Chapter 17
ELLA
Sleep should have come easily.
Exhaustion weighed on every muscle. Grief, travel, emotional whiplash, bureaucracy, secrets—it all sat heavy in my bones. By any reasonable logic, I should have collapsed into unconsciousness the moment my head hit the pillow.
Instead, I lay wide awake in Rose’s bed, staring at the ceiling while Paris murmured softly outside.
A siren somewhere far off. A burst of laughter from a passing couple. The faint hum of traffic sliding through wet streets.
Life continuing.
My brain, unfortunately, refused to shut off.
The notebook lay on the nightstand beside me, leather cover catching a slice of streetlight through the curtains. Silent. Accusing.
If anything happens, this matters.
The words replayed in my head like a warning I couldn’t decipher.
Who had she been afraid of?
Who had she been tracking?
And how had that fear connected to the car accident that killed her?
My stomach tightened again, cold unease creeping in.
Tomorrow, Kane and I would go to étienne’s address. Scope things out, as Kane had put it, in that calm, efficient tone that implied he did this kind of thing often.
Too often.
The thought should have scared me.
Instead—
My mind betrayed me again.
Because the image that surfaced wasn’t danger or fear.
It was Kane leaning against Rose’s sofa, jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes dark and focused entirely on me.
“You worried I wouldn’t show?”
God.
I rolled onto my side, punching the pillow into submission.
Stop thinking about him.
I lasted maybe ten seconds.
Because the problem wasn’t just attraction.
It was uncertainty.
And uncertainty was torture.
Did he want me?
Every signal screamed yes.
The way his gaze followed me when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way his attention sharpened when I mentioned being scared. The way his body leaned toward mine on the sofa, like some invisible thread pulled him closer without permission.
And then—
Control.
Always control.
Stopping himself inches away from kissing me.
Walking away when I asked him to stay.
Putting distance back between us when things heated up.
Which meant one of two things.
Either he didn’t actually want me. Or he wanted me and something else mattered more.
I stared at the faint outline of the ceiling molding, replaying every interaction like an overanalyzed text thread.
At the café, when I said I wanted him.
His reaction hadn’t been confusion or polite rejection.
It had been hunger. Careful, restrained hunger. Like a man who’d spent a lifetime saying no to things he wanted.
Tonight, on the sofa.
The way his eyes dropped to my mouth.
The way his breath warmed my cheek.
The way his voice had gone rough when he said, dangerous timing.
Not bad idea.
Not not interested.
Dangerous.
Meaning he felt it, too.
Meaning the danger wasn’t me. It was whatever world he lived in.
Whatever fights left bruises on his hands. Whatever held him up tonight. Whatever made a man like him hesitate.
I sighed, rolling onto my back again.
This was insane.
My sister was dead.
I was unraveling a mystery that suddenly felt darker than I’d expected.
And I was lying here obsessing over whether a dangerous stranger wanted to fuck me.
Still.
The memory of his closeness returned, vivid and stubborn.
The heat of him beside me.
The sense of contained power in the way he moved.
Kane didn’t fidget. Didn’t rush. Didn’t waste motion.
Everything about him felt deliberate. Controlled.
And something about that control made my imagination run wild.
I tried to stop it.
Failed immediately.
Because suddenly, I was imagining his mouth on mine.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Slow at first, maybe, testing, deciding.
Then deeper once he committed.
The kind of kiss that erased coherent thought.
His hand sliding to the back of my neck, anchoring me there. The rough scrape of stubble against my skin. The way his body would press closer, solid heat and strength and certainty.
My breath caught.
God.
I shifted under the covers, pulse quickening.
I imagined his hands.
Big. Warm. Careful despite their capacity for damage.
Hands that knew how to fight, how to hurt—
But maybe also how to hold.
How they’d feel sliding along my waist, learning the curve of my body. Fingers spanning my hips. Pulling me closer, not asking permission because he already knew the answer.
Because I’d already given it.
Twice.
You.
What a thrill that would be. I mean, really.
Heat pooled low in my belly.
I swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the empty space beside me.
Of how easily it could be filled.
What would he be like in bed?
The question hit with startling clarity.
Controlled there, too?
Or would that control snap?
Would all that contained violence turn into something else entirely when he stopped holding back?
I imagined him above me, muscles shifting under my hands as he moved. The intensity in his eyes turning focused and raw. The way his voice would sound saying my name, low and rough and honest.
Or—
Me on top.
Would I like that even better?
His hands on my hips, guiding, letting me set the pace until restraint gave way and he took over again.
A small, embarrassed sound escaped me in the dark.
Jesus, Ella.
But the fantasy refused to fade.
Because beneath the attraction was something simpler.
Recognition.
That same primitive certainty that had hit me the moment we met.
I want that one.
Not logical.
Not careful.
Just instinct.
Like some ancient part of my brain recognized safety and danger wrapped in the same man and decided both were acceptable risks.
Maybe even desirable ones.
He was dangerous.
I knew that.
The bruises. The fights. The way he scanned rooms automatically. The casual competence around threat.
But—
He’d also stepped between me and traffic without thinking.
Offered help without strings.
Showed up when he said he would.
Even if late.
My chest tightened slightly.
Late.
Because for a while tonight, I’d really believed he wasn’t coming.
And the disappointment had stung far more than it should have.
Which was its own problem.
You barely know him.
True.
But my body didn’t care.
And if I was honest—
I didn’t, either.
Life had proven itself short in the most brutal way possible.
Rose was gone.
Conversations unfinished. Secrets unspoken. Opportunities missed.
What was the point of pretending attraction didn’t matter when it hit you this hard?
Still.
