sharp. Something I can feel. 

And for the first time in days... I feel lighter.

We ride in silence. Not uncomfortable. Not exactly easy. Just... quiet. Like we're both afraid to break whatever fragile truce we've found.

Her arms stay wrapped around my middle. Not too tight. Not too loose. Just enough to keep us connected. Just enough to remind me she's still with me. And right now, that's all I need.

Strangely, she never asks where we're going. I tell myself it's because she trusts me. But a small part of me wonders if it's something else entirely. 

Maybe she's afraid to know. 

Afraid to ask. 

Maybe... she's afraid of me.

Those thoughts follow me like shadows as we pull up to the edge of the clearing.

When I kill the engine, the silence that follows isn't as suffocating as it was back at the house—but it's still heavy. Still unsettling.

I climb off first, then offer her my hand. She takes it without hesitation, letting me steady her as she eases down, careful of her injured knee.

After removing our helmets, her eyes sweep the clearing—the towering trees that surround us in a near-perfect circle, the stretch of the bright blue sky overhead, and the unmarked metal building tucked at the edge of the tree line. The furrow in her brow says she still has no idea what this place is or why I brought her here. 

But until she asks, I won't explain. 

At least not yet. 

It won't be long before she figures it out anyway.

She watches as I walk to the wide hangar doors and type in the code. The lock disengages, and the metal creaks as I slide it open—slow, deliberate clicks echoing through the stillness. 

She follows. Cautious. Quiet. Her boots crunching softly behind me. There's a slight hitch in her step as she limps forward, but she doesn't stop. Doesn't ask.

I know the exact moment she sees it.

Tucked inside the hangar, gleaming beneath the overhead lights, is 
Val
—my Bell 407 helicopter. 

Sleek. Powerful. 

Familiar in a way almost nothing else in my life is.

The time I've spent with her—flying through the clouds—is the only time I ever feel truly free. 

Free of responsibility. Of my past. Of the weight I've carried on my shoulders since the moment I took my first breath. There's no better escape from this life than flying thousands of feet above it.

Annelly slows beside me, eyes wide, her expression assessing—like she's still trying to make sense of what she's seeing.

Since she still doesn't ask, I head to the far wall and grab the helitow cart, sliding it into position beneath the skids. With practiced ease, I start rolling Val out toward the helipad in the center of the clearing.

Annelly watches the entire process in silence, confusion etched across every line of her face.

Finally, she speaks. "That's a helicopter."

"Yep." I smile. Can't help it. Her confusion is so damn adorable. "This is Valkyrie. You can call her Val for short."

"You... you can fly that?"

I nod once. "I can."

"Wait—don't you need a pilot's license?"

"Yep. And I've got one," I gesture her closer. "Now come on. Give that beautiful brain of yours a rest, and come help me."

She follows, still blinking like she's not entirely convinced this is happening. 

"You're taking me up there?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "In the sky?"

I turn to face her, my heart thudding hard and fast in my chest. 

This is the part that matters. 

The moment I need her to trust me—not because I asked, not because I think I deserve it, but because she wants to.

"I'd like to," I say quietly. "But only if you'll let me."

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Chapter 42

Annelly

“I’d like to,” he says quietly. “But only if you’ll let me.”

I should say no. Heck, the careful, logical, self-protective part of me is screaming it at me. After everything, letting him take me up in that thing will only lead to more confusion. More heartache. More pieces of me I’ll never get back.

But then I look at him.

Really look.

The gentle way he’s watching me. The quiet way he’s waiting. There’s no pressure in his expression. No smugness. Just this… raw kind of hope in his eyes. Like he’s asking for something he doesn’t believe he deserves but can’t help wanting anyway.

And when he looks at me like that? With that stripped-down vulnerability and guarded longing? The illogical part of me—the one ruled by my heart—just wants to prove him wrong. That he does deserve everything he wants. That I’m still willing—stupidly, heartbreakingly willing—to give it to him.

And that, right here, is why this will never work.

There’s this imbalance between us. Whatever this is. A Relationship. A Friendship. Some undefined space in between. Like I’m a glutton for punishment, I give him everything I have in me to give. And he takes eagerly, like a man starved. But the moment it’s me who’s wanting, me who’s needing… He can’t—or won’t—give anything back. Not even his presence. Not even his comfort. He just disconnects and disappears.

And even knowing that. Even feeling the phantom ache of the pain I know I’ll be left with when this ends, I still hear myself whisper, “Okay.”

His face softens instantly, turning warm, almost boyish with relief.

And just like that, I forget how to breathe.

That, right there?

That’s why I can never resist him.

“Great,” he says, already moving. “Wait right here. I’ll get you a chair so you can rest that knee while I get things ready.”

Seconds later, I’m sitting in a folding chair, watching him move around the helicopter with the quiet confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times. He’s steady here. Grounded. Every movement is fluid, practiced like it’s second nature. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him in days. Maybe ever. Like this is the one place where he doesn’t have to pretend.

He doesn’t say a word as he works, but I catch him glancing over. More than once. Like he can’t help himself. Like he just needs to know I’m still here. Still waiting. For him.

Little does he know that, like a moth drawn to a flame, I’m helpless when it comes to him. Especially now. Watching him like this. The way he moves. The way he prepares. The way he leads…

It makes me feel something I shouldn’t. Not with him. Not after everything.

