Chapter 8 Celeste #2
“The only reason you’re alive right now is that I happened to be on that platform. The only reason you’ll stay alive is if you stop fighting me and start working with me.”
The certainty in his voice is both comforting and terrifying. Because he’s right. I’ve been running on adrenaline and denial, refusing to process the reality of my situation fully.
“Do you understand?” he presses.
I nod, unable to form words past the tightness in my throat.
“Say it.” His voice is gentle now, but no less commanding. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I understand.” The admission costs me something—pride, perhaps. Or the illusion of self-reliance I’ve clung to for so long.
Something shifts in his expression—approval, relief. His posture changes, but instead of moving away, he leans in closer.
Time slows to a crawl.
His eyes lock with mine, intensity radiating from that ice-blue gaze. For a heartbeat, we breathe the same air, neither advancing nor retreating. I’m pinned not by his hands but by his eyes and the weight of his focus.
Then his gaze drops to my lips. Lingers there. Returns to my eyes with a question I’m not ready to answer. His pupils dilate slightly, black consuming blue.
He moves closer—imperceptible to anyone watching, seismic to me, feeling it. The distance between us shrinks from inches to nothing. The heat of him envelops me, his scent—sweat and rain and something distinctly male—fills my lungs with each shallow breath.
Again, his eyes drop to my mouth. My lips tingle with awareness, with anticipation. His jaw tightens, a small muscle jumping beneath the stubbled skin. Is he fighting the same pull I am? This gravitational force between us that defies logic, defies the circumstances that brought us here?
I find myself leaning forward, the barest tilt of my head. An invitation I hadn’t consciously decided to extend.
He’s going to kiss me. The realization floods me with contradictory emotions—desire, anxiety, anticipation, fear. I should stop this. Should turn away. Should remember who he is, who I am, and why we’re here.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I watch as he makes his decision. His eyes darken further. He dips his head, bringing our faces close enough that our noses nearly touch. My eyelids flutter closed, surrendering to whatever this madness is.
But at the last moment, he shifts. The kiss I’ve braced for doesn’t land on my lips. Instead, he turns his head slightly, his mouth moving to the side. His lips brush the shell of my ear instead, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin of my cheek. His breath is warm, intimate.
“Good girl,” he whispers, the words vibrating through me.
A lightning strike of sensation courses down my spine, pooling low in my belly. Heat floods my face, my neck, places I refuse to acknowledge. Two simple words shouldn’t affect me this way—patronizing, condescending words that should offend every feminist principle I hold.
Instead, they light me up from the inside. A shameful warmth spreads through my chest, a dangerous pleasure at earning his approval that radiates outward until my fingertips tingle with it.
What is wrong with me?
He pushes away from the wall suddenly, creating distance between us. The cool air rushes in to fill the space where his warmth had been.
“I’m going to get supplies now,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “You’re going to stay here. When I return, we’ll get cleaned up, eat something, and make a plan.”
I nod, still too shaken by my reactions to argue.
“If anyone but me knocks on that door, hide in the bathroom and call that number.” His tone brooks no argument. “Are we clear?”
“Yes.” The word comes out hoarse.
He studies me for another long moment, as if assessing my sincerity. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he gives a short nod.
“Twenty minutes.” He moves to the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. “And, Celeste?”
I meet his gaze, still feeling the phantom pressure of his body caging mine.
“Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
With that, he slips out the door. This time, I hear his footsteps retreat down the hallway, growing fainter until they disappear entirely.
I remain frozen against the wall, legs trembling, breath uneven. My body still hums with the conflicting responses he triggered—fear, anger, and a devastating attraction I neither wanted nor expected.
This time, I don’t move toward the door. Don’t even consider it.
Not because I’m afraid of him, though there is fear—fear of what he represents, fear of the danger surrounding us, fear of my response to him.
I stay because he’s right. I know he’s right. And that knowledge terrifies me more than anything.
The men hunting me won’t stop. They’ll find me eventually if I’m alone. And as much as I hate depending on anyone, especially a man who makes me feel simultaneously safe and utterly vulnerable, I’m not ready to die for my pride.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest despite the pain in my ribs. The flash drive digs into my thigh through my pocket, a constant reminder of why all this is happening.
Twenty minutes until he returns. Twenty minutes to get my traitorous body and confused emotions under control.
Twenty minutes to decide how much of the truth I’m willing to share with the stranger who keeps saving my life.