Chapter 12 Celeste
TWELVE
Celeste
The harsh blare of an alarm jolts me awake. Five-thirty. Still dark outside.
For one disorienting moment, I have no idea where I am.
Then reality crashes back—the crash, the subway, the men hunting me.
Ryan Ellis, currently rising from his makeshift bed on the floor with the lethal, coiled grace of a predator—fluid, controlled, every movement promising violence and sex in equal measure.
My gaze lingers where it shouldn’t—the flex of muscle under his shirt, the ripple of strength in movements meant to be utilitarian, not mesmerizing. He shakes the stiffness from his shoulders like it’s nothing, and I can’t look away, caught between awe and something far more reckless.
“Time to move,” he says, already fully alert while I’m still blinking sleep from my eyes.
I sit up slowly, every muscle protesting. The events of yesterday have settled into my body overnight, leaving me stiff and aching. My ribs throb with each breath. My knee feels marginally better, but not by much.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask, noting the neatly folded blankets of his floor nest.
“Long enough.” He moves to the window, peering through a crack in the curtains. “We need to color your hair, eat something, and be on the road within the hour.”
No “good morning.” No acknowledgment of last night’s strange intimacy as he cut my hair. Just back to business, as if nothing passed between us but professional courtesy.
Fine. Two can play at that game.
“I’ll get the dye ready.” I match his detached tone as I slide out of bed.
The auburn hair color turns out to be a surprisingly flattering shade—rich and warm against my olive skin. Ryan applies it with the same expertise he showed while cutting my hair, but this time there’s none of last night’s gentleness. His touch is efficient, impersonal. Clinical.
I sit at the desk chair again, a towel draped around my shoulders, as he works the color through my newly shortened locks. In the mirror, I watch his face—the intense concentration, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his jaw tightens when our eyes accidentally meet in the reflection.
It shouldn’t feel like this—watching him focus on something so mundane.
But every detail unsettles me. The steady pressure of his fingers massaging the dye into my scalp, strong hands gentled in a way that doesn’t match the man who dragged me through tunnels and shielded me from bullets.
The heat of him standing close enough that his shoulder almost brushes mine.
The way his lower lip pulls tight when he’s focused, making me wonder how it would feel caught between my teeth.
I drag my gaze away, only to have it wander back again, traitorous, hungry. Each normal thing—his patience, his stillness, his touch—feels amplified in the silence, until I can’t decide if I want to lean back into his hands or bolt from the room before I give myself away.
“Rinse in twenty minutes,” he says, stripping off the plastic gloves. “I’ll get breakfast.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone again, leaving me alone with auburn dye and confused emotions I have no business feeling.
Forty-five minutes later, I barely recognize the woman in the mirror.
The butterfly cut Ryan gave me last night frames my face with soft, angled layers. Now auburn instead of dark brown, the color brings out golden flecks in my eyes I never noticed before. With the bruise at my temple partially concealed by artfully arranged strands, I look like a different person.
A stranger who might not be hunted by professional killers.
“Acceptable transformation.” Ryan assesses me with a clinically appraising gaze as I emerge from the bathroom. “The facial recognition algorithms will struggle with this.”
“Glad I meet your specifications,” I reply dryly.
A flash of something—amusement, perhaps—crosses his features before vanishing. “We move in five. Eat your breakfast.” He nods toward a paper bag on the table containing a breakfast sandwich.
I take a bite, suddenly ravenous. “What’s the plan?”
“We drive to Seattle. Continuously, with minimal stops..” He’s packing our meager belongings as he speaks, movements efficient and economical. “Cerberus has resources there. People who can help figure out what you’ve stumbled into.”
“And if I don’t want to go to Seattle?”
His hands pause briefly. “Not negotiable.”
“Nothing’s negotiable with you, is it?” I challenge, wrapping the remainder of my sandwich for the road.
Ryan zips the duffel bag closed with more force than necessary. “Your safety isn’t up for debate. Neither is mine. The protocols exist for a reason.”
“So I’m just supposed to blindly follow your?”
“Yes.” He straightens, fixing me with that arctic-blue stare.
One syllable, delivered with absolute certainty. As if compliance is the only possible option. As if my input is irrelevant to the equation.
The casual dismissal of my agency stings more than it should.
“That’s not how this works,” I inform him. “I don’t blindly follow anyone. Especially men who think they know what’s best for me.”
“When it comes to staying alive against professional operators?” He steps closer, voice dropping dangerously. “That’s exactly how this works, and I definitely know what’s best for you and this situation.”
We’re standing toe-to-toe now, neither backing down. The electricity between us has nothing to do with attraction in this moment. It’s pure clash of wills, two immovable objects refusing to yield.
“We leave in two minutes,” he says finally, breaking the standoff. “Use the bathroom if you need to. It’s going to be a long drive.”
The rental car agency is twenty blocks from our hotel. We don’t take a direct route.
Ryan leads us through back alleys, side streets, even briefly through a hotel lobby and out its service entrance. The path feels random to me, but I recognize the strategy—breaking any potential surveillance tail with unpredictable movements.
“Is all this necessary?” I ask as we cut through a department store, entering through housewares and exiting through men’s suits.
“Yes.” No elaboration. Just that infuriating certainty again.
The rental agency is a small, independent company. No national chain logos or computerized systems. Just a middle-aged man with a ring of keys and a paper ledger.
