Chapter 7
7
CHERISE
T he chilly night air bites at my skin as I slide into Nick’s Range Rover, the silence between us as thick as the shadows outside. My body hums, every nerve ending still alive from our time at Opus Noir. Even now, the sensation of leather kissing my skin lingers, the phantom ache of the flogger's strikes sending shivers down my spine. I cross my arms, wrapping them tightly around myself, but nothing can still the storm raging inside me.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the club, his focus locked on the dark, winding road ahead. His jaw is set, and the dim dashboard light catches its sharp line.
I want to speak, to say something, but I can’t find the words. How do you articulate the whirlwind of emotions crashing through you? The overwhelming vulnerability, the unexpected desire, the infuriatingly undeniable pull toward the man sitting just inches away.
I glance at him, at the way his hands grip the wheel, strong and controlled, veins prominent beneath tanned skin. Those hands had wielded the flogger with precision, coaxing sounds out of me I didn’t even recognize as my own.
“You’re awfully quiet,” I finally say, my voice softer than I intend.
He doesn’t look at me. “Because I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how much more complicated my life just got,” he replies, his tone clipped.
I bristle, turning my gaze to the window. The city lights fade as we leave Monte Carlo behind, replaced by the dark expanse of the countryside. “You’re the one who insisted on putting me on that cross.”
“And you’re the one who asked for my help. You fainted into my arms with a traitor and an arms dealer gunning for you. Besides, you trusted me enough to obey,” he counters, his voice low, steady.
My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful for the darkness. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have questions.”
He glances at me briefly, his hazel eyes sharp, unreadable. “Tonight’s not the night to have this conversation. Besides, questions won’t keep you alive, Cherise.”
“Maybe not,” I admit, my fingers gripping the hem of my jacket. “But ignoring what happened tonight won’t, either.”
His grip on the wheel tightens, but he doesn’t respond.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until the Range Rover slows, turning onto a narrow dirt road. The headlights sweep across a small, secluded house overlooking a cliff that drops down into the Mediterranean Sea, its windows dark and unassuming.
“This is it?” I ask, breaking the silence, not convinced this shack could protect a cow from the rain, and my voice shows it.
“Like many things, looks can be deceiving,” he says, pulling to a stop and cutting the engine. “It’s safe, and that’s all that matters.”
He steps out without waiting for me, his broad frame moving with a quiet authority that grates on my nerves even as it reassures me.
I follow, the crunch of gravel beneath my heels the only sound in the stillness. The house looms ahead, a stark contrast to the opulence of Opus Noir. Here, there’s no polished mahogany or glittering chandeliers. Just cold practicality.
He unlocks the door and steps inside, flicking on the lights. From the outside, the place looks like a rustic stone cottage tucked into the cliffs above Monte Carlo—weathered shutters, ivy-covered walls, and a chimney that curls smoke like something out of a fairytale. But the interior is a different story.
Warm. Clean. Quietly luxurious. A leather couch faces a low-burning hearth, and a modern kitchen stretches along one wall—sleek steel appliances and a butcher block island in sharp contrast to the exposed beams overhead. Two doors lead off the main room, likely bedrooms, all of it designed to project quiet charm.
But what sets it apart—what makes it Cerberus—is hidden beneath our feet.
Nick crosses to a panel tucked into the back wall and presses his thumb to a biometric pad. A subtle beep. Then the floor-mounted lift clicks to life, concealed beneath the braided rug. The elevator hums low, ready to descend into the heart of the real safe house—the subterranean operations center Cerberus runs off-grid. Secure. Hardened. Invisible.
This is no cottage. It’s a command post in disguise.
“You’ll sleep in the first room on the right,” he says, his voice all business as he sets his bag down on the couch. “I’ll take the other one.”
I linger near the door, my arms crossed. “That’s it? No debrief? No explanation for what happened tonight?”
He straightens, turning to face me. “What do you want me to say, Cherise? That it was a mistake? That I regret every second of it?”
The heat in his gaze pins me in place, and my breath catches. “No,” I whisper. “I just… I don’t know how to process what I’m feeling.”
His expression softens for the briefest moment before the steel returns. “You don’t need to process it right now. You just need to survive.”
“And what about you?” I demand, stepping closer, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “Do you feel nothing? Is it all just a calculated move to you?”
