Stay With Me (Crown or Fire #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Beatriz Cruz still felt his hands when she opened her eyes.

The door had clicked open moments before. The kind of sound that barely disturbed the night.

Bea stirred, blinking in the dim glow of her bedside lamp. Her body was heavy with sleep, but she knew she wasn’t alone anymore. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Gage.

She heard the soft rustle of fabric, the deep, measured exhale he always let out at the end of a long day. Then the quiet clink of his watch being set on the nightstand. The faint slide of a belt slipping from its loops.

Her stomach tightened.

She turned her head, catching the movement of him in the dark—the crisp white of his dress shirt, the way he moved through the space like he belonged there. Like she was waiting for him.

“You’re back?” she mumbled.

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

The mattress dipped, and then he was over her, one arm braced beside her head, the other sliding beneath the covers, fingers skimming down to her bare inner thigh.

Bea’s breath caught. She was fully awake now.

“What are you doing?” she murmured, but her body was already responding, arching into him. Her fingers explored beneath the fabric of his shirt. His skin was warm. His muscles were hard, smooth to the touch.

“What we both need,” he said, voice low.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against her jaw, dragging his nose along the line of her throat.

She shivered.

His hands found her hips, positioning her.

And then—

The moment shattered.

Bea woke with a sharp inhale, her body still humming, sheets twisted around her legs. For one impossible second, she could still feel him. A phantom sensation of his body, his hands.

Her childhood bedroom took shape in the dark. The tall bookshelf, the desk by the window, the faint outline of neatly folded blankets at the foot of the bed. She pressed a hand to her chest, her heart hammering, air too warm despite the winter air seeping in through the window.

Canada.

Not the United Republic of Westhaven.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as reality settled in, as the remembrance of the distance between them wrapped cold fingers around her ribs.

She turned, reaching blindly for her phone on the nightstand.

12:12 a.m.

Gage would still be at work.

For a long moment, she just stared at the screen, thumb hovering over his name. She could call him. He’d answer. But something held her back. Instead, she typed out a text.

BEA: I miss you.

She hesitated, second-guessing, then finally hit Send. The message was delivered instantly, but there was no typing bubble, no response.

Bea sank back into her pillows, staring up at the ceiling. What had she expected? He was working. He’d see it later.

She had insisted on coming home. She had told herself it was the right choice. But lying here now, she wanted so badly to take it back. To be where he was.

She turned onto her side, pulling the blankets up, and pressed her cheek against the pillow, eyes drifting shut. The dream still clung to her, vivid and lingering.

But he was a world away.

Bea woke up the next morning and found his reply waiting.

1:02 a.m.

GAGE: Want to tell me why you were thinking about me in the middle of the night?

Bea groaned a laugh, burying her face into her pillow.

BEA: I’m sure you know.

She smiled when she saw his immediate response.

GAGE: I’ll call you later. You can tell me in detail.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, heart already beating faster than it should.

BEA: It’s Christmas morning here. My whole family is here all day.

BEA: You want me to tell you in detail while my umma is yelling about garlic?

GAGE: I wouldn’t mind.

Ugh. Why was he so far away?

BEA: Go to bed, Gage.

GAGE: Not sleepy.

BEA: Then what are you doing?

GAGE: Thinking about what you dreamt about.

Heat curled through her stomach, slow and insistent.

BEA: You’ll just have to wait.

GAGE: You’re lucky I’m patient.

She grinned, shoved her phone under her pillow, and rolled onto her side. Outside her door, the house was already humming. Her umma and papa would need her help.

As for Gage…he’d have to wait his turn.

The scent of roasted meat, cinnamon, and something buttery and warm clung to the air, thick and comforting. It seeped into the walls and refused to leave, and made everything feel like home.

Bea stood at the edge of the kitchen, half in, half out, watching as the room spilled over with movement and noise. She’d only stepped away for half an hour to shower and change. In that space of time, the whole family had arrived.

Outside the kitchen window, she could see her papa with three of her uncles, surveying the snow, leaning on their shovels, holding beers.

Inside, the kitchen was packed to capacity. Every inch of counter space was covered in ingredients. The oven timer beeped. Someone swore. Her umma commanded the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand, flipping between languages as she barked instructions.

“Give me the salt—no, the small one, not the big one!”

“That’s too much garlic! Do you want them to breathe fire?”

One of her aunties laughed, passing a colander full of washed greens across the counter.

“Since when do you complain about garlic?”

Her umma huffed but didn’t correct her.

Her aunties looked up, noticed Bea, and descended like vultures.

“Alright, alright, let’s hear it,” Auntie Sarah declared, arms crossed like an interrogation was about to take place. “The golden daughter returns. Tell us, what’s the verdict?”

“The verdict on what?”

Auntie Melissa nudged Auntie Sarah with a spatula. “On the rich boyfriend, obviously.”

Bea groaned, lifting her tea to hide her face. “Whose rich boyfriend?”

Her umma made a snorting sound from where she was stirring a pot at the stove. That set off a wave of cackling.

“Aha!” Auntie Sarah pointed dramatically. “She’s got a man!”

Bea set her tea down a little too forcefully. “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about, I don’t know, Christmas?”

“We’ll talk about Christmas after you tell us what tax bracket he’s in.” Auntie Melissa cackled. “St. Ives is basically a billionaire training facility. We all knew this day would come.”

Bea dragged a hand down her face. “Are you guys serious?”

“Completely,” Auntie Sarah said, grinning. “Come, you can tell us, Bea. We are modern aunties. We understand young people.”

