Chapter 9 Ryan
NINE
Ryan
I close the door behind me and stand motionless in the hallway for three heartbeats. Just enough time to recalibrate. To wrestle back control of my body’s immediate, visceral reaction to Celeste Hart.
Fuck.
This was not in the mission parameters. Not that there are mission parameters, since this isn’t officially a mission. It’s a goddamn detour that’s about to derail my entire week.
And now I’m aroused. And pissed. And amused, in an irritated sort of way.
The woman is infuriating. Brilliant, obviously.
Fearless to the point of recklessness. And so goddamn stubborn.
I want to turn her over my knee, smack some sense into her, and then fuck her senseless.
Pin her against that wall again, but this time without stopping.
See if she’s as defiant when I’m inside her.
The thought hits with such visceral force that I have to clench my fists. Completely inappropriate. Completely unprofessional. And completely undeniable.
I exhale slowly, pushing away fantasies that have no place in a protection detail. Professional. I need to stay professional. Even if she’s not my client in any official capacity, she’s still under my protection. Lines exist for a reason.
Lines I nearly crossed when I almost kissed her.
I roll my shoulders, trying to dispel the tension that’s settled there. My body still hums with need after pinning her against that wall. From the way her eyes dilated when I leaned in. From the soft parting of her lips that was pure invitation.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the problem. For those few seconds, instinct overrode training. Desire trumped protocol. A rookie mistake I haven’t made since—ever.
The scent of her lingers—rain and sweat and beneath it all, that citrus note that’s been driving me quietly insane since the subway platform. Even filthy from the tunnels, she smells incredible. Looks incredible, with those defiant eyes and that stubborn set to her jaw.
A fucking journalist, of all things. Professional skeptics with death wishes and the self-preservation instincts of lemmings.
I shake my head, moving toward the elevator with measured steps. This is not how I expected my evening to go when I boarded the Metro after dinner with my mother. Should be halfway to Seattle by now. Instead, I’m shopping for a woman who just tried to escape the protection she desperately needs.
My mouth curves into an unwilling smile.
She’s got nerve, I’ll give her that. Most people wouldn’t have the balls to try walking out after what we’ve been through tonight.
Most people would be curled in the fetal position, processing the trauma.
Not Celeste Hart. She’s plotting escape routes while nursing broken ribs.
There’s something admirable in that, even if it’s tactically idiotic.
The elevator doors close, and I study my reflection in the polished metal. I look like shit—hair still damp, clothes rumpled and dirt-streaked, the scar beneath my eye more pronounced after the fight. There’s a tear in my shirt I hadn’t noticed before. Perfect.
At the front desk, the same clerk from check-in eyes me warily.
“Need something, sir?”
“Nearest place to buy clothes and toiletries?” I keep my tone casual. “We had—unexpected travel delays. Lost our luggage.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, no doubt filling in a colorful backstory. “Convenience store three blocks east. 24-hour pharmacy about six blocks west.”
“Which is better stocked?”
“Pharmacy. More selection.” He hesitates. “Your, uh, wife okay? She looked a little roughed up.”
Not his business, but I appreciate the concern. At least he’s checking.
“Car accident,” I say smoothly. “Taxi hydroplaned. She got the worst of it.”
He nods, satisfied with the explanation. “Pharmacy has basic first aid too.”
“Thanks.”
I head toward the door, then pause. “Any chance you have a plastic bag? Wallet got soaked in the rain.”
The clerk reaches beneath the counter and produces a small plastic bag.
“Appreciate it.”
Out of his sight, I extract the cash from my wallet, separating damp bills from dry. I can’t use credit cards—too easily tracked. Cash is anonymous. Untraceable. Essential when professional operators are hunting you.
Outside, the rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, the kind that soaks through gradually rather than all at once. I scan the street—force of habit—noting potential threats, exit routes, and vantage points. The neighborhood is quiet at this hour. Few pedestrians, minimal traffic.
I walk quickly, constantly aware of my exposure. Six blocks feel like a tactical error, leaving Celeste alone for too long. But I need proper supplies, and I’m not naive enough to think she won’t try to leave again given enough time.
I make no apologies for waiting outside the door to catch her. She might resent the tactic, but she’s alive to resent it. That’s the part that matters.