His jaw tightens, and he takes a step toward me, his presence overwhelming. “You think I don’t feel it? That I don’t hear every sound you made tonight replaying in my head like a broken record? That I don’t...” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply.
“You don’t what?” I press, my voice trembling.
He shakes his head, his expression unreadable. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” I insist, my chest tightening. “Because right now, I feel like I’m drowning, and you’re the only one who knows how deep the water is.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his hazel eyes searching mine. Then he steps back, the distance between us as palpable as a closed door. “Go to bed,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Nick...”
“Goodnight, Cherise,” he interrupts, already moving toward the kitchen.
I watch him go, frustration and something deeper twisting inside me.
He doesn’t look back, pulling out his comms device and speaking softly into it. “Team Alpha, this is Ryeland. We’re in for the night. Maintain perimeter patrols and check-in every hour.”
I turn away, heading into the room he designated as mine. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I lean against it, my heart pounding.
The small room is bare—a queen-sized bed, nightstands, and an antique dresser that someone repurposed. This is a stark contrast to the luxury I’m used to, but looking around, I realize I like this better.
I sink onto the edge of the comfy bed, my head in my hands as if I can hold back the tears that are threatening to fall.
Nick is right about one thing: I don’t have time to process what I’m feeling. Not when there are men hunting me, not when Hector and René are still out there, plotting God knows what. But that doesn’t stop the memories from flooding in, vivid and inescapable.
The way Nick’s voice wrapped around me, commanding and sure. The way his hands guided me, firm but never cruel. The way my body responded, helpless against the tide of sensation he unleashed.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the safe house’s generator filling the silence. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if I’ll survive long enough to see the end of this. But one thing is certain.
Nick is more dangerous to me than any weapon Hector or René could wield.
And I don’t know if I have the strength to survive if he walks away again.
* * *
The room is dark and cold, the type of cold that seeps into your bones no matter how tightly you wrap the cozy warm comforter and quilt. I roll over for the fifth time, clutching the pillow like it’s some anchor tethering me to sanity. Sleep eludes me, refusing to provide even the smallest reprieve from the storm swirling inside my head.
When I finally drift off, it’s not the peaceful escape I crave. Instead, I’m swept into something far more dangerous.
I’m back on the St. Andrew’s cross, the leather straps snug around my wrists, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. The air is heavy, charged, the hum of whispered commands and muted cries surrounding me like a cocoon. But in this dream, it’s only us. Nick’s presence fills the room, his voice low and commanding, his touch electric.
“Breathe,” he says, his fingers brushing over my skin, igniting something deep and primal.
I obey without thinking, the sound of my breath mingling with the subtle creak of the leather restraints. His hand trails down my back, deliberate and controlled, sending shivers through every nerve ending.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper against my ear. “No one touches you but me.”
The possessiveness in his tone should terrify me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sinks into me, settling in a place I thought was long forgotten. Had I ever even recognized it before?
And then his hands are on me, rough and warm, grounding me even as I feel myself slipping. His palms press firmly into my skin, one sliding down the curve of my spine, the other tangling in my hair. A gentle tug tilts my head back, baring my throat.
“You have no idea how exquisite you look like this,” he says, his voice dipping lower, rougher. His lips graze the shell of my ear, hot breath teasing the sensitive skin, and my body arches instinctively toward him.
The leather strands of the flogger glide over my skin, not striking, just brushing. It’s soft, tantalizing, a promise of what’s to come. I feel the heat of his body close behind me, the faint scrape of stubble against the nape of my neck as his mouth finds my skin. He presses a kiss there, slow and deliberate, before trailing his lips down to my shoulder, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.
“Tell me what you want, Cherise,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress that leaves me trembling.
I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat. Instead, I pull against the restraints; the leather creaking under the strain, my body desperate to reach him, to feel more of him.
His hand slides around my waist, fingers splaying over my stomach as he pulls me back against him. I can feel the hard press of his body, the undeniable evidence of his desire, and it sends a jolt of need straight to my core.
“You want this, don’t you?” he asks, his lips brushing against my ear.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
“Say it louder,” he commands, his hand moving lower, teasing along the edge of my panties.
“Yes,” I say again, my voice stronger this time, laced with desperation.
