Chapter 13 Celeste
THIRTEEN
Celeste
Images linger, unshakable—his voice low and commanding, the way he said punishing disobedience, thoroughly.
The words replay like a brand seared into my skin.
Heat coils low and relentlessly, spreading until my thighs clench on instinct.
I can’t stop picturing it: his weight holding me down, his mouth at my ear as he decides exactly how long I’ll beg before he gives me relief.
The thought is reckless. Dangerous. And it terrifies me almost as much as it tempts me.
I drag in a breath, desperate to shove those images into the dark where they belong. I need distance. Deflection. Anything to stop imagining what he’d do if I actually pushed him too far.
“I don’t blindly follow orders,” I blurt, sharper than intended.
“Clearly.” His lips curve, not quite a smile—more an acknowledgment, the kind a predator gives when prey shows unexpected teeth.
“But this isn’t about blindly following orders.
It’s about expertise. I wouldn’t tell you how to structure an investigative piece or which questions to ask a source. Those are your areas of expertise.”
“And controlling everything is yours?”
“Keeping people alive is. Extraction protocols. Security measures. Risk assessment.” He glances at me again. “So yes, in this particular scenario, controlling everything is exactly my expertise.”
The rational part of my brain acknowledges his point. The independent journalist in me still bristles at the restriction, the confinement, the complete surrender of autonomy.
“Fine,” I concede, not graciously. “But I need some parameters here. How long do I sit quietly and comply? What’s the end game?”
“Seattle. Cerberus headquarters. We get you there safely, then figure out what’s on that flash drive and who wants you dead because of it.” His gaze returns to the road. “After that, we develop a more permanent solution.”
“Permanent solution? That sounds ominous.”
“It means options. Witness protection. New identity. Off-grid relocation. Or, if the threat can be neutralized, eventual return to your normal life.”
The casual way he outlines potential futures—none of which resemble the life I’ve built—leaves me momentarily speechless. He’s talking about my existence as if it’s a tactical problem to solve, a mission parameter to be adjusted.
“And I’m supposed to just—trust you with all this? A stranger who appeared out of nowhere and has been controlling every aspect of my life since?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No qualification. Just absolute confidence.
“Why?”
His eyes meet mine briefly. “Because you’re still alive.”
The simple statement carries more weight than it should.
He could have walked away at any point—after the subway, after getting me to the hotel, this morning.
Nothing obligated him to upend his life for mine.
Yet here he is, driving me across the country, risking his life for a woman he met barely twenty-four hours ago.
I turn toward the window, watching the landscape blur. He’s right, and I hate it. Trust doesn’t come naturally to me—not in my profession, not with my history. Every instinct honed through years of investigative journalism screams to question, to doubt, to verify.
But sometimes survival means knowing when to yield.
“I need to use a bathroom soon,” I say finally, changing the subject.
“There’s a rest stop in about thirty miles. We’ll stop there.”
We lapse into silence again, but something has shifted. Not quite a truce, but perhaps an understanding. For now, at least, I’ll follow his lead.
The hours on the road blend in a haze of highway miles and hypervigilance.
Ryan maintains a punishing pace, stopping only for absolute necessities. Bathroom breaks at busy rest areas, where crowds provide cover. Fast-food drive-thrus instead of restaurants. Gas stations selected for their blind spots and escape routes rather than convenience.
At each stop, the routine is the same. Ryan scans the surroundings before allowing me to exit the vehicle. He positions himself with clear sightlines to both me and potential approach vectors. When I use public restrooms, he waits outside, acting as both guardian and jailer combined.
We switch vehicles once—at a prearranged location where a Cerberus contact meets us with a different SUV, an older model that Ryan says is harder to track electronically.
The efficiency of the exchange suggests a well-established protocol, making me wonder how often Ryan extracts people from dangerous situations.
The flash drive burns in my pocket, a constant reminder of why we’re running.
Several times, I consider telling Ryan exactly what’s on it, exactly what I know.
But something holds me back. Not distrust, exactly.
More like professional caution. The information is explosive—potentially worth killing for, as we’ve discovered.
The fewer people who know the full picture, the safer they are.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
After twelve hours on the road, taking circuitous routes that doubled what would normally be a six-hour drive, stopping only for the bare necessities, we finally pull into a motel parking lot just outside Cleveland, Ohio.
The place is dated but clean, the kind of roadside establishment that asks few questions of guests paying in cash.
“Wait here,” Ryan says, cutting the engine.
I don’t argue. Exhaustion drags at every muscle, too heavy for a fight. He gives orders; I’ve learned when to obey.
Five minutes later, he’s back with a key—an actual metal key, not a card. “Room 17. Last one on the end. Good sight lines, two exit points.”