I wasn’t going to beg a man to come back.
But lying there in the quiet, adrenaline finally ebbing, another thought slipped in—quieter, more dangerous than pure lust.
What if this wasn’t just physical?
The question unsettled me enough that my eyes opened again, staring into the dim room.
Because yes, Kane was attractive. Intensely, unfairly attractive. The kind of man women noticed instantly. The kind of man your body reacted to before your brain caught up.
But that wasn’t all of it.
If it were, I would’ve brushed it off already. Filed him away as vacation chemistry. Grief-induced recklessness. A hot stranger in a foreign city.
Instead, he lingered.
Not just in my body. In my mind. In the quiet places where decisions actually formed.
I thought about the way he listened. Really listened. Without interrupting or offering empty reassurance. When I’d talked about Rose, about not knowing what came next, he hadn’t rushed to smooth it over.
He’d just … stayed.
Solid.
Present.
Like he could handle ugly truths without flinching.
And God.
When had Hank ever done that?
Hank meant well. He always meant well. But every difficult conversation with him somehow became logistical. Practical. Solutions and timelines and calm reassurances.
We’ll figure it out.
It’ll be okay.
Don’t worry so much.
But sometimes you didn’t want things solved.
Sometimes you just wanted someone strong enough to stand next to you in the mess.
Kane felt like that kind of man.
The kind who didn’t avoid trouble. The kind who stepped toward it. The kind who put himself between you and whatever might hit.
Literally.
I’d spent years telling myself I didn’t need that. Didn’t want traditional gestures or protective instincts or a man who felt responsible for my safety.
Independent woman. Equal footing. No damsels.
But independence had quietly morphed into loneliness somewhere along the way. Into doing everything myself because it was easier than admitting sometimes I didn’t want to.
Walking beside Kane, it hadn’t felt patronizing.
It had felt … comforting.
Safe in a different way than Hank’s politeness ever had.
Protected.
And the truth slid in before I could soften it.
Maybe that was what I actually wanted.
A real man.
The thought startled me.
Not in a macho, outdated stereotype way. But in the sense of someone steady and capable and unafraid of the world’s sharp edges. Someone who didn’t shrink from confrontation or difficulty or danger.
Someone who didn’t need me to pretend everything was fine all the time.
Someone strong enough that I didn’t have to be.
I swallowed, staring into the dark.
What would my parents say if I brought Kane home?
The answer came immediately.
Horror.
Polite horror, maybe. Manners and careful smiles, but horror all the same.
My mother would notice the bruised knuckles. The scarred hands. The watchfulness. The sense that violence wasn’t theoretical in his life.
My father would try to talk sports or business and get nothing polite in return. Kane would answer honestly or not at all. No performance. No smoothing himself into something acceptable.
Too blunt. Too rough. Too dangerous.
Not suitable.
Not safe.
Not the kind of man nice girls married.
And suddenly, I realized something that made my stomach twist.
How many choices had I made trying not to scare them?
How many boyfriends had fit neatly into their expectations?
Hank had been perfect on paper. Stable job. Good family. Polite. Predictable. A man my parents could brag about at church dinners.
And I’d convinced myself that was enough.
That wanting more was immature. Selfish. Unrealistic.
But lying here now, thinking about Kane—
About the way my pulse spiked just remembering him—
I wondered if I’d been fooling myself.
If Rose had figured that out first.
If Paris had been her escape from expectations, too.
The realization settled slowly.
Maybe attraction mattered because compatibility mattered.
Not just hobbies and income brackets and politeness.
But the way someone made you feel.
Alive.
Seen.
Safe enough to stop pretending.
Kane was reckless.
Dangerous.
Complicated.
But maybe …
Maybe he was also exactly the kind of man I needed.
And the scariest part?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to run from that anymore.
Temptation flickered.
Call him.
Tell him you’re scared.
Tell him you don’t want to be alone with this notebook and these questions and this apartment that still smells like your sister’s perfume.
Tell him you need help understanding something in the journal.
He’d come.
I knew he would.
The image of him turning around in the hallway, coming back through the door, settling beside me again—
My thumb even drifted toward my phone on instinct.
Then stopped.
No.
Self-respect mattered, too.
I wasn’t going to manufacture a crisis just to get a man into my bed.
Even if every nerve in my body wanted exactly that.
So instead, I lay there, staring into the dark, letting want and uncertainty twist together until they were impossible to separate.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow we’d go see étienne.
Tomorrow, answers might start appearing.
Tomorrow, Kane would be beside me again.
And maybe—
Maybe something would finally give between us.
I exhaled slowly and rolled onto my side, reaching for my phone.
One message.
Harmless.
Not begging.
Just …
Connection.
My thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment before typing.
Tomorrow, you’re not allowed to be late. Dangerous men should at least be punctual.
I stared at it.
Too much?
Too flirty?
Not enough?
Before I could overthink it into oblivion, I hit send and tossed the phone back onto the nightstand.
Seconds ticked by.
Nothing.
Of course, nothing.
Normal people slept at this hour.
I closed my eyes, finally letting exhaustion drag at me.
My phone buzzed.
My heart leapt before I could stop it.
I grabbed it, squinting at the screen.
Kane:
I was late once. Don’t push your luck.
A smile tugged at my mouth.
Another message appeared.
Sleep, Manhattan. Big day tomorrow.
Warmth spread slowly through my chest.
Not rejection.
Not distance.
Just … patience.
Control.
Anticipation.
I set the phone down again, curling under the blankets.
Tomorrow.
And as sleep finally pulled me under, one last thought drifted lazily through my mind.
I really, really hoped tomorrow he stopped leaving.