Chapter 6
SIX
Rowan
The safehouse was a tomb of glass and polished concrete, and the silence inside was loud enough to echo inside my mind. A static that was only noticeable when there was no other noise to counter it.
I had been in the guest room laying on the bed staring at the ceiling for exactly forty-two minutes, and all I could think about is how the sheets I'm on are both the softest and most irritating I've ever experienced in my life.
My body was exhausted in a way I hadn't experienced in a long time.
I was a heavy, leaden thing sinking into the Egyptian cotton, but my brain was running a marathon on a treadmill of broken glass.
Vance. The clip. The bank accounts. My mother’s house.
The list scrolled behind my eyelids like a ticker tape of catastrophe. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the comments. Traitor. Frigid. Bitch. Stay in your lane. Worthless designation.
I needed something. I needed a problem I could actually solve.
Finally, at 1:00 AM, I gave up on the concept of rest.
I slipped out of the room, moving like a ghost through the shadowy corridors. I found the kitchen by the ambient hum of the sub-zero refrigerator. It was a chef’s kitchen, sleek and intimidating, designed for people who cooked as a performance art rather than a necessity or to actually enjoy food.
I opened the pantry door.
"Oh, god," I breathed, the first spark of genuine dopamine hitting my brain in twenty-four hours.
It was anarchy. Expensive, high-end anarchy. There was truffle oil next to the dish soap. The dry pasta was mingled with the baking supplies. Cans of tomatoes were stacked precariously on top of boxes of herbal tea. It was a logistical nightmare. It was a safety hazard.
It was perfect.
I went back to my suitcase, retrieved my label maker and went to work.
For the next hour and a half, I wasn't a disgraced manager or a target. I was an architect of order.
Click-click-whirrt.
The sound of the machine printing was a lullaby. Flour - All Purpose. Peel. Align. Stick. Rice - Basmati. Peel. Align. Stick.
I emptied the shelves onto the massive island. I wiped down the surfaces. I categorized by usage frequency and expiration date. I created a taxonomy of spices, alphabetizing them from Allspice to Za'atar.
My hands stopped shaking. The tight knot in my chest unspooled just a fraction, replaced by the grim satisfaction of knowing exactly where the lentils belonged.
If I couldn't control the fact that the entire world wanted me dead simply because I had the audacity to stand up to an Alpha, I could at least control the location of the quinoa.
I was in the middle of re-organizing the baking extracts, vanilla should never be stored next to savory oils, the scent transference is a documented risk, when the air pressure in the room shifted.
I froze, a bottle of almond extract in one hand and my label maker in the other.
The footsteps had been silent. The floorboards in this place were likely engineered to be as still as a graveyard. But I felt the gaze. It hit the back of my neck like a physical touch.
I turned around slowly.
Juno was leaning against the doorframe of the pantry, arms crossed over a chest covered by a soft, black t-shirt that hung loose on his frame. He was wearing grey sweatpants and looked effortlessly, maddeningly awake for 2:45 in the morning.
His golden-brown hair was a mess of curls, and his amber eyes were locked on me. He wasn't smiling or glaring. He was analyzing me.
"I’m organizing," I said immediately, the defensive reflex kicking in before my brain could stop it. I held up the label maker like a weapon. "The inventory management in here was appalling. You had bleach next to the balsamic vinegar. One spill, and your salad dressing becomes a chemical weapon."
Juno didn't move. He just watched me, his gaze dropping to the battalion of spice jars I had perfectly aligned on the counter.
"It’s almost three in the morning, Rowan."
"I work best at night," I lied, turning back to the shelf to stick a label on a jar of cloves. My fingers trembled slightly, ruining the alignment. I cursed under my breath and peeled it off to start again. "Fewer emails. Better flow state."
"You aren't working," Juno said. His voice was soft, but it carried across the kitchen with the weight of a judge’s gavel. "You’re amortizing your panic."
I stiffened. "I am creating efficiency. This pantry was a liability."
"The pantry is fine," Juno said, pushing off the doorframe. He walked toward me. He didn't stomp; he flowed. "You, however, are redlining."
"I am perfectly calm," I snapped, typing Vanilla into the machine. Click-click-whirrt. "I am simply adding value. I’m a guest here. I can’t pay rent, so I’m contributing labor. It’s a basic transactional exchange."
"Stop."
He was behind me now. I could smell him, white tea, sandalwood, and the faint, smoky scent of power. It wasn't the heavy, aggressive musk of an Alpha like Vance. It was brighter, sharper, like looking directly into a lightbulb. Almost a little too much.
I tried to print another label.
Juno reached out. His hand, long-fingered and elegant, clamped over mine. He didn't hurt me, but he stopped the machine cold.
