Chapter 8 Celeste
EIGHT
Celeste
I stand frozen for a moment, processing Ryan’s words.
Lifeline. Drowning.
The metaphors grate against my nerves. Who is he to decide what I need?
I’ve spent my entire career in dangerous situations.
I’ve extracted information from warlords, negotiated with armed militants, and navigated corrupt government officials.
I don’t need some ex-military man telling me how to survive.
I survived before he showed up on that platform. I can survive without him now.
The thought settles in my mind with surprising clarity. I don’t actually need this man. I’ve always protected myself. Always relied on my own instincts. I need space to think without his intimidating presence filling every corner of the room.
I move to the door, engaging the deadbolt and security chain as instructed. Then I lean against it, listening to his retreating footsteps until they fade completely.
Alone for the first time since the subway platform, I feel oddly unmoored. The silence of the room presses in, broken only by the hum of the heater and my ragged breathing.
My hand moves to my pocket, fingers closing around the small rectangle of the flash drive. Everything that’s happened—Jared’s murder, the car crash, the men hunting me—it all traces back to what’s stored in these few megabytes of data.
Evidence that powerful people would kill to keep hidden. Evidence, I still haven’t fully processed myself.
My other hand finds the slip of paper Ryan gave me. I unfold it—a corner from the hotel notepad with a phone number written in neat, precise handwriting. No name. Just ten digits that connect to people who apparently have the resources to “extract” me if necessary.
I should memorize it as instructed. Should do as I’m told for once.
Instead, I limp to the bed and finally surrender to its gravity, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. The springs creak beneath my weight. My soaked jeans cling uncomfortably to my legs, but I lack the energy to remove them.
The mirror across from the bed reflects a stranger wearing my face. A hunted woman with wild eyes and blood in her hair.
I close my eyes, unable to look at her any longer.
Twenty minutes, he said. Twenty minutes alone with my thoughts, my pain, and the weight of the evidence that’s turned my life upside down in the span of a day.
What happens when he returns depends entirely on how much I decide to trust him. And trust isn’t something I give easily. Not anymore. Not after everything I’ve seen.
I wait exactly three minutes after Ryan’s footsteps fade down the hallway.
Three minutes to gather my resolve. Three minutes to remind myself who I am. Three minutes to decide I won’t be controlled.
The slip of paper with his emergency contact number burns in my palm. I fold it carefully, tucking it into my bra rather than my pocket. Safer there. Water-resistant. Accessible.
I press my ear against the door, listening for any movement in the hallway. Nothing but the distant hum of ice machines and the muffled sound of a television from another room.
Twenty minutes, he said. I only need five.
My fingertips brush the cold metal of the doorknob. I hesitate, not out of fear but out of practicality. If I’m going to do this, I need a plan. Strategy has always been my strength—whether investigating corrupt officials or navigating hostile territories.
I assess my resources: flash drive and about sixty dollars in wet bills from my pocket. No phone—lost in the crash or the tunnels. No ID—deliberately left behind when it became clear those men knew exactly who I was. No room key—Ryan kept both.
Limited resources, but enough to get away. I can walk four blocks to the all-night drug store I noticed on our taxi ride. Buy necessities. Find somewhere to think, to process, to plan my next move. Away from his overwhelming presence and the confusion it creates.
This isn’t about running away, I tell myself. It’s about regaining autonomy. Independence. Space to breathe without him watching my every move.
Once I leave, I can’t come back—the door will lock behind me. But maybe that’s for the best. Ryan Ellis is a complication I never asked for, a variable I don’t know how to calculate.
I unlock the door, disengaging the security chain with minimal noise. One last deep breath. I pull the door open—
And freeze.
Ryan leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s been waiting silently, knowing—knowing—I would try to leave.
“Going somewhere?” His voice is deceptively soft.
“I—” Words fail me.
For a breathless moment, we simply stare at each other. His eyes catalog my guilty expression, my hand still gripping the doorknob, my body angled toward escape.
I never see him move.
One second, he’s across the hallway; the next, he’s a solid wall of muscle and controlled fury, pushing me back into the room. The door slams behind us with a finality that makes my heart race.
