Chapter 11 Celeste #2
I obey, blinking at my reflection in surprise.
The woman staring back at me is undeniably me, yet transformed.
My hair now falls in a perfect butterfly cut—shorter layers in the back that graduate to longer, face-framing pieces in the front.
It’s sophisticated, flattering, and completely different from my previous straight, one-length style.
“It’s …” Words fail me.
“Different enough to change your silhouette in security footage, but still suits you.” His hands rest lightly on my shoulders, our eyes meeting in the mirror. “The auburn color will complete the transformation.”
I reach up to touch the shorter strands, marveling at how the cut emphasizes my cheekbones and softens my jawline. “It’s beautiful.”
Something flickers in his eyes—satisfaction, perhaps. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” I turn in the chair to look up at him directly. “You’re full of surprises, Ryan Ellis.”
We’re close now—too close. His hands still rest on my shoulders, warm and steady. From this angle, I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, a position that feels vulnerable and thrilling simultaneously.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he says softly.
For one breathless moment, I think he might bend down and kiss me. I want him to, despite every rational part of my brain screaming that it’s a terrible idea.
Instead, he steps back, breaking the spell. “We should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
He begins cleaning up the fallen hair, moving with that same efficient grace that characterizes everything he does. I remain seated, touching the ends of my new haircut, watching him in the mirror.
This man is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with his combat training. Nothing to do with the violence he’s capable of. He’s dangerous because he makes me want things I shouldn’t. Trust I can’t afford to give. Intimacy I’ve spent years avoiding.
Yet here I am, letting him transform me, piece by piece.
“What happens tomorrow?”
“We head to Seattle. Cerberus headquarters.” He moves to the bed, stripping off the decorative pillows and flipping back a corner of the blanket. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Right. The sleeping arrangements. I’d almost forgotten that particular complication.
“That’s ridiculous,” I say, gesturing at him. “The floor is hard.”
“Trust me, I’ve slept in worse places. The floor and I will manage just fine.” He glances at the narrow strip of carpet, mouth tugging wryly, before tossing down a pillow. “Besides, the floor doesn’t complain when I hog the covers.”
“We could share,” I blurt before I can stop myself. His head snaps up, eyes locking with mine, heat sparking in the charged space between us.
“The bed is huge,” I press on quickly. “We could stay on opposite sides. Like adults.”
His expression shutters, all hard lines and restraint. “Not a good idea.”
“That makes no sense.” Frustration sharpens my tone. “You won’t get any decent rest on the floor, and tomorrow’s going to be hell. You need to be sharp, not half-broken from sleeping on carpet.”
For a moment, his jaw flexes as if weighing the argument. Then his gaze pins me, molten and merciless. “If I get in that bed,” he says, voice dropping low and lethal, “there won’t be much rest for either of us.”
The words detonate in the silence, stealing the air from my lungs. Heat flares hot and dangerous in my chest, curling low in my belly. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t soften. Just lays the truth bare between us, daring me to call it anything but what it is—want, raw and unhidden.
The honesty of his answer steals my breath. There’s no artifice there, no manipulation. Just raw truth—he wants me. Enough that proximity while sleeping seems like a risk neither of us should take.
The knowledge settles in my belly, warm and dangerous.
“Fine,” I concede, moving to the bed. “But the offer stands. This is stupid.”
“Noted.”
I slide between the sheets, the cool cotton a blissful relief against my battered body. The mattress isn’t particularly luxurious, but after everything I’ve endured today, it feels like heaven.
Ryan moves around the room, checking locks, securing the window, establishing sight lines. Always vigilant. Always on guard. I wonder if he ever truly relaxes, if he knows how to exist without scanning for threats.
Finally, he settles onto his makeshift bed on the floor. The room falls into darkness as he switches off the lamp, leaving only the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains.
“Ryan?” My voice sounds small in the darkness.
“Yeah?” His reply comes immediately, alert even on the edge of sleep.
“Thank you. For coming back.” The words cost me something—pride, perhaps. But they need to be said.
A long pause stretches between us. Then, softly, “I’ll always come back, Celeste.”
The promise in his voice wraps around me like a physical thing.
I close my eyes, trying to ignore the way my body responds to the sound of my name on his lips.
Trying to forget what I heard through the bathroom door.
Trying to convince myself that the strange, electric connection between us is nothing more than adrenaline and proximity and the unique circumstances that have thrown us together.
But as sleep claims me, my last coherent thought is of his words to the clerk: one room.
And the undeniable truth that despite everything—the danger, the uncertainty, my fiercely guarded independence—I’m glad he made that choice.