Chapter 17 Celeste
SEVENTEEN
Celeste
The door closes behind Ryan with a soft click that echoes in the sudden silence.
I remain perched on the edge of the bed, my ribcage still warm from the careful press of his hands.
The binding feels secure, professional, clinical, even.
But there was nothing clinical about the way his fingers traced along my skin, or how his breath caught when I winced.
I touch the bandage, feeling the firm pressure that somehow simultaneously makes breathing both easier and more difficult. The physical pain has subsided, replaced by an ache that has nothing to do with broken ribs and everything to do with the man currently hiding in the bathroom.
Hiding. That’s exactly what he’s doing.
Five days of this dance—of heated glances and aborted touches, of moments that build toward something inevitable before he retreats behind that wall of professionalism. Five days of watching his iron control strain at the seams while he pretends nothing is happening between us.
I’m tired of it. Tired of his denial. Tired of pretending I don’t see the way his eyes darken when I challenge him, don’t notice how his hands clench when I push his boundaries. Tired of ignoring the electricity that charges the air whenever we’re close.
My gaze drifts to his makeshift bed on the floor—the neatly arranged blankets, the perfectly positioned pillow. Even in discomfort, he maintains rigid order. Control above all else.
The bathroom pipes groan as water runs. I can picture him in there, hands braced on the sink, eyes closed as he practices whatever mental discipline keeps his walls intact. I wonder if he’s as tired of fighting this as I am.
A thought forms—rebellious, defiant, perfectly aligned with the pattern of our interactions since that first night. If he insists on martyring himself on the altar of his precious control, then maybe it’s time to take that option away.
Decision made, I ease myself off the bed, ignoring the twinge in my side. I gather the blankets from his neatly arranged pallet, then lay them out for myself. The thin carpet provides minimal cushioning against the hard floor, and I wince as I lower myself onto the makeshift bed.
It’s uncomfortable, but discomfort has been my constant companion since Jared’s murder. What’s one more night of physical hardship compared to the satisfaction of seeing Ryan’s reaction? Of finally forcing him to confront what’s building between us?
I position myself deliberately—blanket pulled up to my chest, eyes closed, breathing steady. The picture of peaceful sleep. The water stops running, the bathroom door handle turns, and I resist the urge to peek through my lashes.
The door opens, releasing a cloud of steam that carries his scent—soap and something distinctly masculine that makes my pulse quicken despite my best efforts. Footsteps pause, then approach slowly.
“What are you doing?” His voice is low, controlled, but with an edge I’m beginning to recognize—the sound of his patience fraying.
I open my eyes, feigning drowsiness. “Going to sleep.”
“On the floor.”
“Observant as always.”
His jaw tightens, the muscle there jumping in the way that signals mounting frustration. “Get in the bed, Celeste.”
“No.” I adjust the pillow beneath my head, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at my ribs. “You’ve been sleeping on floors for four nights. It’s my turn.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.” He stands over me, water droplets still clinging to his hair, his T-shirt stretched across shoulders that seem impossibly broad from this angle.
“You’re right. It’s not.” I meet his gaze directly. “Which is why I’m sleeping here, and you’re taking the bed.”
Something flashes behind his eyes—a dangerous spark that makes my heart beat faster. “Your ribs are injured. The floor will only make them worse.”
“My ribs are fine. You wrapped them yourself, remember?” The memory of his gentle hands against my skin sends heat curling through me. “Very thoroughly.”
His nostrils flare slightly. “This is childish.”
“No, what’s childish is your stubborn insistence on suffering needlessly.” I prop myself up on one elbow, ignoring the discomfort. “You need proper rest if you’re going to keep us both alive, don’t you? Isn’t that what you keep telling me—that your focus is paramount?”
Logic. His own logic turned against him. I watch the calculation happen behind those ice-blue eyes.
“Get in the bed.” This time it’s not a request. It’s an order, delivered in that commanding tone that does inexplicable things to my insides.
I raise an eyebrow, defiant. “Make me.”
For one breathless moment, I think he might actually do it—might physically lift me from the floor and place me on the bed. The possibility sends a shiver of anticipation through me that has nothing to do with the cool air against my skin.
Instead, he exhales slowly, deliberately, a man counting backward from ten in his mind.
“Fine.” The word is clipped, precise. “If you insist on being uncomfortable and aggravating your injuries, that’s your choice.”
He moves to the bed, sitting on the edge. The defeat is unexpected, unsatisfying. This isn’t how our pattern works. He’s supposed to push back, to maintain control, to insist.
“That’s it?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice. “You’re just giving in?”
“I’m choosing my battles.” He doesn’t turn to look at me. “And this one isn’t worth fighting.”
Something about his acquiescence ignites a spark of anger in my chest. Days of tension, of carefully maintained distance, of pretending nothing is happening between us—and now he simply concedes?
I push myself to my feet, ignoring the protest from my ribs. “That’s bullshit.”
He turns then, eyebrow raised at my outburst. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I take a step closer, pulse quickening. “This whole time, you’ve been dictating every aspect of this … whatever this is between us. When we stop, where we go, and how we proceed. Every decision made according to your parameters, your rules.”
“Because those decisions keep us alive.” His voice remains even, controlled, which only fuels my frustration.
“No. Because control is the only way you know how to function.” Another step closer, close enough now that I can see the faint stubble darkening his jaw.
“You’re so afraid of what happens if you let go, even for a second, that you’d rather sleep on floors for a week than admit what’s happening here. ”
His expression hardens. “And what exactly do you think is happening here, Celeste?”
“This.” I gesture between us, fingers nearly brushing his chest. “Whatever this is. This—tension. This pull. This thing that makes you look at me like you want to devour me one minute and then retreat behind your walls the next.”
He stands, using his height to loom over me—a tactic that might intimidate someone who hasn’t spent their career confronting people far more threatening than Ryan Ellis.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice drops lower, a warning in its depths.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” I step closer, eliminating the distance he tried to create. “I know that when you wrapped my ribs just now, your hands lingered longer than they needed to. I know that in the shower every night, you touch yourself while thinking about me.”
His eyes widen fractionally—confirmation that my guess about his nightly ritual was correct.
“I know,” I continue, voice dropping to match his, “that you’ve wanted me since that subway platform, and you’ve been fighting it every step of the way.”
“Stop.” The word comes out rough, strained.
“Why? Because I’m right?” I press my finger to his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath the thin cotton. “Because you can’t bear to admit that this isn’t just professional for you anymore?”
With each sentence, I advance, and he retreats—a reversal of our usual dynamic that emboldens me. One step, two, until his back hits the wall beside the bathroom door. Nowhere left to go.
“If this is just a job to you,” I challenge, finger still pressed against his sternum, “then why didn’t you hand me off to someone else? Why are you personally driving me across the country? Why do you look at me like that when you think I don’t notice?”
His breathing has deepened, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains. The muscle in his jaw jumps rhythmically as he clenches his teeth.
“You need to stop pushing me, Celeste.” His voice has dropped to that dangerous register that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
“Or what?” I push harder, both literally and figuratively, my finger digging into his chest. “What happens if I don’t stop? If I keep pushing until something breaks? Until you break?”
“You don’t want to find out.” It’s meant as a warning, but it sounds like a promise—one that makes my pulse race.
“Maybe I do.” I tilt my chin up, defiant. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”
Our faces are inches apart now, close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips. Close enough to see the internal war raging behind those eyes—desire versus discipline, want versus restraint.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, something shifting in his expression. “Back away. Now.”
I don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t yield.
“Make me,” I whisper again, the challenge explicit.