Chapter 10 Celeste
TEN
Celeste
I pace the hotel room like a caged animal, checking my watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Eighteen minutes since Ryan left. Two minutes until I’m supposed to call that mysterious number. Two minutes until I admit he might not be coming back.
My ribs throb with each turn, a constant reminder of everything that’s happened tonight. The crash. The men in the subway. The tunnels. And Ryan Ellis, materializing in my life like some kind of avenging angel with ice in his veins and violence in his hands.
The silence of the room presses against my ears. I strain to hear footsteps in the hallway, any indication that he’s returning. Or worse—that someone else has found us.
Three sharp knocks on the door. A pause. Two more knocks.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by irritation at feeling relieved. I shouldn’t care whether he comes back. Shouldn’t need him. But I do, and that admission burns through my carefully constructed independence like acid.
I check the peephole first—not completely naive—and see Ryan’s broad-shouldered silhouette, plastic bags dangling from his hands. I unlock the door, stepping back as he enters.
His eyes scan the room first—checking corners, sight lines, potential threats—before landing on me.
There’s a slight relaxation in his shoulders when he confirms I’m still here, that I didn’t attempt another escape.
The fact that he expected me to stay sends a contradictory thrill through me.
He knows I’m stubborn, yet he trusted me anyway.
“Good choice,” he says, acknowledging my decision to remain without actually praising it. His voice carries that same commanding tone that irritates and intrigues me in equal measure.
“I’m not an idiot,” I reply, lifting my chin. “Just independent.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Same thing sometimes.”
He moves to the small round table by the window and begins unpacking his purchases. Items emerge from plastic bags and are arranged in neat, categorical rows. Men’s clothes on the left—plain, functional T-shirts and sweatpants. Basic necessities without personality or flair.
On the right, he places women’s clothing—and I find myself momentarily stunned.
Not by the practicality, which I expected, but by the thoughtfulness.
Soft cotton T-shirts in deep green and navy that would actually complement my coloring.
A charcoal gray hoodie that looks both warm and flattering.
Black leggings that will be gentle on my injured knee.
Basic, yes. But not thoughtless.
“How did you know my size?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Ryan doesn’t look up from his methodical unpacking. “Visual assessment. Years of practice.”
Of course. He’s been assessing everything about me since the moment we met. Why would my clothing size be any different?
Toiletries come next—toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant. All arranged with an almost obsessive precision that speaks to a mind that values order above all.
Then he pulls out a bottle of shampoo and places it in the center of the table.
I freeze.
It’s my brand. Not just my brand—my exact scent. Grapefruit and mandarin, the citrus blend I’ve used for years. A small, inconsequential detail about myself that somehow this stranger captured perfectly.
“How did you …?” I don’t finish the question.
He glances up, blue eyes meeting mine with unsettling directness. “You smell like citrus. I found the match.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest—a skip followed by a gallop. He noticed how I smell. Remembered it. Sought it out specifically among dozens of options.
The intimacy of this gesture strikes me harder than if he’d touched me. It reveals an attention to detail that feels almost invasive. As if he’s been cataloging parts of me I didn’t offer.
Next come the feminine products—pads and tampons, the exact type I requested. He places them on the table without comment, without embarrassment, like they’re as neutral as toothpaste or shampoo.
And then, with the same casual efficiency, he sets down a box of condoms.
The room suddenly feels too warm, the air too thick to breathe properly. I stare at the incongruous blue box, my mind short-circuiting as I process the implications.
The bastard.
After that almost-kiss against the wall, after the way he looked at me before whispering “good girl” in my ear like some kind of erotic command … Now this? A presumption so bold it borders on insulting.
Or would be insulting, if a traitorous part of me weren’t humming with something dangerously close to anticipation.
I press my fingers to my lips, remembering the ghost of pressure that never came. The kiss that didn’t happen. The heat of his body as he caged me against the wall. The surge of unwanted desire that flooded me when his voice dropped to that commanding whisper.
When I finally look up, Ryan is watching me intently, searching for a reaction. He wants one. Is waiting for it. The realization hits me with perfect clarity—this was deliberate. A test. A provocation. A way to unbalance me.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I force my expression into neutral disinterest, as if condoms are as mundane as toothpaste in this scenario.
