Chapter 8 #2
I stare at the ceiling, not trusting myself to look at him. My throat tightens around the words, but I force them out anyway.
“People I promised to protect. Back in Atlanta there was a witness, Maria. We had a big case, and she was the star witness. I promised her she’d be safe if she testified. And then—” My voice cracks. “Car bomb. The night before she was supposed to take the stand.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“I made promises I couldn’t keep. She trusted me, and I got her killed.” The words taste like ash. “Her and her mother and her seven-year-old brother. A little boy named Daniel who wanted to be a firefighter when he grew up. Who drew me a picture of a fire truck the last time I saw him.”
“Josie—”
“I still have it. The picture.” I laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “It’s handing in my office. Some kind of penance, I guess. A reminder of what happens when I let people down.”
Stone is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand finds mine on the blanket, his fingers intertwining with mine.
“You didn’t let them down,” he says. “The people who planted that bomb are evil. The system that couldn’t protect them let them down. You were trying to get justice for victims. That’s not something to be ashamed of.”
“Tell that to Daniel.”
“I would, if I could. I’d tell him his death wasn’t your fault. That you did everything you could. That you carry him with you every day because you cared, not because you failed.”
My eyes burn. I blink hard, refusing to cry.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand.
“I’ve watched you work for months. The way you prepare for every contingency, triple-check every detail, fight like hell for people who can’t fight for themselves.
You’re not careless, Josie. You’re not reckless.
Whatever happened in Atlanta, it wasn’t because you didn’t try hard enough. ”
“Then why does it still feel like my fault?”
“Because you’re human. Because you care. Because the alternative—not feeling anything, not taking responsibility—would mean becoming someone you aren’t.”
I turn my head to look at him. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite name. Tender. Understanding. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry guilt you can’t put down.
“What about you?” I ask. “What keeps you up at night?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “The club. Summit. Lee. Emma.” He hesitates. “Rebecca, my ex-wife.”
“What happened?”
“I drove her away. I put the club first. She stayed longer than she should have—for Emma, mostly, we all know Lee would have been fine—but she saw her out when Emma got accepted to that fancy New York dance school.” His jaw tightens.
“When she finally left, she told me I didn’t know how to love anything more than this club. That maybe I never had.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. I try to imagine Stone young, in love, watching his wife walk away. Tried to imagine Emma and Lee, caught in the middle.
“Do you believe that?”
I hold my breath, bracing for the answer. Part of me needs him to say no. Part of me is terrified he’ll say yes—that he’ll confirm what I’ve been afraid of all along. That he’s not capable of putting anyone first, that I’d always come second.
Haven’t I always?
“I used to.” His eyes meet mine. “Now I’m not so sure.”
My heart stumbles.
The air between us shifts. Charged. I’m suddenly very aware of how close we are, how warm his hand feels wrapped around mine, how his thumb has stilled against my skin.
“Stone—”
“I was an idiot,” he says quietly. “At the party. When I pulled back. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted you—I’ve wanted you for months. But I was worried I’d fuck this up.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I have with nearly everything else. My marriage. My relationship with Emma, for years. Every woman who’s tried to get close to me since Rebecca left.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ve got a pattern, Josie. Push people away before they can leave.”
I know that pattern. I’ve lived it.
“And now?”
“Now you almost died, and I realized safe doesn’t mean shit if it means spending the rest of my life wondering what could have been.”
My breath catches. My pulse is pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it through our joined hands.
I search his face for the lie, for the equivocation, for the inevitable moment when he’ll pull back again.
I don’t find it.
Fuck. I have to decide if I’m brave enough to want him too.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “I’ve been alone for so long, I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“We could figure it out together.”
“Could we?”
“I’d like to try.” His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone. “If you’ll let me.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm on my lips, his eyes asking a question I’m not sure I know how to answer.
“Stone...”
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. “If you don’t want this. Tell me to stop and I will.”
I don’t want him to stop. That’s the terrifying part. I want him to close the distance, to kiss me, to make good on every heated look and charged moment of the past months.
I want him. And that wanting scares me more than anything.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper.
His eyes flare—heat, relief, hunger. His hand slides from my cheek into my hair, tilting my head back, and he leans in.
His lips brush mine. Soft. Questioning. A kiss that’s barely a kiss, giving me every opportunity to pull away.
I don’t pull away.
I kiss him back.
He makes a sound low in his throat—surprise, maybe, or relief—and then the gentleness evaporates. His mouth claims mine, hot and demanding, and I open for him without thinking, my good hand fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
He tastes like coffee and something darker, something that makes my head spin in ways that have nothing to do with the concussion. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I gasp, and he swallows the sound, one hand cradling my head while the other slides down to my hip.
“Josie,” he breathes against my mouth. “God, Josie—”
I arch into him—and immediately regret it as fire lances through my ribs.
“Shit—” I hiss, pulling back.
“Your ribs. Fuck. I’m sorry—” He starts to pull away, but I grab his shirt, hold him in place.
“Don’t you dare apologize.” I’m breathing hard, which hurts, but I don’t care. “Just... be gentle. For now.”
For now. The words hang between us, heavy with promise.
Stone’s eyes darken. “For now?”
“Did I stutter?”
He groans, dropping his forehead to mine. “You’re going to kill me.”
“That’s the plan.”
He laughs and the sound sends delicious shivers down my spine. He kisses me again, softer this time, careful of my injuries but no less intense.
His hand traces up my side, feather-light, and I shiver. His mouth leaves mine, trailing down my jaw, my neck, finding the spot below my ear that makes me gasp—
BANG BANG BANG.
The bedroom door shudders under someone’s fist.
“Stone!” Hawk’s voice, urgent. “Brick just called in. Something’s going down at that house. Sounds bad—he’s requesting a clean up crew.”
Stone’s forehead drops to my shoulder. I feel the groan vibrate through his entire body.
“I’m going to kill him,” he mutters.
“What house?” I ask, my brain still foggy. “What’s going on?”
Stone pulls back, and I watch the president slide into place, locking down everything we’ve just shared. “Isabel. She must have slipped out. Brick followed her.”
Isabel.
The fog clears instantly, replaced by a cold spike of fear. Whatever she was running back to—whoever she was so desperate to reach—it’s caught up with her.
I’m already pushing myself upright, ignoring the scream of my ribs. “I’m coming with—”
“No.” Stone’s hand presses me back down, firm but gentle. “You can barely walk. You’d be a liability.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“Then bring her back safe.” I grip his wrist. “Whatever’s happening—she’s not the enemy, Stone. She’s a victim. Promise me you’ll remember that.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I promise.”
“Stone—”
“I’ll be back.” He presses a hard, fast kiss to my mouth. “And when I am, we’re finishing this conversation.”
I relax. “Conversation? Is that what we’re calling it?”
He’s already moving toward the door, but he pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back at me with an expression that makes my stomach flip. “Next time, I’m locking the door and ignoring them. I don’t care if the goddamned house is burning down around us.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at the ceiling, heart racing, lips tingling, torn between the ghost of his kiss and the fear gnawing at my chest.
Be safe, Isabel.