Chapter Eight
Zane
It’s Valentine’s Day.
The irony would almost be funny if it didn’t hurt this much.
I’m alone in my apartment, lights off, the city bleeding in through the windows in muted tones of red and white.
I don’t turn anything on. I don’t need to see the reminders; flowers in grocery stores, couples on the sidewalk, the world celebrating something I managed to destroy with my own two hands.
I’ve been shot at. I’ve burned. I’ve lost my parents.
I’ve fallen out of the sky. I would do it all again, every bone-breaking, lung-crushing second of it, if it meant I didn’t have to sit with this feeling lodged in my chest. This slow, grinding ache that doesn’t fade no matter how many hours pass.
I’m angry. But not at her.
Never at her.
I’m angry at myself. At my fear. At the way I let old ghosts speak louder than the woman standing right in front of me, looking at me like I was something she wanted. Something she chose.
Because I knew.
The moment she froze in the doorway, the second her eyes tracked over my body, I knew she wasn’t repulsed. I felt it in the way her breathing changed. In the way her gaze lingered, curious and warm and unapologetically hungry. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away.
She looked at me. She reached for me.
When she spoke, when she said those words—“I love you”—there was no hesitation in her voice. No uncertainty. Just truth, laid bare between us.
I saw it, and I still walked away.
I rake a hand through my hair and let out a breath that feels like it scrapes my ribs on the way out. Pride is a poisonous thing. Fear even more so. Together, they make a convincing case for self-destruction.
I told myself I was protecting her.
The truth is, I was protecting myself from the chance that she might eventually see me the way I do.
The cameras have gone dark. That’s the worst part. I keep checking out of habit, glancing at the feeds that used to be my anchor. Used to be filled with her. Now they’re just black mirrors reflecting my own face back at me. All I see is a man who finally understands what he’s lost.
She shut me out, and I deserve it.
Still, it guts me.
The first morning after I left, I went to her building like always. Parked where I could see the entrance. Waited. Told myself I’d just make sure she got to work safely, but she never came out. She didn’t on the next day either.
It’s been two days now, and I haven’t caught sight of her or even heard her voice.
The silence is unbearable. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stood up from this couch, keys already in my hand, body angled toward the door.
Every instinct I have screams at me to go to her.
To let myself into her apartment, kneel in front of her if I have to, and tell her the truth.
That I love her.
That I’ve loved her longer than I should admit.
That she is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
But every time, I stop.
Because one thing I said that night still feels carved into stone.
I’m not worthy of her love.
Not as I am. Not with the wreckage I carry. Not with the man I became after the crash, after the surgeries, after the mirrors stopped being kind.
God, I want to be worthy.
I want it so badly it feels like another kind of pain entirely.
I just don’t know how to become someone who deserves her without breaking her in the process. Until then, all I can do is sit here, on Valentine’s Day, alone with the consequences of my fear, missing the woman who finally saw me and loved me anyway.
Suddenly, there’s a sharp knock on my door.
I frown slightly, tilting my head toward the sound.
No one knocks on my door. Ever. Harbor House is quiet by design.
The people here want to be left alone. We’re all fine with pretending we don’t exist to each other.
My rent’s paid. No maintenance requests.
No neighbors I talk to. The knock comes again, harder this time, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t going anywhere.
I consider ignoring it. For half a second, I almost do. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to explain myself. I don’t want to be reminded of everything I fucked up.
Another knock. Followed by, “Zane.”
Georgia.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved.
I cross the apartment in long strides and yank the door open.
Georgia is standing there, cheeks flushed, eyes bright and furious and determined all at once. She’s holding a teddy bear tucked under one arm and a familiar box of chocolates clutched to her chest.
My stomach drops.
I recognize them instantly.
“So,” she says, stepping past me without waiting for an invitation. “You weren’t even going to tell me about these?”
She sets the bear and chocolates down on my small kitchen table like she owns the place.
Like she belongs here. Then she turns slowly, taking in the apartment—the bare gray walls, the minimal furniture, the boxes I never bothered to unpack, shoved into corners like proof I never planned to stay anywhere long.