“Good girl.” The praise wraps around me like a warm blanket, and I shudder, my body completely at his mercy.
The flogger drags down my back, the cool leather contrasting with the heat of his hands. And then it strikes—not hard, just enough to send a sharp, delicious sting radiating through me. I gasp, my fingers curling into fists as the sensation fades, replaced by a warmth that pools low in my belly.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, his hand trailing up my side, brushing just beneath the curve of my breast. “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”
He strikes again, this time lower, the leather kissing the backs of my thighs. My moan fills the space between us, unrestrained, and I feel him smile against my neck.
“You like this,” he says, not a question but a statement.
“Yes,” I admit, my voice shaky but certain.
“Then let go for me—surrender—submit,” he croons, his lips capturing mine in a searing kiss. It’s possessive, demanding, his tongue teasing mine as his hand moves lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my panties to my core.
I cry out against his mouth, my body arching as he finds my nub, his fingers exploring, teasing, driving me to the edge.
“You’re mine,” he says again, his voice a growl that vibrates through me. “Say it out loud.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper, the words tumbling out without thought, without hesitation.
He claims me with another kiss, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself fall completely. Into him, into this. Into the fire he ignites within me.
And then I wake, my breath ragged, my body still trembling. The room is silent, the cold air brushing against my flushed skin, but the memory of his touch lingers, vivid and inescapable.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the wild beat of my heart, but it’s useless. Nick has always had the power to unravel me, and now, even in my dreams, he wields it with devastating precision.
The first light of dawn filters through the small window, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed, deciding there’s no point in trying to rest any longer. I need to face him.
I dress quickly, throwing on the jeans and sweater I pulled from my bag last night. As I step out of the room, I catch the faint sound of keys clicking. The soft glow of a laptop screen illuminates Nick’s profile, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he types.
For a moment, I stand there, watching him. The lines of his face are sharper in the dim light, his jaw set in that same determined way I’ve seen a hundred times before.
I should hate him for being so composed, for acting like none of this affects him. But I can’t. Because deep down, I know the truth. It does affect him. He’s just better at hiding it than I am.
“Morning,” I say softly, stepping into the room.
He doesn’t look up. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I cross the room, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen. “What are you working on?”
“Reports.” His voice is clipped, but he doesn’t stop me from invading his space.
Names, dates, and locations, some highlighted in red, fill the document on his screen. My gaze skims over the details, something tugging at the edge of my memory.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a line near the bottom of the page.
“A shipment manifest,” he replies, his tone distracted.
“No,” I insist, leaning closer, my hair brushing against his shoulder. “That name—Charles Fortier. Hector introduced us once.”
Nick’s fingers pause over the keys, and he turns slightly to face me. “Where?”
I straighten, pulling back as I try to piece it together. “I don’t remember the specifics, but Hector also mentioned something about Fortier handling logistics for one of René’s deals. It was just an offhand comment, but I remember because Hector rarely talked shop around me.”
Nick’s gaze sharpens, his hazel eyes locking onto mine. “And you’re just now mentioning this?”
“Don’t you dare snap at me. It didn’t seem important at the time,” I snarl, crossing my arms. “I didn’t exactly have the luxury of sitting down to analyze every little thing Hector ever said to me.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re right. I’m sorry. What else do you remember?”
I close my eyes, willing myself to focus. “Hector was planning a meeting with someone. In Nice, I think. It was supposed to be low key, just the two of them, but Hector mentioned needing extra security.”
“Do you remember when?” Nick is typing as fast as I’m talking.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It was before I left Lyon.”
Nick curses under his breath, his fingers flying over the keyboard again as he pulls up a satellite map of the area around Nice. He zooms in on a small, nondescript building near the edge of town.
“That café is one of René’s secure locations,” he mutters. “If Hector was meeting him in Nice, it means they’re planning something big.”
“What do we do?” I ask the words out before I can stop them.
He looks at me, his expression hard. “We do nothing. My team will handle it.”
“No.” I step closer, refusing to back down. “I can help. I know how Hector operates. I know his tells, his patterns. You need me.”
“What I need,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “is for you to stay out of the way. To stay alive, Cherise.”
“Dammit, Nick!” I grab his arm, forcing him to look at me. “You can’t just shut me out. This isn’t just about you. It’s my life on the line.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to push me away. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he says reluctantly. “You want to help? Then start by telling me everything you know about this meeting. Every detail, no matter how small.”