But in this moment, it’s true.

I feel safe.

“Come on. Come meet Val,” he calls, sliding open the back door.

I wrap my arms around my middle and step toward him, my breath catching as I get my first glimpse of Val’s interior. The softest-looking tan leather I’ve ever seen, accented in sleek black that perfectly matches the aircraft’s glossy exterior.

It’s not just beautiful, it’s inviting.

Like it was designed to soothe. Impress. Envelop. The only thing I’ve seen that comes close is the interior of the limo we took to Emilia’s wedding.

I’m already trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to climb in—with one good leg, a sore knee, and a bruised ego—when James’s voice stops me.

“Oh no, you don’t.”

I glance back in surprise, and my stomach does one of those traitorous flips when I catch that lazy, teasing half-grin aimed directly at me.

“You, Snowflake, get the full-service experience.”

Before I can respond, he takes my hand, lacing our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My heart stutters as he slides the door shut behind us.

“What does that mean?” I ask, trying for casual even though my entire nervous system is short-circuiting.

“It means,” he says, guiding me gently around the nose of the chopper. “You get escorted like the VIP you are. And you get to sit right here, next to me.”

His voice is warm. Flirty. Light. And just like that, the tension in my chest eases. Maybe it’s the tone. Or the way his thumb brushes mine like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. For one fragile second, I forget why being here, why wanting more with James, is a terrible idea.

His hands are careful as he helps me inside. Slow. Reverent, even. He doesn’t rush. Just guides me in like I’m something fragile, something precious he’s terrified of breaking.

Then he’s buckling me in—tugging the straps, checking the clasps, brushing my hair from my face when it catches on the collar of my jacket.

“Here. You’ll need to wear this.” Without waiting for a response, he slides a helmet over my head.

His hands move with quiet precision—tightening the straps, adjusting the fit, then gently shifting the small mic arm into place. His knuckles graze my cheek in a move I’m not sure is intentional… but it sends a shiver crawling across my skin.

The moment feels too intimate.

Too much.

Too close to something real.

His breath ghosts past my skin as he leans in, eyes scanning the equipment, but I feel him everywhere.

And that’s when the fear creeps back in.

Because this—him, us—has always felt like this in the beginning. Safe. Soft. Good. Right. Until he panics and decides it’s not.

And now, I can’t help but wonder…

How many steps back will he take this time, after coming this far forward?

James climbs in beside me, the door shutting with a quiet click that somehow sounds louder in the stillness of the cockpit.

He flips a few switches overhead, then glances over. “Want the sixty-second tour?”

I nod, curious. Probably more than I should be.

He points to a few of the dials. Some which I recognize—altitude, fuel, heading—and others that look like they belong in a sci-fi movie. “Everything’s digital except the backups,” he says, voice calm. “This screen’s for navigation. This one monitors engine performance. And this—” he taps a toggle above his head, “—is my coffee warmer.”

I lift a brow.

He grins. “Kidding.”

It’s ridiculous. And charming. And… yeah. That grin? It’s dangerous.

“Don’t you have to file, like… a flight plan or something?” I ask, trying to focus on the actual helicopter and not the guy two feet away who smells like cedar, soap, and reckless decisions I know I’ll regret.

“For commercial flights or crossing certain airspaces? Yeah.” He shrugs, flicking another series of switches. “But out here, for private, low-altitude trips like this? Not required.” Then he nods toward a tablet mounted on the dash. “That said, I’ve got our location pinging to a few systems, including one Tyler can monitor if needed. And there’s a backup beacon. Just in case.”

I blink at him. “Just in case?”

And there’s that grin.

“Yep. Safety first. You know me. Especially when it comes to you.”

As the butterflies in my belly take flight, heat creeps up my cheeks. So I do what I always do. I default to sarcasm. Anything to mask the effect he’s having on me.

“Sounds like more of your controlling tendencies. In case you didn’t know, you’re kind of a control freak.”

He doesn’t even blink. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

It’s not.

Especially not right now.

Because watching him move—methodical, confident, so clearly in his element—I feel something shift in my chest. He’s not just protective when he wants to be. He’s capable. Competent. Steady in a way that steals the breath right out of me.

“I’ll need a few minutes to run through the pre-flight checklist,” he says. “Hang tight, and I’ll have us in the air momentarily.”

I sit quietly as he moves through the motions. His hands glide over buttons, switches, toggles, and gauges—every movement smooth and practiced. At the same time, his eyes scan a laminated checklist he must’ve pulled from one of the compartments.

Then the engine hums to life.

Low at first. Deep. The vibration rolls up through the floor beneath my boots, through my seat, into the air around us, as the rotors above begin to spin.

I suck in a breath and tighten my grip on the armrests.

Okay.

I’m okay.

This is fine.

Everything’s fine.

The blades blur faster, the entire frame trembling with restrained power. My stomach drops before we even leave the ground.

James glances over, eyes flicking to my white-knuckled grip. “You alright there?”

I nod. Too fast.

He doesn’t buy it.

His hand slides over mine, warm and steady. “Hey. It’s just an easy lift. Nice and smooth. We’ll ease up slowly. I promise, you’ll hardly feel it.”

I meet his eyes, and somehow, what I see there helps. A little. Just enough for my jaw to unclench, and for my lungs to remember how to expand. Only then does he let me go.

His hands return to the controls, to the switches and gauges.