My back hits the wall beside the door. Not hard—he’s careful even in his anger—but firmly enough that I know I can’t escape.
His body cages mine, one arm braced beside my head, the other flat against the wall near my waist. He doesn’t touch me, yet I feel utterly trapped. Contained. His face hovers inches from mine, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek.
“That,” he says, voice dangerously low, “was predictable and disappointing.”
Heat rushes to my face—shame, anger, and something else I refuse to acknowledge. “I was just—”
“Don’t.” The single word cuts through my excuse. “Don’t insult both of us with a lie.”
I lift my chin, defiance overriding better judgment. “I needed things. Personal things.”
“You needed to prove you could disobey. To establish some illusion of control.” His eyes bore into mine, seeing too much. “Even at the risk of your safety.”
“You don’t own me.” The words come out breathier than intended. “You can’t keep me prisoner here.”
“Is that what this is to you?” He leans closer, frustration radiating from every taut line of his body. “You think I’m keeping you prisoner?”
“What would you call it?”
His jaw clenches. I watch the muscle jump beneath his skin, fascinated despite myself. The scar beneath his left eye seems more pronounced now, a jagged reminder of whatever violence shaped him.
“I’d call it protection.” His voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more weight than a shout.
“I’d call it keeping you alive when there are professional killers hunting you.
I’d call it sacrificing my mission, my schedule, potentially my career, to make sure you don’t end up as another body the police find with ‘no apparent motive.’”
Each word hits with precision, finding weak spots in my defenses I didn’t know existed.
He’s too close. Too intense. Too present. I’ve interviewed dictators and murderers without flinching, but this man—this stranger who’s saved my life repeatedly in the past hours—makes me feel exposed in ways I never anticipated.
“I can take care of myself,” I insist, but my voice lacks conviction.
“Can you?” His eyes drop to the blood crusted at my temple, then to my arm wrapped protectively around my injured ribs. “Because evidence suggests otherwise.”
Anger flares, hot and immediate. I shove against his chest with both hands. He doesn’t budge. The solid wall of him absorbs my push as if it were nothing more than a gentle touch.
And that’s when I notice it—the unexpected heat coiling low in my belly. The way my pulse quickens, not from fear or anger, but from something far more primal.
I’m attracted to him.
The realization hits with embarrassing clarity. Attracted to his strength, his competence, the raw masculine power currently boxing me against this wall. Attracted to the intensity of his focus, the certainty of his movements, the unwavering purpose that drives him.
I hate it. Hate that my body betrays me this way. Hate that in the middle of danger, while professional killers hunt me, my limbic system chooses now to remind me I’m a woman and he is very much a man.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating slightly. Does he sense the shift? Can he read this reaction as easily as he reads everything else about me?
God, I hope not.
“Here’s how this works,” he says, voice dropping another octave. “You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No arguments. No creative interpretations. No independent excursions.”
“Or what?” I challenge, desperate to regain some foothold in this confrontation.
“Or I’ll be forced to consider you a liability rather than an asset.”
The threat hangs between us, ambiguous yet clear.
“Would you hurt me?” I ask, needing to know where the boundaries lie.
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps even hurt. “No. Never. But I might restrain you. And I definitely will stop protecting you if you refuse to be protected.”
His face is so close now that I can see the faint stubble darkening his jaw, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the almost imperceptible chip in his front tooth. Details that humanize him. Make him more than the machine-like protector who fought off four men without breaking a sweat.
“I don’t like being controlled,” I admit, voice barely audible.
“And I don’t like wasting my time with people determined to get themselves killed.” His expression softens fractionally. “This isn’t about control, Celeste. It’s about survival.”
My name on his lips does something to me. Something I’m not prepared for.
“I need to know you understand what’s happening here.
” His eyes search mine. “Those men in the subway aren’t typical hitmen.
They’re ex-military or intelligence personnel, highly trained and well-funded.
They have resources, connections, and a singular objective: to eliminate you and whatever you’re carrying. ”
A chill slides down my spine despite the heat radiating from his body.