I hang back, watching as Ryan transforms before my eyes. His posture changes, becoming more relaxed. A smile appears—easy, friendly, completely at odds with the rigid commander who’s been ordering me around all morning. He even adopts a slight Southern drawl as he chats with the clerk.
Money changes hands—cash only, no credit cards that could be tracked. ID is presented—not his real one, I’m certain, though I can’t see it from here. The entire transaction takes less than ten minutes.
“We’re set,” he says, returning to my side with keys to a nondescript gray sedan. “Let’s move.”
Outside, he conducts a thorough inspection of the vehicle—checking under the chassis, examining the wheel wells, and even popping the hood to inspect the engine.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask.
“Tracking devices. Explosives. Anything that shouldn’t be there.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if checking for bombs is as routine as checking tire pressure.
The casualness with which he approaches potential death is more unsettling than the possibility itself.
Once satisfied, he opens the passenger door for me. I slide in, watching as he circles to the driver’s side. It doesn’t escape my notice that he adjusted the seat and mirrors before letting me in—establishing from the outset that he’ll be the only one driving.
As we pull away from the curb, I realize something else. “My laptop, my phone, my ID—everything was in my car or apartment.”
“All compromised,” he says, checking the mirrors as we merge into traffic. “We’ll get you new secure devices in Seattle. Until then, we stay unplugged.”
“What about my editor? My colleagues? They’ll be worried.”
“Anyone you contact becomes a vector for those men to track you.” His tone brooks no argument. “Going dark is the only option, and safest for them.”
I lean back against the headrest, frustration building. My entire life—career, friends, home—has vanished overnight. And I’m at the mercy of a man who parcels out information like it’s classified intelligence. Which, to be fair, it probably is.
The city gradually gives way to suburbs, then to open highway.
Ryan maintains a precise five miles over the speed limit—fast enough to make good time, not fast enough to attract attention.
Every few minutes, he checks the mirrors.
Every thirty minutes, he changes lanes without signaling, watching for any cars that follow the movement.
Two hours pass in tense silence. The monotony of the highway, combined with the events of the past twenty-four hours, begins to weigh on me. My eyelids grow heavy.
“You can sleep,” Ryan says, glancing over. “I’ll wake you if anything changes.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted. And we have a long way to go. Rest while you can.”
I want to argue on principle, but exhaustion wins. “Wake me in an hour. I can take over driving.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You won’t be driving.”
This jolts me back to full alertness. “Excuse me?”
“I said, you won’t be driving.”
“I heard you. I’m questioning the logic.” I straighten in my seat. “You can’t possibly drive the entire time.”
“I can, and I will.”
“That’s ridiculous.” My voice rises despite my effort to remain calm. “I’m a perfectly capable driver. We should share the responsibility.”
“It’s not about capability.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “It’s about training.”
“Training? It’s driving, not disarming explosives.”
A muscle in his jaw tightens. “When was the last time you practiced evasive maneuvers? Counter-surveillance driving techniques? Tactical vehicle handling?”
I open my mouth, then close it.
“That’s what I thought.” His voice holds no triumph, just confirmation of a fact he already knew.
“I’ve been driving since I was sixteen,” I counter, refusing to yield the point.
“So have most people. Doesn’t mean they’re qualified to drive in a high-risk extraction scenario.”
“High-risk extraction scenario?” I repeat, incredulous. “Listen to yourself. We’re driving to Seattle, not escaping a war zone.”
His eyes flick to me, cold and assessing.
“Need I remind you, again, those men on the platform weren’t amateurs.
They were trained operators with tactical experience and resources.
They’ve likely identified the hotel by now and are expanding their search grid.
Every minute we’re on the road is another minute they’re not closing the gap. ”
The clinical precision of his assessment sends a chill through me. He’s not exaggerating for effect or being dramatic. He genuinely believes we’re being hunted by professionals with the means and determination to find us.
“So, what am I supposed to do? Sit here uselessly while you handle everything?”
“You’re supposed to stop questioning me and do as I say so we both stay alive.”
The command in his voice ignites something rebellious in me. “Do you get off on this? Telling women what to do? Being in control?”
His eyes darken, gaze cutting toward me for one dangerous second before flicking back to the road.
“We’re not talking about what gets me off,” he says, voice pitched low enough to make heat crawl over my skin.
“But if we were …” A pause, deliberate, thick with promise.
“I’d tell you I crave control. I demand obedience given without hesitation.
And when it’s not …” his mouth curves, slow and merciless, “I take my time making sure my punishment is felt—thoroughly.”
The blatant confirmation ignites something low and molten inside me, heat flooding through my veins and pooling between my thighs.
His voice etches vivid, indecent images across my mind—Ryan’s commands delivered in that lethal tone, my body bending beneath the weight of his restraint, his hands locking mine to the mattress, his strength stripping me bare of choice until all I can do is yield.
My breath catches, betraying me. A flush scorches my cheeks, racing down my throat, and I hate the way my body responds—hungry, trembling, desperate—when I should be furious.
“That’s not what I meant,” I choke out, the words thin and ragged, as if oxygen itself has turned traitor.
“Wasn’t it?” His voice stays dangerously soft, threaded with a knowing that steals the ground from under me. “You’ve been pushing since the moment we met. Testing boundaries. Looking for cracks. Almost like you want to see what happens when I snap.”
His words slide under my skin like a touch, intimate and damning, leaving me raw with the terrifying truth: he’s right.