The helicopter rises.

And for a split second, every nerve ending in my body screams in fear.

But then…

We’re in the air.

And it’s… breathtaking.

The trees fall away beneath us, shrinking until they look like little green and brown toothpicks dusted in powdered sugar. Snow blankets everything. The trails twist through the pines like silver ribbons. Mountains stretch out in every direction—high and wild and unreal, like something out of a fairytale.

I forget to be afraid.

James’s voice filters through the headset. “See that ridge to the west? Locals call it Black Widow Ridge. It’s got a ski drop that’ll do you in if you don’t know what you’re doing. Hence the name. Personally, I think it’s a bit dramatic—this is Pennsylvania. In other parts of the world, these ‘mountains’ would barely pass for hills.”

I laugh—actually laugh—and he grins like it’s the first sound of life he’s heard from me all day.

He keeps pointing out things—hidden lakes, crumbling fire towers, the frozen bend in the river where the ice fishers set up in winter. His voice is soft and steady in my ear, almost too easy to fall into.

Somewhere between the horizon and the hum of the engine, I realize I’m smiling.

Really smiling.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel… light.

Completely carefree.

It’s quiet for a while. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that settles when the view steals your breath and words feel unnecessary.

Then James’s voice crackles softly through the headset. “Is this okay?”

I glance over at him.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he adds, quieter now.

There’s something uncertain in his voice. Like he’s holding his breath, hoping this means as much to me as it clearly does to him.

My heart tugs. Hard.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely above the static hum in my ear. “This is amazing. You were right. I needed this.”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying to hold back a smile. Like he’s relieved—maybe even proud of himself—but doesn’t want me to see it.

He nods once, like he’s trying to play it cool, but I see the way his fingers tighten on the controls. The way he braces before speaking again.

“I-I heard what you said last night,” he says slowly. “About me making you feel unsafe.” The words land heavy in my chest, but he doesn’t stop there. “I don’t ever want to be the reason you feel that way again.”

I stare at him, stunned. Because he’s not being defensive or dismissive. He’s not brushing it off. Instead… he’s serious.

“I meant what I said, Annelly,” he adds, voice low yet sure. “I really want to try.”

My breath catches, and my heart stutters—traitorous and hopeful in a way I’m too tired to shut down.

I clear my throat. “Try what? What exactly does that mean?”

Because saying the word isn’t enough. Not anymore.

He looks out the window, like the answer might be written in the clouds.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Not exactly. I’ve never done anything like this before. Not for real. I’ve always kept things… surface-level. Safe. Detached.”

He turns back to me, eyes steady. “But that’s not what I want. Not with you.”

He lets a beat go by, then quietly adds—

“With you, I want more.”

I stare at him, every part of me bracing. Still not sure I can believe what I’m hearing.

“I need more than that, James.” My voice is soft, but the frustration slips through. “What exactly does that mean?”

He doesn’t flinch.

“It means I want you,” he says simply. “I want to be closer to you. To see where this leads.”

But it feels like he’s talking in code. Like he’s saying so much and yet nothing at all.

“I’m sorry, but that’s not enough. That’s not going to work for me.” My voice cracks, but I force the emotion back. “A casual relationship… that’s not how I’m built. I can’t let you into my life, only to be shoved aside again the second things get too real.”

His hand finds mine, gentle but firm. Like he’s afraid I’m slipping away. Like he’s trying to tether us together and soothe me at the same time.

“It doesn’t have to be casual, Annelly. If you want more, I’ll commit to more. All I’m asking is… be patient with me. Let things progress slowly—naturally—over time. No pressure. No labels. Just us. You and me. Exclusively . Whatever this becomes, I want it to be real. But I also want us to be sure.”

For a second, my heart surges. My throat burns with renewed hope. But then the reality of what he’s just said pulls me back.

Because, though this is almost everything I’ve wanted to hear, the bruises on my heart are still fresh. And it didn’t escape me—that hesitation. The soft, unspoken out this arrangement still gives him. Between that and our past, how could I possibly trust he won’t run again the second things get hard?

It’s why I say nothing. Because with hope and heartbreak both fighting for space inside me, I honestly don’t know what to say.

James’s jaw tightens.

His hand slips from mine, returning to the controls.

And the burn behind my eyes intensifies, twice as fierce.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Careful now. Guarded. “I deserve that. How you’re feeling about me.”

A pause.

“Just… please think about it, okay? You don’t have to answer now. I know you’ve got a lot going on. A lot that’s still unresolved. So I can wait. As long as it takes.” His eyes stay forward, fixed on the sky. “I just… I needed you to know where I stand. And that I’m not giving up.”

I nod.

But I still can’t speak.

Because part of me wants to believe him. Wants to fall into that hope. But that part of me is also still bleeding. And wounds like this… don’t heal on hope alone.

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# Chapter 43

James

I feel like crawling out of my own fucking skin. I'm so goddamn tired of feeling like this—helpless, uncertain, like the world I thought I knew is collapsing around me. 

"Goddamnit," I growl under my breath, pushing up from the chair and pacing the room again.

I've tried everything. As soon as we got back, I headed to the gym, ready to punch the hell out of something. Desperate to burn off the restless energy clawing at me from the inside. But the second I raised my fists, I saw her face. That night. The way she looked at my bloody knuckles. Those green eyes, wide and stricken, as she whispered, 
"I don't want to be the reason you bleed."