I nod, sitting down beside him as I try to recall everything Hector ever said about René, about their operations.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel a spark of hope.
We might actually have a chance.
* * *
The city of Nice stretches out before us, a glittering web of streets and buildings hugged by the Mediterranean. The sun is merciless, bouncing off the pale stone facades and baking the world in an oppressive heat. I shouldn’t notice things like this. Not when I’m sitting in Nick’s Range Rover, my heart hammering like a trapped bird, every nerve ending braced for what’s coming.
The lead we uncovered this morning has brought us here, but my gut churns with unease. Hector and René don’t make mistakes, and they sure as hell don’t leave trails unless they want someone to follow them.
“You’re quiet,” Nick says, his voice a low rumble that fills the small space of the car. His hazel eyes flick to me briefly before returning to the road, scanning for threats.
“I’m thinking,” I reply, trying to sound calm even as my fingers dig into the leather seat.
“About?”
“About why we’re here.”
“We’re here because it’s one of the places listed in the file. We have to start somewhere,” he says matter-of-factly.
“That’s it? We just pick a spot?” I squeak, hating the way my voice sounds.
“Do you have a better suggestion? It’s not like we can call the staff and ask if a notorious arms dealer makes deals inside their establishment. For all we know, he just likes the food…”
“But the question is, why here? Couldn’t it be a trap? Wouldn’t they be more concerned about who might overhear them?” I ask, incredulously. My heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. This sounds like a terrible idea.
Nick’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I thought of that, but with the noise level in a place like this, it’s hard to hear yourself think, much less what is being said two tables away. But you do get points for thinking about those kinds of things. We are going to have to take a minor risk. If you’d rather not come along…”
“I didn’t say that…”
He grins. “We need to get ahead of him. Vallois underestimates me. Always has.”
“You sound like you know him and are looking forward to it,” I mutter, crossing my arms.
He glances at me again, the corner of his mouth tilting ever so slightly upward. “Our paths have crossed before. You’d be surprised how much I enjoy pissing off men like René. Even better is breaking them and their organizations.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be Interpol’s job?”
He gives me a half grin. “I would like to point out to you, your husband, Hector, is part of Interpol.”
“Ex-husband. And not everyone in Interpol is a rotten apple.” I counter defiantly. Had he not let me think he was dead all those years ago, neither of us would be here right now. Instead, we’d be sitting on our back porch watching our two point five kids and a dog run around the backyard playing.
The GPS interrupts my wayward thinking, instructing us to take a sharp left. Nick follows the directions without hesitation, the Range Rover’s engine growling as we weave through the narrow streets of Old Town. The buildings here are close together, their pastel colors creating a labyrinth that feels both picturesque and suffocating.
The café is tucked into the corner of a busy square. It looks like any other spot in Nice, but it makes me uncomfortable. There is something wrong. My body hums with the instinct to run, every muscle taut with anticipation.
“Stay here,” Nick orders as he pulls the SUV to a stop near the edge of the square.
“Like hell I will.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, meeting his sharp glare head-on.
“Cherise,” he growls, his voice laced with authority. “I need you to listen to me. We agreed.”
“And I need you to stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” I fire back. “I’m not staying in this vehicle while you walk into whatever this is. Besides, wouldn’t I be safer with you?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue, but then he nods, his eyes darkening. “Fine. Stay close. Don’t speak unless I tell you to, and if anything goes wrong, you do exactly as I say.”
“Understood,” I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
We exit the vehicle together, moving through the bustling square like shadows. Nick’s hand brushes against my lower back, guiding me, grounding me, even as his eyes scan every face, every corner.
The café is small and unassuming, its outdoor tables half-filled with tourists sipping espresso and locals chatting in rapid-fire French. It’s almost too perfect, too normal, and my stomach twists. Nick moves with a predator’s grace, his body coiled and ready, his presence commanding even in the casual chaos of the square.
Inside, the air is cooler—the noise muffled. We find an empty table near the back, Nick positioning himself so he can see the entrance and the entire room. His laptop is out in seconds, a discreet device that connects to Cerberus’s network with a few keystrokes.