The street stretches before me, glistening under sodium lights. I maintain a brisk pace while memorizing the route. Always know your terrain. It’s the first rule they teach in special ops. Always know at least three ways out of wherever you are.
The woman back in that hotel room has no idea how much danger she’s in. Those men on the platform weren’t street thugs or corporate security. The way they moved, the way they coordinated without verbal communication—that was advanced training. Military or intelligence background.
Whatever she’s carrying on that flash drive, it’s big enough to pull in a professional wet team—the kind that leaves blood and bodies behind.
We’re not running from hired muscle now.
We’re running from resources. From networks.
From people with access to cameras, databases, and tracking capabilities far beyond civilian scope.
I estimate we have twelve hours before they identify the hotel. Maybe less. By tomorrow, we need to be on the move, with altered appearances and no electronic footprint. I’ll need to call in favors and activate resources.
But first: supplies. Can’t run effectively if you’re still wearing clothes soaked in tunnel water.
The pharmacy’s fluorescent lighting assaults my eyes after the dim street. A bored cashier glances up from her phone, then back down, dismissing me as non-threatening. Smart girl. In my current mood, I’m anything but.
I grab a hand basket and move systematically through the aisles. Practicality first. Two T-shirts, sweatpants, socks. For me, plain and functional. I don’t care about appearances. The clothes need to serve their purpose—cover, comfort, mobility.
Then women’s clothing. And here, despite myself, I slow down.
Growing up with three older sisters has its occasional advantages. I know how to shop for a woman without looking completely lost. I know sizes, fabrics, what’s comfortable versus what looks good.
For Celeste, I select practical but flattering options.
Soft cotton T-shirts in deep green and navy that won’t irritate her injured ribs but will complement her coloring.
A zip-up hoodie in charcoal gray for warmth.
Leggings that will be gentle on her knee.
My sisters’ voices echo in my head, providing commentary on fabric and fit.
Clare would approve of the color choices. Melissa would nod at the practical considerations for her injuries. And Diane would roll her eyes, thinking I wasn’t considering style enough.
I smile at that. It’s been years since I’ve gone shopping with any of them, but some lessons stick.
Then I reach the lingerie section and pause.
This feels more invasive somehow, more personal than picking out shirts and pants. But she needs everything, and I’m not making a second trip.
I study the options clinically, assessing her build from memory.
The curve of her waist when I grabbed her in the tunnels.
The swell of her breasts beneath that sodden blouse when she was pressed against the wall.
She’s slender but curved. B-cup, maybe C.
Erring on the side of comfort, I select the C.
Then, instead of the practical cotton I should choose, my hand reaches for a black lace bra.
Inappropriate. Unprofessional. Completely unjustifiable from a tactical standpoint.
I put it in the basket anyway.
If I’m being honest—and why not, since no one’s in my head but me—I’m selecting what I’d like to see her in. What I’d like to peel off her in a different context, under different circumstances. My preferences, not what makes the most tactical sense.
Same with the underwear. I bypass the sensible cotton briefs for a pack of bikini-cut lace-trimmed ones. Black, deep blue, and a dark purple, colors I imagine would suit her complexion.
The practical part of my brain—the part that’s kept me alive through three combat tours and countless operations—argues this is tactical suicide. Letting attraction cloud judgment. The rest of me tells that part to shut the fuck up. Just this once.
There will be no scenario where this matters anyway. By tomorrow, we’ll be focused on staying alive, not—whatever this is. So where’s the harm in small indulgences of imagination? In acknowledging the spark between us, even if we’ll never act on it?
In the toiletries aisle, I grab the basics: toothbrushes, toothpaste, and deodorant. Then I pause at the shampoos, realizing I don’t know what Celeste prefers.
Except I do. That citrus scent.
I very quickly uncap bottles one by one, sniffing each until I find it—a grapefruit and mandarin blend that instantly conjures her face. The companion conditioner also goes into the basket.
Diane would laugh herself sick if she could see me now, standing in a pharmacy at midnight, smelling hair products for a woman who tried to ditch me thirty minutes ago. But there’s something oddly satisfying about finding the exact right scent. About knowing she’ll recognize the effort.