From across the kitchen, her cousin Elias, twenty-one, loud, the most annoying of them all, sniggered. “We’ll get it out of her by the end of the night. She caves under pressure.”

Bea scoffed. “I do not.”

“Remember when you cracked after one round of Mafia?” Elias shot back.

Auntie Linda, who was elbows-deep in kneading dough, jumped in. “Oh, I remember. You can’t lie to save your life, Bea.”

Bea scowled at all of them before turning back to her umma. “Do you see how they treat me?”

Her umma patted her cheek in mock sympathy. “You went away too long, everyone saved up all their jokes for you.”

Bea narrowed her eyes. Her family was having way too much fun at her expense. “That’s it. I’m going back to school.”

“School’s closed, Beya Slaya,” Elias said smugly. “You’re stuck with us.”

Beya Slaya. The nickname her best friend, Claire Park, had crowned her with back in kindergarten, after too many recess performances to Beyoncé. It had stuck, especially once Claire taught her younger cousins to chant it.

“Elias! You’re supposed to call her Nuna,” Auntie Sarah scolded.

“Soooorry, Noo-nah Bey-ah,” Elias drawled, exaggerating every syllable. “Can your boyfriend even say your name properly?”

Actually, yes. Yes, he could.

He’d said it perfectly from the very first time.

“Look at her, she’s glowing.” Auntie Linda smirked as she punched down the dough. “I mean, I’ve never seen our girl look this good. Either St. Ives has a secret underground spa, or she’s getting some real good—”

Bea clapped a hand over her aunt’s mouth. “We are moving on.”

The kitchen erupted in laughter.

A batch of almond polvorones was pulled out of the oven and placed fresh onto the cooling rack. Bea grabbed one, blew on it, and stuffed it into her mouth for survival.

Joon, her seventeen-year-old cousin, snuck in beside her, swiping a cookie of his own. “You caved too fast.”

Bea scowled. “I did not cave.”

“You did,” he countered, munching happily. “You got defensive and started yelling. Classic signs of guilt.”

Bea groaned, slumping onto the counter, chin on her folded arms. “You’re all the worst.”

Laughter rippled through the room, but before anyone could grill her further, the front door swung open, bringing a rush of cold air and a new stampede of younger cousins tumbling inside.

Snow dusted their hair, their coats half unzipped as they shook off the winter chill, breath puffing white in the warm air.

“We’re going skating,” one of the twins announced.

“Hockey at the park after!” said the other twin.

Bea’s youngest cousin, Han, barely four years old, tugged on her sleeve. “Are you coming?”

Bea smiled, ruffling his hair. “Not this time, bud. Someone’s gotta set the table.”

He nodded solemnly, like this was a great responsibility. “Okay. I’ll bring you a snowball.”

Bea barely dodged her cousin’s flying hand as he grabbed for another polvorón.

“Joon!” Auntie Linda barked, smacking his wrist away. “Have some self-control.”

Joon, grinning like a menace, dodged away. “I am! I’m eating them without icing to reduce calories.”

Bea grabbed another one and stuffed it in her mouth before her aunt could scold her too.

“See, Nuna’s doing it,” Joon pointed out.

Her umma shook her head. “You’re supposed to be a sophisticated St. Ives girl, hm.”

“Sorry, too busy lowering my tax bracket,” Bea said, mouth full.

Little Han, still clinging to her sleeve, looked up at her, wide-eyed with betrayal. “You said before we had to wait for dessert.”

Bea froze, mid-chew.

The entire kitchen turned on her in an instant.

“Wow,” Elias breathed. “The lies.”

“You can’t trust anyone.” Joon frowned.

Her papa, who had been outside with her uncles shoveling snow, walked into the kitchen, shaking his head. “I raised you better than this.”

Bea crouched down to offer Han a cookie, contrite. “I was wrong,” she admitted.

“Bea!” Umma’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Come taste this!”

The living room was a disaster zone of ripped wrapping paper, ribbons, and discarded gift bags.

The laughter had eased into a warm hum, and Bea was curled up on the couch, tucking a blanket around her legs.

The fire danced low, casting golden light across the room, the scent of pine and cinnamon lingering in the air.

Earlier they’d sung carols by the fire, Auntie Melissa playing the piano, the whole family’s voices rising in layered and occasionally off-key harmony.

After dinner, Uncle Mateo had read the nativity story aloud, as he did every year, his voice slow and steady while the little ones passed around Hotteok and mugs of Castilian hot chocolate.

She loved that Christmas tradition the most.

From the kitchen, she could still hear Umma and the aunts cleaning, their voices soft, steady, blending into the clatter of dishes. Outside, her papa and the uncles finished up, their low laughter drifting through the cold night air.

She, Elias, and Joon had been on kid-entertainment duty. They’d finally worn them out to the point where they were scattered across the living room in various states of sleep, on laps, curled into blankets on the floor.

Han was nestled against Bea’s side, his small head trustingly in her lap. She brushed her fingers through his hair, smiling at the warmth of him, the deep, rhythmic breaths of a child who felt completely safe.

This had been her world. It still was.

But it wasn’t the only one anymore.

Her phone buzzed.

GAGE: How’d it go?

BEA: Fun. Loud.

BEA: Also my family is convinced I have a rich boyfriend.

GAGE: They’re not wrong.

She snorted.

BEA: I told them if I did, he’d be quiet, calculating, and terrifyingly strategic.

GAGE: Strategic, yes. Terrifying is subjective.

BEA: Right. I’ll clarify tomorrow.

GAGE: You should.

It was evening in Toronto, and early morning in Northgate.

BEA: Merry Christmas, Gage.

GAGE: Merry Christmas, sweetheart.