"Give it to me," he said.
"I have three jars left," I argued, clutching the plastic device. "If I stop now, the system is incomplete. You can't leave a taxonomy unfinished, Juno. It creates narrative dissonance in the kitchen."
"Rowan," he said, prying my fingers off the device. "Let go."
I let go. It felt like letting go of a life raft.
Juno set the label maker on the top of the fridge, well out of my vertical reach. Then, before I could protest, he grabbed me by the waist.
"Hey!" I gasped.
He lifted me effortlessly, swinging me around and depositing me on the marble counter. The stone was cold through my thin pajama bottoms. He stepped between my knees, effectively trapping me, blocking my exit with his body.
"We need to adjust your definitions," Juno said, placing his hands on the marble on either side of my hips. He leaned in, forcing me to look at him. His face was inches from mine, his eyes burning with a terrifying, golden intensity.
"I have excellent definitions," I stammered, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "I define value by output. I define safety by control."
"And that is why you are shaking apart," he murmured. "You think if you stop moving, we'll realize you're useless and throw you back in the bin."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat. It was too accurate. It was a surgical incision straight to the rot in my soul.
"You aren't the help, Rowan," Juno said, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic rumble. He raised a hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my jaw, warm and steady. "And you aren't an employee. You are the prize."
I blinked, the term short-circuiting my logic centers. "I'm a consultant. The contract says—"
"Forget the contract," he whispered. "Look at me."
I looked. I couldn't look anywhere else.
"You are hyperventilating," he noted. "Your pulse is visible in your neck. You are trying to organize spices because you're terrified that if you sit still, the quiet will eat you alive."
"The quiet is loud," I admitted, my voice cracking. "It lists things. Threats. Errors. Deadlines."
"Then we change the input."
He moved his hand to the back of my neck, his thumb pressing into the tension knot at the base of my skull.
"Breathe, Rowan. In."
I inhaled shakily, smelling him.
"Out."
I exhaled.
"Again. But this time, stop thinking."
"I can't," I whispered, clutching the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white and the stone left indentations on my fingertips. "I don't know how to turn it off. The logic... it's a loop. It just keeps spinning."
"Then I'll break the loop."
Juno leaned forward.
He didn't ask. He didn't negotiate. He simply took.
He kissed me.
It wasn't a tentative, testing-the-waters kiss. It was an interdiction. His mouth covered mine with a firm, practiced pressure that wasn't sexual so much as it was overwhelming. He tasted slightly of mint tea.
My brain stalled. The spreadsheet in my head vanished, replaced by a wall of white static.
He pressed closer, his chest flattening against mine, his hand tightening on the back of my neck to hold me in place. It was intense, bordering on too much, flooding my senses with so much immediate data that I physically couldn't process anything else.
No fear.
No Vance.
No labels.
Just Juno.
He broke the kiss as abruptly as he’d started it, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye.
I gasped, air rushing back into my lungs. My lips tingled. The world had narrowed down to the amber irises staring at me.
"Is the loop broken?" he asked softly.
I nodded, mute. The noise in my head was gone, replaced by a hum of shock.
"Good."
He ran his thumb over my lower lip, his gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes.
"You are forbidden from organizing anything else in this house," he declared. "If I see a label on the toaster, Rowan, there will be consequences."
"Understood," I breathed, my admin oriented brain fumbling to ratify the new directive.
"Your curiosity regarding your utility is noted," Juno said, stepping back slightly but keeping me boxed in. "But for the next eight hours, your output is set to zero. Your only Key Performance Indicator is pleasure. Sleep. Warmth. Safety. Can you manage that deliverable?"
"KPI is pleasure, sleep, warmth, safety," I repeated, the words feeling strange and heavy on my tongue.
"Correct." A slightly devilish glint sparked in Juno's gaze as he lifted me off the counter and set me on my feet.
His hands staying just a little too long, but then when he removed them I swayed slightly, my knees feeling like water.
He braced me lightly, making sure I wasn't about to fall, and once he was sure I was steady he let me go.
"Go to bed, Rowan," Juno ordered, pointing toward the hallway. "Before I decide to give you a performance review right here on the island."
I didn't argue. I didn't look at the unfinished spices. I turned and fled.
I made it to the guest room in record time, diving under the duvet and pulling it up to my chin. My heart was still racing, but the jagged edge of the anxiety was gone, smoothed over by the lingering shock of his mouth on mine and the heat of his hands around my waist.
I touched my lips in the dark.
It wasn't logistical. It wasn't efficient.
But god, it worked.
And the worst part was I liked how much it had worked. I had to remind myself that this was a business relationship and he had just been resetting my anxiety, but part of me wished it was more than that.