We enter together. He does his ritual sweep—closets, bathroom, under the bed, window locks. I sag against the doorframe, too wrung out to tease him for his thoroughness. Only when he declares the room clear do I notice the inevitable problem: one bed.
“Seriously?” I gesture at the queen-sized mattress. “How do you keep managing to get us rooms with only one bed?”
“Low profile. Couples attract less attention than solo travelers or business associates.” He drops our bag on the dresser like the argument’s settled. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“This is ridiculous.” Fatigue sharpens my words. “You’ve been driving for twelve hours straight. You need real rest. The bed is big enough for both of us.”
“Not a good idea.” He’s already spreading the spare blankets on the carpet, movements clipped, controlled.
“Is it propriety you’re worried about? Or don’t you trust yourself?” The taunt escapes before I can cage it, echoing his words from that first night.
He stills. When his gaze lifts, danger burns there, hot enough to pin me.
“Both,” he admits, voice low, threaded with something dark. “And more importantly, I don’t trust you.”
“Me?” My pulse kicks. “What am I going to do?”
“Push. Test. Challenge.” He rises to his full height, filling the room, filling my lungs until breathing feels like drowning. “You’ve been doing it since the moment we met. Hunting for cracks in my control.”
“I’m just suggesting we share a bed like rational adults.”
“Are we?” He steps closer, slow, deliberate. “Rational? With whatever this is between us?”
The blunt acknowledgment strips the air between us bare. We’ve been pretending—masking this pull with barbs, irritation, arguments. But it thrums, undeniable.
“There’s nothing between us,” I lie, my voice too quick, too thin.
His laugh is soft, disbelieving, erotic in its certainty. “Then you won’t mind if I do this.”
He moves toward me, each step measured, lethal. Giving me every chance to retreat. I don’t. Can’t. My feet are glued to the carpet as his body closes the space, until I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
“Your pupils are dilated,” he murmurs, gaze raking over me. “Your breathing’s changed.” He leans in, two fingers brushing my throat. The contact is a brand, light but scorching. “Your pulse—elevated.” His eyes darken, merciless. “Nothing between us? The evidence says otherwise.”
His touch lingers, pressing lightly, a tease that feels more like possession. The air thickens, weighted with the heat of everything unsaid. My body betrays me—breath short, heart pounding, a coil of hunger tightening low and hot.
“Fine,” I whisper, the word trembling out of me. “There’s—something. But that doesn’t mean we can’t control ourselves for one night.”
His fingers linger at my throat a beat too long, the faint press against my pulse a reminder of how fast it’s racing—how fast he’s making it race.
The room seems to shrink around us, air thick, unbreathable.
I should move. I should shove him back. Instead, I lean into the heat, into him, like my body’s already chosen a side.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just for a fraction of a second, but enough to send a jolt straight through me. My lips part on instinct, hungry for something I have no business wanting. The distance between us crackles, a live wire stretched to snapping.
“I’ve been controlling myself since the moment I saw you on that platform,” he says, voice pitched low, dangerous, velvet laced with steel. The sound ripples through me, settling in places I can’t ignore. “And it gets harder every time you push.”
The double entendre slices straight through the tension, leaving me breathless. He’s been fighting this—fighting me—as much as I’ve been fighting him.
“Why?” The question slips free before I can stop it, reckless, needy.
His eyes sharpen, piercing, as if he can strip me bare with nothing but a look. “You know why.”
Something inside me breaks—defenses, logic, common sense. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the chaos of the last thirty-six hours. Maybe it’s just him. Whatever the reason, I don’t back down. “Tell me anyway.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. For a long, suspended moment, I think he’ll retreat—pull himself back behind that wall of rigid control. Then something in his expression shatters, and what comes through is raw, unfiltered want.
“Because every time you challenge me, every time you defy a direct order,” his voice roughens, dark with restraint barely holding, “it makes me want to grab you, bend you over the nearest surface, and punish your disobedience until you’re begging.
Then fuck you into complete submission until the only word you remember is my name. ”
The confession slams into me, brutal and intoxicating.
Heat surges through my veins, flooding me until my knees nearly buckle.
I should be outraged. I should recoil. Instead, the vividness of his words plays out behind my eyes in humiliating clarity—his body crushing mine, his voice commanding me into surrender I’ve never dared imagine.
My breath catches, ragged. My pulse pounds so loud I swear he can hear it.
“That’s why this—” he gestures between us, every line of him tense, vibrating with control, “is such a catastrophically bad idea.”
I can’t form words, can’t break his gaze. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he can hear it. The room feels too small, too hot, too charged with an electricity that threatens to consume us both.
“Then stop fighting it,” I whisper, the words trembling out before I can even decide what I’m asking for.