And just like that, I froze. 

Those words... those fucking words gutted me the first time I heard them. And now it's like they've taken up permanent residence in my head. Since that night, I haven't been able to throw a single punch. Not even now, when I need it most. A fact that pisses me off, for it feels like yet another thing she's taken from me. 

I resent it. 

But at the same time... I don't ever want her to look at me like that again. Like I'm broken. Or worse, like my brokenness is hurting her. 

I couldn't handle that fucking thought, so I ditched the workout. Went back upstairs. Took a long, scalding shower. Tried to breathe through the pressure crushing my chest. When that didn't work, I cleaned. Then I paced. Eventually, I ended up back here—at my desk—determined to lose myself in something useful. Reports. Updating next month's rota. Email. Anything. But all I've done is stare at my laptop until the screen blurred to static. 

 Fuck me.

It's no use. 

My head's too full of her, and I don't know what the hell to do about it. I can't stop thinking about the way she looked at me when I took her up in Val. 

When I told her, I heard her. 

When I said I wanted to try. 

Those beautiful green eyes were full of something I haven't seen in a long time. Hope. Like she was starting to see something real in me. Something worth believing in. Something 
redeemable
. 

But then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. 

And then... nothing.

No words.

No reaction.

Just silence.

Like the memory is too much, I collapse back into my chair. Elbows on my knees, hands gripping my hair like they might keep my head from splitting open.

Above me, I hear the dull thud of pool balls colliding. Laughter. A soft voice—hers—followed by Tyler's unmistakable bark of a laugh echoing from the rec room.

Frustrated, I shake my head. 

She's up there. Laughing. Joking. Acting like nothing happened, like nothing is wrong. While I'm down here, coming apart.

"What the fuck else am I supposed to do?" I mutter, voice low and sharp in the quiet. I opened up. I gave her everything I had. And she just... acted like it meant nothing.

With a growl, my hand moves before I can stop it. I grab my phone and dial the only person who won't judge me. The one man who might actually understand.

Because there's no way in 
hell
 I'm talking to Tyler about this. 

Zeb and Owen? Fucking out of the question considering Zeb's idea of a relationship is one he pays for, and Owen... Well, getting relationship advice from that asshole is like asking a twelve-year-old boy.

And Ben? Hell-to-the-fucking-no. He'd probably call me on it, declaring it a conflict of interest and reassigning her protection detail to that asshole Dominick.

The line rings twice. Then—

"Yeah?" Lucas answers—voice low and gravelly—clearly tired, but alert. "Everything good?"

The second I hear his voice, shame hits me square in the chest.

Shit.
 

He just had a baby. They're still in the fucking hospital. Why the hell am I bothering him with 
this
?

I drag a hand down my face, already regretting the call. "Hey. Sorry. I—uh—I was just checking in. Wanted to see how Emilia and the baby are doing."

Lucas pauses. 

"They're asleep. We're good."

A beat passes. Then I hear the quiet click of a door shutting in the background. 

"But that's not why you called, is it?"

I don't answer. Because he's right, but I have no idea how to admit what's eating me alive.

Lucas doesn't push—just waits me out like he's hoping I'll grow a pair and say it. 

Finally, he exhales a loud, disappointed sigh. "What is it, James?"

I let out a rough breath, wishing I could just hang up. "It's nothing," I lie. "I shouldn't be bothering you. We can talk when you're back to work."

Lucas makes a sound—dry, unimpressed. "Let's try this again. 
Talk
. Tell me what's going on."

I close my eyes and lean back in the chair, my head tipping against the headrest. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't know who else to call." The words scrape out quieter than I mean them to. "I just... needed to talk to someone who'd get it."

"Get what? Is Annelly okay?" The spike of concern in his voice hits hard. He's probably thinking back to when it was 
Emilia
 we were scrambling to protect.

"Yeah," I blurt. "She's fine. She's upstairs playing pool with Tyler."

Silence again. 

Then, calm but pointed, he says, "So this is about you."

I flinch.

"Yeah." The word barely scrapes past my throat. "Unfortunately." 

He doesn't respond. Just lets the silence stretch between us. And somehow... that quiet does more to crack me open than anything else could.

"I admitted I have feelings for her," I say, the frustration bubbling up, too loud and too fast. "I told her I wanted to try. That even though I've never done anything like this before, I was willing to see where it could go. That we could start slow. No pressure. No labels—just us. 
Exclusively
. Because I don't want to be with anyone else. I laid it all out. 
All of it
."

Suddenly unable to sit still, I push up from the chair and start pacing again. 

My words then spill out in one long, ragged rush. "I've never said shit like that to anyone, man. 
Ever
. I told her everything she's been hinting at wanting. Everything that, just a week ago, would've had me running for the hills. And you know what she did?"

Lucas doesn't answer.

"She said nothing. Not. A. Single. Mother fucking word." My jaw tightens. "She just sat there. Staring at me like some kicked puppy. But her silence? That's what cut the most. It's like... I would've been better off keeping my goddamn mouth shut."

I drag a hand over my face, the sting in my chest sharp and relentless.

"She has no idea how hard that was for me. I gave her 
everything
 I had in me to give—to promise." My voice lowers, but the bitterness clings to me like a ghost. "And she just... sat there. Left me hanging like some goddamn fool. Like none of it meant a fucking thing to her."