She returns her gaze to me, steady and unflinching.
“What are you doing here, Georgia?” I ask, barely keeping my voice even.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” she says. “I’ll be damned if I don’t spend it with my boyfriend.”
The word boyfriend hits me harder than anything else tonight.
It lands warm and heavy in my chest, followed immediately by something fierce and possessive that curls low in my gut. We never labeled it. Never talked about it. But hearing her say it like it’s a fact undoes me.
She doesn’t give me time to respond.
“You don’t get to decide whether or not I love you,” she continues, her voice gaining heat with each word. “You don’t get to decide whether you’re worthy of my love. That’s not your call. It’s mine to give.”
She steps closer, close enough that I can feel her warmth.
“I think you’re gorgeous. I think you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Even if I didn’t—which I do, in case you missed that—you make me feel safe. You make me feel wanted. You make me feel loved. That matters more than anything else. Your looks are just window dressing, albeit sexy window dressing.”
She’s breathing hard now, eyes blazing, daring me to argue.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Everything inside me settles all at once, and my lips curve upward into a smile that only seems to irritate her more.
“Why are you smiling?” she demands.
“Because,” I say quietly, “I love you too. And I’m sorry.”
The fire drains out of her all at once, leaving something softer behind. Still strong. Still certain. Just…calmer.
“Do you believe me,” she asks, “when I say I don’t care about your scars?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe me when I say I love you?”
“Yes.”
That seems to finally settle something in her. She exhales, shoulders relaxing.
“Good,” she says.
I swallow, emotion thick in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “For not trusting you. For letting my fear speak louder than you did.” I take a step closer. “Do you believe me when I say I love you? That I’d be honored to be your boyfriend if you’ll still have me?”
Her smile is immediate and devastating.
“Yes,” she says. “That’s exactly what I want.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“I made a reservation by the way,” I say, scratching my neck with an awkward smile. “Fany restaurant. Pricey meals and all of that.”
“That sounds perfect, but it better be for two,” she says, her eyes beaming with a mixture of mischief and humor. “First, I have something for you. A Valentine’s special.”
She takes my hand and leads me toward the bed and pushes me gently against the wall next to it, then she steps back and starts to take off her clothes slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.
I watched her with rapt attention, the air leaving my lungs with each part of her she exposes until she’s standing naked in front of me.
God, she’s perfect.
“I need to see you,” she murmurs, then leans in to kiss me without waiting for an answer.
She tugs the hem of my shirt. I lift it over my head, letting it pool on the floor with her discarded clothes. Then she moves to my pants, slowly undoing the zipper. She pulls the pants down, taking my underpants with it.
I step out of them, completely naked in front of her.
My body tenses, more from habit than the feeling of self-consciousness. Georgia closes the gap between us, stands on her tiptoes to kiss me firmly on the lips. At that moment, I forget my train of thought and lose myself in the pleasure of her.
Unfortunately, the kiss ends too abruptly. She pulls away and drags her lips down the scar on my jaw. She moves to another one. And another. Her lips linger soothingly over each scar.
It’s at that moment that I feel truly laid bare and finally healed.
I never felt so wanted. So valued.
I cup her face tenderly in my palms and claim her mouth with a deep, possessive kiss. She melts into me, a soft moan escaping her throat.
I pick her up, and she loops her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist. I toss her on the bed and climb on behind her.
Then I roll her onto her stomach and thread my fingers through her beautiful golden hair, turning her head so I can capture her mouth with mine.
My cock is pressing between her hips, nudging her pussy lips from behind as my arm clamps over her waist. I plunge my tongue into her mouth, my teeth nipping and tugging.
“Zane, please,” she moans. “I need you now.”
She crawls onto all fours, pushing out her perfectly round ass to me.
I hum in pleasure, spreading her ass cheeks as I slide into her.
Georgia moans low and deep, her body falling forward slightly.
My hands steady on her hips, I pull her onto my lap.
She gasps softly. With our knees bent and bodies joined, I force her hips up and down.