“Anything?” I whisper, my eyes darting to the café’s other patrons.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice low and even. “But they’re here.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I can feel them,” he says simply, his eyes never leaving the screen. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
The minutes drag by, but the café’s cheerful chatter does nothing to calm the storm building inside me. And then I see it—a man outside the window, lingering just a little too long, his gaze sweeping the square before disappearing into the crowd.
“We need to move,” Nick murmurs, already closing his laptop.
“Why?”
He gives me a look I am sure has turned people to stone. “Because I said so.”
We slip out of the café, blending into the throng of people as best we can. Nick’s hand finds mine, his grip firm and unyielding, pulling me through the crowd with a singular focus. My pulse pounds in my ears, my senses hyperaware of every sound, every movement.
Then I hear it—a shout, sharp and guttural, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots on pavement. They made us.
“Run,” Nick commands, and I don’t hesitate.
We dart through the streets, the cobblestones slick beneath my boots, the air filled with the cacophony of startled voices and pounding footsteps. Nick’s grip never falters, his strength propelling me forward even as my lungs burn with exertion.
A bullet chips off the side of a building just to the left of us. How can that be? I didn’t hear anything. I stumble, a gasp escaping my lips, but Nick pulls me upright, his body shielding mine as we duck into a side street.
“Keep moving,” he growls, his tone leaving no room for argument.
We reach the Range Rover in a blur of movement, and Nick all but throws me into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. The engine roars to life, and we tear down the road, the tires squealing as we take a sharp turn. The chase spills out into the countryside; the streets giving way to open fields and winding roads.
“They’re gaining,” I say, glancing in the side mirror. A black SUV is closing in, its grill flashing like the jaws of a predator.
“Not for long,” Nick replies, his voice calm, almost amused. He floors the accelerator, the Range Rover leaping forward with a ferocity that matches his own.
The SUV keeps pace, its occupants firing at us from the windows. It’s nothing at all like on television or in the movies. It’s terrifying. Nick swerves, the bullets missing by inches, his hands steady on the wheel. My heart is in my throat, the adrenaline a toxic cocktail that leaves me both terrified and exhilarated.
“Hold on,” he warns, and before I can ask why, he veers off the road, the Range Rover bouncing over uneven terrain as we plow through a field.
The SUV follows, its bulk struggling to match our agility. Nick uses it to his advantage, weaving between trees and rocks with a precision that borders on reckless. The world is a blur of green and brown, the sound of gunfire and shattering branches filling the air.
Finally, we reach a narrow ridge, the ground dropping away sharply on either side. Nick doesn’t hesitate, the Range Rover skimming the edge as he pushes it to its limits. The SUV isn’t as lucky; its driver miscalculates, the vehicle skidding and flipping over the edge with a deafening crash.
I exhale shakily, my hands gripping the dashboard as Nick slows, the adrenaline still coursing through me.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, his gaze sharp as he glances at me.
“No,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “You?”
“I’m fine.” He reaches over, his hand brushing my arm in a gesture that feels both protective and possessive. “I’m glad you’re okay, because this isn’t over.”
He drives us back to safety, the world slowly settling into a tense quiet. But even as the danger fades, the memory of his dominance, his strength, lingers, wrapping around me like a shroud. I don’t know what’s more terrifying—the men chasing us or the way Nick makes me feel like I belong by his side, no matter the cost.
* * *
The safe house door clicks shut behind us, the sound echoing in the silence like a gunshot. I jump and Nick’s hand reaches out to steady me. My legs feel like jelly, my breath comes in shallow bursts, and my heart hasn’t stopped racing since the chase. The adrenaline is still coursing through me, making every nerve in my body hum with an unbearable energy I can’t shake.
Nick’s movements are controlled and deliberate, the predator in him still alert. He tosses his bag onto the couch and runs a hand through his hair, his muscles rippling beneath his fitted shirt. I want to say something—thank him, yell at him, anything to break the electricity that seems to crackle between us—but the words catch in my throat.
“Sit,” he says, his voice low, a command that brooks no argument.
“I’m fine,” I manage, though my legs betray me as I sink into the nearest chair.
He levels me with a look that pins me in place. “You’re not fine. You’ve been running on adrenaline for hours. Sit, breathe, and don’t argue.”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap, though even I can hear how unconvincing I sound.