There's another stretch of silence. I can hear Lucas breathing on the other end of the line, steady and calm. Like he's letting me vent until I burn out. Like, he 
knows
 it's what I need.

"I just don't get it," I mutter. "What the hell else does she want from me?" I stop pacing, my grip tightening around the back of my chair. "See, 
this
 is why I don't do relationships. Because I'm not equipped for this shit. The way women sink their teeth in, shoot you full of whatever poison makes you think you 
need
 them... And by the time you realize it's a trap, it's too late. You're addicted. You 
can't
 let go, even when every ounce of common sense is screaming that you should."

Lucas is quiet. 

Too
 quiet. 

Long enough that I pull the phone from my ear and check the screen to make sure the call didn't drop. 

It didn't.

Which means he's just letting the silence work me over before he takes his turn and lays into me. 

"Do you want me to tell you what you 
want
 to hear?" he asks finally. "Or do you want the 
truth
?"

I bristle instantly. "I didn't call you for a lecture, man."

"Good," he says evenly. "Because I'm not your daddy. And to be clear, I'm not interested in being your therapist or goddamn cheerleader either. I'm your 
friend
, James. And that girl? She's family. My wife's cousin. Which means the only thing you're getting from me today is the 
truth
. Something you clearly knew you needed or you would've called someone else."

I roll my eyes, regretting this call for what feels like the hundredth time.

"What you said to her, James?" His voice hardens. "That wasn't a declaration of love. Not even a declaration of intent. What it was... was a scared guy saying 'Don't leave me... but don't expect anything from me either.'"

"You serious right now?" I snap. "I was being honest."

"No," he says flatly. "You were being cautious. You offered what 
you
 were comfortable giving. On 
your
 terms. You told her what 
you
 were ready for. Not once did you stop to ask what 
she
 needs from you, did you?"

My jaw tightens. My feet won't stay still. I keep pacing, my chest burning. 

"Are you seriously implying I don't care what she needs?" I shoot back. "If that were true, I wouldn't have said a damn thing to her in the first place. I wouldn't have spent the last, however-many months trying to protect her from 
me
."

"Wrong," Lucas says quietly. "You've spent all that time protecting 
yourself 
from 
her
. From the possibility. From wanting something better than what you're used to. And I think you've done it for so long, you don't even realize she's started doing the same. Mirroring your behavior in self-preservation, just like you taught her to do." His voice isn't angry—just steady. Frustratingly calm, which somehow makes the sting of his words hit even harder.  

"You told her you wanted more. But even then, you gave yourself an out. You offered terms like: 
no pressure, no labels, let's see where it goes
. You built yourself an escape route, just in case you changed your mind. And believe me, brother... she noticed."

"That's not an out," I argue. "That's—real. It's honest. I'm not pretending to be something I'm not."

"No one's asking you to pretend," he says. "But that girl's been through hell. And you've been jerking her back and forth for months."

That one hits low. 

I freeze mid-step, chest tight, and it takes a second to get my bearings. 

"I'm 
trying
 to make that right." I snap. "She said she wanted more, so I 
offered
 her more. I opened the door for her, and she walked right past it like it wasn't even there."

"That's because you think giving her access to the 
foyer
 is the same as offering her a 
home
."

The silence that follows is heavy. Crushing.

Then, quietly but firmly, he adds, "She doesn't want the 
option
 to try, James. She wants to 
know
 she's it. That she's the 
only
 woman you want. She wants to feel that you're 
sure.
 That you 
desperately
 want her to say yes, because the thought of missing your 
one and only 
chance to be with her makes you fucking 
sick. 
Because there's 
nothing
 you want more than to be with
 her
."

His words land between us with a finality so sharp, it makes the excuses sitting on the tip of my tongue feel irrelevant. 

Childish. 

Stupid.

"You think Emilia trusted me right away? Especially after all the ways I fucked up? No. She didn't. And she had 
every
 reason not to. I said all the right things—apologized profusely, swore I'd always be there, that I'd never leave her again. That I'd love her forever. But those words—those declarations? None of them mattered until she 
saw
 it. Until I 
proved
 them to be true. Again and again. 
Especially
 when she didn't believe in me. When she 
pushed me away
."

His voice drops as he draws in a breath. "That's when it counted the most. When I forced myself to put away my ego. To swallow down my pride—ignore those toxic thoughts I thought made me a man—and showed up, 
anyway
."

I drop into my chair with a thud, dragging a hand down my face.

"It's not like I disappeared on her this time, Luc. I 
stayed
. Hell, I'm still fucking here, aren't I? Why the hell isn't that 
enough
?"

"Because being in the room doesn't mean you're 
present
. Just like not running doesn't mean you're 
actively
 
participating
 in staying. She doesn't just need your presence, James—she needs to 
feel
 like you're fighting for her." 

"So what," I snap, "I'm just supposed to keep throwing myself at her? Keep laying myself out like a goddamn 
sacrifice
 and hope she wakes up one day wanting me?" 

I don't say the rest, but I feel it. 

I don't think I can do that. 

Hell, I know for a fact I wouldn't survive the constant rejection.

"No." He lets the word hang. "You want her? Then 
act like she's already yours
."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Not in the possessive, hot-headed way you've defaulted to your whole life," he clarifies. "I'm talking about showing up like someone who 
loves
 her. No games. No hiding behind conditions. Be the man who 
listens
. Who 
stays
. The kind of man who doesn't 
have
 to say 'I'm not going anywhere' because his actions already prove it."