She starts to ride me, and I meet her thrust for thrust. Breath for breath.
“Fuck, little mouse, you’re so perfect. Love the way you feel so tight around me.”
“Zane! More. Give me…more!”
I kiss that sensitive spot behind her ear, raking my teeth over it in a way I know drives her crazy. Her body shudders in response. I keep thrusting deep and hard, murmuring sweet nothings in her ear.
“Oh my God, Zane,” she moans breathlessly. “Please…”
I don’t ask what she needs. Instead, I reach down and slide my fingers between her folds once more. The moment I make contact with her clit, her body jerks violently in response. I swirl my tongue around the side of her neck, matching the strokes of my fingers.
“Zaaaaaanneeee!” Her muscles draw taunt as her orgasm crashes through her.
But I don’t stop. I keep moving against her. Inside her. There’s something incredibly erotic about this position. It gives me complete control. All she has to do is let me manipulate her body, and in return, I get to give her pleasure like she’s never known.
“Come with me,” she says between broken breaths. “Fill me up, Zane. Give me everything.”
I thought I was in control—turns out all she had to do was give an order.
I press her front onto the mattress, slide out of her and flip her over, then thrust right back into her body. Face to face, I slam into her.
She cries out my name, her fingers digging deeper into my skin with each rock of my hips.
“You’re mine, little mouse. Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
“And I’m yours.” I crash into her until the storm within her starts to consume me too. She screams as another orgasm crashes over her.
“Fuuuuck, Georgia!” My shoulders bunch up, my abs flexing as my strokes become wild and frenzied. Her grip grows bruising as I thrust once more, my cock pulsing inside her.
I capture her mouth in a tender kiss, then deepen it. Her body trembles even as she tries to catch her breath. I roll off her, tucking her against my heaving chest and kissing her temple.
“How did you find me?” I ask after a few minutes, tracing idle patterns along her hip with my thumb. “I never even told you my last name.”
She props herself on one elbow, smiling down at me like she’s been waiting for that question.
“Occupational hazard,” she says. “Being a good assistant means knowing how to dig. And how to verify.” She shrugs. “I pieced together every bit of information you’ve ever mentioned. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.”
I huff a quiet laugh. Of course it was.
“You once mentioned your brother, Stevie, and what he did for a living, so I followed that thread first,” she says.
“I tracked him down. Then I called in a favor with one of my friends who works in publicity. She’s done campaigns with his team before.
She confirmed the connection.” She shrugs, like she didn’t just dismantle every wall I thought I’d built.
“Once I had that, it wasn’t hard to get the rest. Background check…
” she pauses. “I found out about your parents, about the crash. And how you, Stevie, and Liam had to grow up in foster care. I am so sorry, Zane, sorry for all that you’ve been through.
” A tear falls to her cheek, and I reach up and wipe it away before urging her to continue, eager to learn more about the little cat and mouse hunt she went on to find me. If I didn’t love her already…
“Anyways,” she says with a sniffle, “after that it was pretty easy to get your address. Harbor House came up pretty quickly.”
I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, processing it all.
“You used industry connections,” I say.
“I leveraged them,” she corrects lightly. “Working for someone as influential as Mick means you learn how to move quietly and efficiently. And when I want something?” Her gaze sharpens. “I go after it.”
I look back at her, something warm and heavy blooming in my chest.
“I’m impressed,” I admit. “And grateful. That you thought I was worth all that effort.”
She goes still, then sits up fully, straddling my hips, looking down at me like she wants me to really hear her.
“You fixed my apartment,” she says softly. “You watched over me. You learned my routines, my habits, my fears…after one letter. One.” Her hand presses flat to my chest, right over my heart. “So yeah,” she says. “I went the extra mile. That’s what you do when you love someone.”
The words hit me hard.
I swallow.
“I loved you the moment I read that letter,” I say quietly. “Didn’t even know your face yet. Just your voice on the page. I’ve only fallen harder since.”
Her expression softens in a way that feels like absolution, like belonging.
She leans down, presses her forehead to mine, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for loss.
I feel like I’m home.