Nick’s eyes narrow, his hazel gaze cutting through me like a blade. He crouches in front of me, so close I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his lips press together as though he’s holding back a storm.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly, his hands bracing on either side of the chair. His tone is gentle, but the command is still there, simmering beneath the surface. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to. If I meet his eyes, I’ll fall apart. But I do it anyway, because defying Nick isn’t something I’m capable of right now. His gaze is intense, unwavering, and I hate how much it grounds me.
“I need you to listen to me,” he continues, his voice like a tether pulling me back to reality. “What happened today? That wasn’t luck. You kept your head. That means something.”
I blink, the unexpected praise throwing me off balance. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“Because you’re too busy doubting yourself,” he counters, his hands moving to grip the arms of the chair. “Stop it. You’re alive because you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Cherise.”
The knot in my chest tightens, and I look away, unable to handle the weight of his words. “I didn’t do anything special.”
“You survived,” he says simply. “And you kept me alive, too.”
That pulls my gaze back to his, my heart stuttering in my chest. “You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Cherise,” he replies, standing and offering his hand to pull me to my feet. His grip is firm, steadying, and I hate how much I need it.
For a moment, we just stand there, the space between us charged with something I can’t name. His hand lingers on mine longer than necessary, his thumb brushing over my skin in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Thank you,” I say finally, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He steps back, breaking the connection and leaving me feeling untethered. “Get cleaned up. I’ll check the perimeter.”
I nod, grateful for the excuse to escape, and head to the bathroom. The mirror shows a reflection I barely recognize—my hair disheveled, my cheeks flushed, my eyes wide and haunted, but more alive than I’ve ever felt before. I splash cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the memories of the chase, the fear, the way Nick’s touch lingers on my skin.
By the time I step out, he’s back, his laptop open on the small kitchen table, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He doesn’t look up as I approach, his focus on the screen.
“What are you working on?” I ask, leaning on the table and taking a sip of his whiskey.
He looks up, quirks an eyebrow, and grins. “Figuring out what our next move is.”
I take a step closer, peering over his shoulder. The screen is filled with data—maps, intercepted messages, images of Hector and René that make my stomach churn.
“You think they’ll come after us again?” I ask, my voice softer now.
“That’s a given,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “It’s only a matter of time. You’re a loose end to them.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “So what do we do?”
His gaze finally lifts, locking onto mine. “We stay ahead of them and we don’t make mistakes.”
I’m not sure why his words hit me so hard. Maybe it’s the way he says them, so certain, so unyielding. Or maybe it’s the realization that, for all his strength, Nick is just as vulnerable as I am. He just hides it better.
I move closer, drawn to him in a way I can’t explain, until I’m standing right beside him. My hand brushes against his shoulder, pretending to study the screen but acutely aware of every inch of space between us—or lack thereof.
“Do you ever stop being in control?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine. “No.”
The single word shouldn’t make my heart race, but it does. I hate how much I crave the safety of his control, how much I want to surrender to it, if only for a moment.
“You can’t control everything,” I say, my voice softer now.
“Maybe not, but I can control enough to keep us alive,” he replies, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.
The air between us shifts, heavy and electric, and I swear the room feels smaller. I don’t know who moves first—him or me—but suddenly, I’m pressed against the table, his body crowding mine, his hands braced on either side of me.
“You’re playing with fire,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl.
“Maybe I like the heat,” I whisper, unable to look away from him.
His eyes darken, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting some internal battle. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, and my breath catches, anticipation flooding every inch of me. But then he steps back, breaking the spell. “Go to bed, Cherise.”
The command is sharp, final, and it cuts through me like a blade. “Nick...”
“Goodnight,” he says, already turning back to his laptop.
I watch him for a moment, frustration and something deeper churning inside me. But I know, I remember, better than to push him when he’s like this. With a huff, I retreat to my room, the door clicking shut behind me.
I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my body still thrumming with unspent energy. The memory of his touch, his voice, lingers, a cruel reminder of everything I can’t have.
As my eyes drift shut, my body begins to recover from the adrenaline rush. Does he feel it too? The pull, the heat, the way our worlds seem to collide every time we’re near each other.
Whatever happens next, one thing is certain: Nick Ryeland is a fire I can’t help but run toward, even if it burns me alive.