His words land hard. 

Uncomfortably hard.

"She's not asking for perfection," he adds. "She's asking for 
proof
."

My throat tightens. Something shifts in my chest—slow, aching.

"James," he says, softer now, "stop trying to make her fall for your 
words
. Just... be the version of yourself she can 
trust
. And let 
that
 speak louder than anything else."

I don't say anything because he's right. All I've been doing is handing her words of safety, still wrapped in disclaimers, while sitting back like a coward, waiting for kudos I don't yet deserve. And now that she didn't give me the response I wanted, I'm acting like 
I'm
 the one who's been wronged. Like some petulant child.

I'm a fucking asshole.

I let out a breath. Long. Shaky. Bitter. Because underneath all of it—beneath the anger, the hurt, the frustration—there's something else I haven't wanted to admit.

I'm scared.
 

Scared to finally have something real, only to find out I'm still not enough. Scared that she'll never want me, not the way I want her. And that's not something I know how to live with.

I close my eyes, letting the weight of it all settle on my shoulders. 

For the first time in my life, the challenge isn't about protecting myself. Or surviving. It's about becoming the kind of man a girl like Annelly can believe in. 

Be proud to know. 

Trust. 

Love. 

Stay
 with. 

Which means I've got a shit ton of work to do, but at least now I know where I need to start.

By taking Lucas's advice, and acting like she's already mine.

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Chapter 44

James

I hate what I’ve become.

Five days.

Five fucking days sitting here like some lovesick fool, waiting for crumbs of affection from a woman who still doesn’t trust me enough to let me in.

I’m worse than Owen at this point. At least he doesn’t pretend he has a shred of self-respect when he’s got it bad for a girl. But me? I’m dressing it up like it’s strategy. Like my patience and perseverance are a choice, instead of a noose wrapped tightly around my goddamn neck.

I shove a hand through my hair and exhale roughly, trying to shake the bitterness clawing its way up my throat as I sit behind my desk, waiting for her to come in. We’re scheduled to dial into Offset Tactical any minute now for another status update on the investigation. But it’s not the case that has my nerves twisted into knots. It’s her.

And hell, I get it. This is all my fault. She owes me absolutely nothing. But fuck, this is hard.

The more time that passes with no progress and no end in sight, the worse this ache inside me gets. Every minute I spend holding back the things I want to say, the things I want to do… it shreds me a little bit more.

And yet, I can’t stop myself.

Lucas’s voice still echoes in the back of my mind like a goddamn battle cry—relentless and unforgiving: “If you want her, then act like she’s already yours.”

And fuck me, do I want her.

More than air. More than peace. More than the safety and security, I worship like gospel.

So I keep showing up.

I sit next to her on the couch every night, watching the home improvement shows she likes, pretending I’m not suffocating from the tension in the air. I find a hundred excuses to reach for her hand. To brush against her when we cook or clean. To stand too close when I help her adjust the new brace I bought for her knee.

And every night—without fail—I walk her to bed like it’s my fucking job. Like I’ve been hardwired to make sure she gets there safe… even if it kills me a little more each time she says goodnight without asking me to stay.

She hasn’t asked since that first night.

And I haven’t offered.

Because I promised her I’d give her time. That no matter how long it took, I’d wait.

But goddamn, does it hurt.

I feel like a glutton for punishment—lingering in that doorway like a desperate fool, clinging to every extra second before I kiss her cheek and wish her good night. And then—like the closing credits of some sad fucking movie—I stand there, choked up, watching her disappear behind the door of the room that used to be mine.

She’s still sleeping there because of her injury. And I’m still upstairs, in the room that was supposed to be hers.

Separate floors.

Separate rooms.

Separate beds.

And yet somehow… it still feels like we’re tethered . Like no matter what I do, that ache—the pull toward her—only gets stronger.

These last five days have been the hardest, most frustrating, most confusing—and humbling—stretch of my entire adult life.

And she still hasn’t given me an answer.

At this point… I’m not even sure she ever will.

Someday, I’ll have to find a way to come to terms with that. That I may have missed my chance with the only girl I could ever grow to love. But for now? As long as she’s still here—still under my roof, still close enough to touch, I’m giving this thing everything I’ve got.

And somehow—at least so far—every stolen minute I get with her more than makes up for the humiliation of being left standing alone in that hallway every damn night.

It all comes down to this: I want her to choose me. I want her to see that I’m the kind of man who stays. Who keeps his promises. Who fights for what he wants instead of folding at the first sign of pain. The kind of man who’s not too broken to love her right—even if I’m still trying to figure out how. Especially since the stubborn bastard in me has already decided: For her, no matter the cost, I’ll find a way to make it so.

“Hi. Am I late?” She stands tentatively at the door, voice soft, eyes uncertain.

That one hesitant look guts me. It’s how she’s been since the helicopter ride. Not distant, exactly, but cautious. Like she’s still trying to protect herself from me, and it fucking kills me every time. I’d give anything to see her like she was before I fucked it all up.

And then my eyes land on her body—and fuck me, I nearly forget how to breathe. The oversized, emerald green sweater she’s wearing hits mid-thigh, hugging her just enough to tease the curves that haunt my every goddamn thought. Black leggings cling to those lithe legs I’d give anything to feel wrapped around me.