“What next?” I ask, my voice impressively steady.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, something like disappointment flickering across his features at my non-reaction.
“Shower, then bed,” he replies, matching my casual tone.
As if he hasn’t just detonated a grenade of implication between us.
As if the word “bed” doesn’t carry a freight train of meaning in this context.
“You first,” he adds, nodding toward the bathroom.
“Clean your head wound. I’ll check it after. ”
Just like that, we’re back to practical concerns. The professional protector and his reluctant charge. Nothing more complicated than that.
Except everything feels complicated now.
I gather the toiletries, then hesitate. “I’ll be quick.”
“Take your time,” he says, already turning his attention to the remaining items. “We’re secure for tonight.”
The bathroom is small but clean, with chipped white tiles and a shower curtain that has seen better days. I lock the door behind me, though I doubt it would stop Ryan for more than two seconds if he decided to come in.
The thought sends an unexpected shiver through me that I refuse to examine too closely.
I turn the shower on, letting steam fill the small space while I peel off my filthy clothes. Every movement is a negotiation with pain—ribs protesting, knee throbbing, muscles I didn’t know I had screaming from our tunnel crawl. The hot water beckons, promising relief.
As I step under the spray, I’m again shocked by my reflection in the cloudy mirror. The woman staring back is still a stranger—wild-eyed, blood crusted at her temple, but the fear that dominated her features earlier has been replaced by something more complex.
Determination, yes.
Wariness, absolutely.
But also, confusion that borders on wonder. As if she can’t quite believe the turn her life has taken in the past twelve hours.
The hot water is divine, washing away tunnel grime and sweat, easing the ache in my muscles if not my mind. I use the grapefruit shampoo, inhaling deeply as the familiar scent surrounds me. Ryan’s attention to this detail still unnerves me. Still matters more than it should.
Mid-rinse, a horrifying realization stops me cold—I forgot to bring clean clothes into the bathroom with me. They’re sitting on the table where Ryan left them, and there’s no way I’m putting the filthy ones back on.
I curse under my breath, weighing my options. I could call out, ask him to leave the clothes by the door. But that would mean admitting my mistake. Showing vulnerability. Giving him another opportunity to think I need rescuing.
No way in hell.
The only other option makes my heart race: emerge with just a towel, grab the clothes, and retreat back to the bathroom before he has time to react.
It’s a terrible plan. The worst. But it’s the only one I’ve got.
I finish showering, turn off the water, and dry myself with the rough hotel towel. My movements are brisk and efficient, trying to build momentum for what comes next. I wrap the towel securely around my body—it barely reaches mid-thigh, but it covers the essentials.
One deep breath. Two. I unlock the door and step back into the hotel room.
Ryan is exactly where I left him, standing by the table, examining what appears to be hair dye and scissors. His head snaps up at my entrance, eyes widening fractionally before his expression shutters into careful neutrality.
But not before I catch the flash of heat that darkens his gaze as it travels from my bare shoulders to my exposed legs and back up again.
“Forgot my clothes,” I explain unnecessarily, hating the slight tremor in my voice.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. Just watches with that unnerving focus as I cross to the table, water droplets tracking my path across the carpet. I snatch up the clothes—underwear, bra, leggings, T-shirt—clutching them against my chest like armor.
Something makes me hesitate, causing me to turn back and face him. Perhaps it’s the weight of his gaze. Perhaps it’s simple curiosity.
Whatever the reason, I’m unprepared for what I see.
Ryan has straightened to his full height, all pretense of casualness abandoned. He reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing a torso that makes me forget how to breathe.
Muscles upon muscles, sculpted with the precision of a Renaissance statue.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Abs defined enough to count each ridge.
But it’s not the perfection that captures my attention—it’s the imperfections.
Scars crisscross his skin like a roadmap of violence.
A jagged line across his left pectoral. A small, puckered circle that can only be a bullet wound near his right shoulder. Thin, white slashes across his ribs.
His body tells stories of danger, of survival, of the exact kind of life that produces a man who can fight off four attackers without breaking a sweat.
I realize I’m staring, mouth slightly parted, clothes forgotten in my arms.
He moves toward me—no, toward the bathroom—his path taking him so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. His scent envelops me, musky sweat and something distinctly male that makes my stomach tighten.
“My turn,” he says, voice low and rough as he brushes past me.