She looks vulnerable, soft, and strong all at once. And by the look on her face, it’s clear she has no idea the effect she has on me.

And those eyes…

Those wild green eyes that used to burn when they looked at me? Now they only flicker.

Still beautiful. Still hers.

But dimmed.

The sight sobers me, the ache that’s become a constant over the past several days twisting low in my gut.

With great effort, I shove it all down and meet her gaze with a smile. Light. Easy. The kind I used to give her back in the summer, before everything between us got so heavy.

It’s not a mask. Not really. It’s a choice. A promise. She doesn’t need my brooding right now. She needs me steady . To be her constant . So that’s my goal. That’s what I’ll be.

“Not yet,” I say, rising to my feet and closing the distance between us.

Her gaze drops to the floor, but I gently reach for her hand, curling my fingers around hers before she can pull back.

“Come on.” I guide her to the chair beside my desk, keeping my voice low. “Might as well sit and let me admire you while we wait.”

She blushes.

It’s soft. Fleeting. But it hits me like a sucker punch straight to the ribs. My pulse stutters in my throat, and something in my chest seizes—tight, hot, and impossible to ignore.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be the reason she blushes like that. Not because she’s embarrassed or uncertain, but because she’s mine and she knows I’m undressing her with my eyes. Like I do in my imagination. In my dreams. In those moments when I let my guard slip.

But then she shifts, fidgeting in her seat, eyes dropping to the floor again like the weight of my stare is too much for her to bear. And I want to kick myself.

Fuck.

She’s not ready for this.

Not even close.

And now’s not the time for this shit anyway. We’re here because she’s in danger. I need to stop being such a selfish bastard.

Angry with myself, I swallow hard and shove the incessant need—the one that won’t let me breathe most days—deep down where it belongs.

I reach for my laptop, pull it closer, and click the Zoom link. Seconds later, Ben’s voice crackles through the screen, clipped and no-nonsense, as always.

“You two on?”

“We’re here,” I say, keeping my voice even as I turn the camera so he can see her.

“Good. Let’s keep this quick. You’ll get a full briefing of everything we have in your inbox after we’re done here,” Ben says. “Surveillance shows no obvious movement from Victor yet. He’s back to living his best life as one of New York’s elite—hosting fundraisers, playing doting socialite, waving to the press.”

“He’s a snake in a goddamn suit,” Owen mutters from where he sits at the table next to Ben. “Still no usable digital trail. No suspicious activity. No burner phones or unsecured devices connected to any of his networks that I can see. He’s clean. Too clean. Which can only mean one thing—he’s into some serious shit.” His tone drops, sounding darker now. “His tech guys are good, I’ll give him that. Though whether they’re as good as me … that’s still up for debate.” He chuckles to himself, but nothing about what he just said feels close to funny.

“We’ve been working the Zappalla angle,” Zeb adds, his voice more measured. “He’s gone to ground since finding out we’re watching him. No new movement, but he’s definitely spooked. It’s only a matter of time before he slips.”

Great.

So in summary, we have nothing.

We’re exactly where we were when we met as a team three days ago. Exactly where we’ve been since Annelly moved in ten days ago.

As Ben keeps talking, I force out a tight breath, fighting to control my frustration. My anger. The helplessness that sits like a cinderblock of dread cemented to my chest.

I glance at Annelly. Her posture is straight, chin held high, but her hands grip the arms of her chair tightly. And it’s impossible to miss the glassiness tucked behind the fear simmering in her eyes.

I’m no stranger to danger. To facing threats that are both certain and invisible. But this? This waiting? This invisible pressure building in the silence? It’s a different kind of torture. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop, except the shoe is a guillotine, hanging a hairsbreadth above your neck.

And the closer I feel to her—the more that I want her—the worse this feeling gets.

I’m a second away from exploding. From making it crystal fucking clear to the team that this is unacceptable. That we can’t keep going on like this. But before I can say a word, my phone vibrates hard against the desk.

My stomach drops.

One glance at the screen tells me everything I need to know: Motion Sensor Alert – Private Drive.

Fucking hell .

Without thinking, I hit the shortcut to pull up the live feed from the perimeter cameras. The second the image pops up, my heart slams against my ribs.

A white truck. Painted in pastels, with a big scripted logo across the side: Macy’s Flowers .

Blood rushes in my ears, hot and roaring.

Stay calm. Don’t spook her. Don’t let her see.

I push back from the desk—careful. Casual. “Back in a sec—just need to check something.”

Annelly looks up, brows pulling together slightly, but she doesn’t question it. Just nods and turns back to the laptop, where the video call’s still connected.

“All good. We’ll keep her company,” Owen chimes in, his voice light, deliberate. And I’m grateful .

I’m halfway up the stairs to the main floor when my phone buzzes again, this time with a call.

I answer immediately, ducking into the living room by the front windows, where I’ve got a clear line of sight to the private road leading to our driveway.

And there it is.

Just making the turn—like the ghost of my worst fucking nightmare—is the truck.

“Zeb, please tell me she doesn’t know.”

Please, God. Please let her still be in my office, relaxed and oblivious.

“She doesn’t know,” Zeb assures me. “I showed the guys the alert as I was stepping out. They’re keeping her busy. For now, I’ve got you on live feed. Hang tight a second—I’ll let you know when it’s safe to step outside.”

Relief and panic slam into me at the same time.

“Zeb…” I rake a hand through my hair, my skin crawling as the icy claws of fear sink into me. “If this is what I think it is…”

“I know. And I get it.” His voice softens a fraction. “But let’s not jump to conclusions yet. It might just be a coincidence.”

Coincidence .

Sure. Must be in celebration of “Men Who’ve Emotionally Imploded” week. A special bouquet of yet more trauma.

“Right. Flowers. Totally normal day at Casa Serrano.” I try to play it off, but there’s no hiding the shake in my voice.

Because inside, every instinct I have is screaming: Not here. Not my house. Not our safe place. Not the only goddamn thing I still have left to offer her. The one place I thought was untouchable.

I clench my fists, forcing myself to stay still, to wait for Zeb to give me the all clear.

Unable to watch any longer, I move away from the windows, pacing the length of my home like a caged animal, the seconds dragging like hours.

Because if Victor’s found her…

If he’s breached our safe space…

There’s no going back.

“Alright,” Zeb says. “Driver is out of the car. He’s headed upstairs to the Main Deck. I’ll deactivate the doorbell so it doesn’t ring in the house.”

I blow out a breath, relieved he thought of it. The last thing I need is Annelly hearing it and answering the first-floor door herself, thinking I’m upstairs and unavailable.

“He’s set the delivery down. Right outside the door. Sit tight. I want eyes on him leaving the property before you step out.”

In the background, Dominick’s voice filters through the line. “I’ve got the shop on the line. Owner’s confirming the order details… though like last time, I’m not holding out much hope.”

“Yeah… the fucker’s smart,” Zeb mutters.

I sit there, fists clenched, forcing myself to breathe steady. Trying like hell not to lose it.

“Truck’s back on the private drive, headed away from the property. You’re good to open the door.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. My heart’s pounding like a war drum as I move. One step. Then another. Dread curling tighter with every inch closer to whatever’s waiting out there.

When I reach the door, I don’t open it right away. I just stand there—hand on the knob, bracing for the worst.

It’s cool beneath my fingers. Firm. Steady. Unlike the storm brewing inside my chest.

If this is Victor—if this is him announcing he’s found her, found us —then everything from this point forward changes. It’ll mean my home. My sanctuary… is no longer safe.

As my mind races with fear and the weight of what that means, I think of Annelly—sitting downstairs, hopefully unaware. Still feeling safe. I think of Tyler—sitting in class, blissfully ignorant to the fact that the fortress we’ve built for ourselves has been breached.

I close my eyes for half a second and exhale hard. Pausing just long enough to steel myself. To open the cage, releasing that version of me I thought I’d never need again.

The monster.

The fighter.

The man I’ll need to be to survive whatever hell comes next. The one who will fix this. Who will protect them with my every breath.

I only hope when it’s over… it won’t be the end of us. I pray with everything that I am, that she can look beyond my flaws, beyond the horrors of what I may have to do, to see the man that would give anything to be who she needs. The man who’d give it all up for the chance to call her mine.

Taking another deep breath—I turn the knob.

And step outside.

❤️

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# What's Next...

"
Maybe the monster isn't something to slay. Maybe it's something to love back into being human.
"

 - Unknown

This isn't the end of James and Annelly's story. Not even close.

But it is the moment everything changes.

Writing 
Broken Misery
 meant stepping into the darkest corners of love—the kind that doesn't come easy, that hurts as much as it heals. These two broke me open in ways I didn't expect, and if you're here now, I'm guessing they've done the same to you.  

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for taking this journey with them... with me. Every message, every comment, every moment you've spent feeling alongside these characters is what makes this worth it.  

This chapter might end with a fragile truce, but what comes next?  

It's war—against the threat closing in, and against the monsters James still carries inside. Because sometimes protecting the ones you love means facing the parts of yourself you swore you'd buried for good.  

So hold on tight, because the next chapter of James & Annelly's story continues in
 
Broken Resolve (James & Annelly Book 2)

—now available to read.

BROKEN RESOLVE

(Broken Redemption Series: James & Annelly Book 2)

James and Annelly’s love story continues…

"Some monsters are made to protect. But never to be loved."

Annelly

 He found us.
 

Now James and I are on the run—again.
 

But it's not just the danger we're fleeing. It's the wreckage of what we almost had.
 

I know what he's risking—what he's already sacrificed. Part of me still believes in him. Still wants him. But with every mile between us and the home he built, I feel him slipping into someone colder, harder... someone I might not be able to reach.
 

And I can't stop wondering if I'm the one who broke him.
 

Maybe loving James was always going to end this way—with me watching him fall apart, and knowing I'm the reason.

James

 I promised to protect her.
 

But no one told me it would mean losing everything that matters. My home. My brother. My chance with her.
 

Now we're running, and with every step, I leave more of myself behind—including the man I was trying to become. The one she almost believed in.
 

But he's not enough anymore. What she needs now is the version of me I swore I'd never be again. The monster I buried. The one who knows how to end this.
 

Unleashing him might save her life, but it will destroy the one thing I can't bear to lose.
 

Maybe loving her was always going to end like this—with me becoming the monster she could never love.

In the 
Broken Redemption World
, as danger closes in, love may not be enough to save them—and sacrificing the future they dreamed of might be the only way to survive.

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