Chapter 19
ELLA
Morning light slipped through the thin curtains in pale Parisian gold, soft and forgiving in a way the past few days hadn’t been.
For a moment, half-awake, I forgot where I was again.
Then the unfamiliar ceiling settled into focus. The faint scent of Rose’s perfume still lingering in the air. The quiet hum of the city below instead of Manhattan traffic.
And the memory returned all at once.
Rose was gone.
The ache settled into my chest the way it had every morning since the call. Dull. Heavy. Impossible to ignore.
I lay still, staring at the ceiling, wishing absurdly that I could roll over and text her like we used to after bad dreams.
You alive?
Barely.
You?
A ghost of a smile tugged at my mouth before dissolving just as quickly.
Silence answered instead.
My gaze drifted to the chair in the corner where some of her clothes still sat—things she’d probably meant to sort before … everything.
A slow breath filled my lungs.
I threw the covers back and padded across the hardwood floor, cool under my feet. Opening her closet still felt intrusive, even after days here, like I was trespassing.
Rows of clothes greeted me. Rose’s life arranged neatly on hangers.
And if there was any lingering doubt?
This was a woman who stayed.
Silk blouses that weren’t practical for airports. Heels too delicate for rushing through terminals. A black dress that felt more candlelight than conference call. Scarves tucked along the shelf—soft, deliberate, chosen by someone who knew she’d be wearing them more than once.
Not souvenirs.
Staples.
There were coats here for different seasons. Shoes lined up with intention. Jewelry in a ceramic dish by the closet door like she’d taken it off at night and expected to reach for it again in the morning.
One hundred percent—this wasn’t a temporary assignment wardrobe.
This was a life.
And whatever that life was—whoever she’d become in it—I was only now stepping into the space she’d left behind.
My throat tightened.
I ran my fingers over soft fabrics until they stopped on a simple red sweater, oversized and worn at the cuffs, paired with dark jeans.
I remembered her wearing this. A photo flashed in my mind—her laughing on a bridge somewhere, hair blowing everywhere, wine in hand.
Without letting myself think too much, I showered, then changed into her clothes.
The sweater hung slightly loose on me, sleeves long enough to cover half my hands. It still smelled faintly like her—clean, floral, familiar.
Something inside my chest loosened.
Like she was still here.
Like maybe she’d just stepped out for coffee and would come back any minute, complaining about traffic and asking if I wanted to walk somewhere.
I swallowed hard and turned away from the mirror before emotion tipped into something harder to contain.
Coffee first. Then answers.
And Kane.
My stomach fluttered unexpectedly at the thought of him.
Yesterday’s text exchange replayed in my mind as I brushed my damp hair back and tied it loosely. His dry humor. The warmth behind the restraint.
Sleep, Manhattan.
Not rejection.
Not distance.
Just control.
And somehow that control made me want to test him even more.
I’d barely poured coffee into Rose’s chipped mug when the knock came at the door.
My pulse jumped in immediate recognition.
Ridiculous, how quickly my body had learned the sound of his arrival.
I set the mug down, wiped my palms on my jeans, and opened the door.
Kane stood in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, short hair slightly mussed like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Fresh bruise shadowed his jaw. Another cut I hadn’t noticed last night traced his knuckle.
His eyes swept over me—and stopped.
Something shifted in his expression.
Slow.
Appreciative.
Dangerous.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough.
Heat crept up my neck.
“Morning.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the sweater sleeves hanging past my hands, then returned to my face.
“That hers?”
I nodded. “Felt … better.”
A flicker of understanding softened his features.
“You look good in it.”
The way he said it made warmth slide lower in my belly.
He’d said I look good.
“Careful,” I said lightly. “Compliments this early set expectations.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Noted.”
He stepped inside, the space shrinking instantly with his presence. Kane didn’t fidget or hover. He just occupied rooms. Grounded them.
His eyes tracked the mug on the counter. “You eat yet?”
“Coffee counts.”
“Not today.”
I lifted a brow. “Bossy.”
“Hungry people make bad decisions.”
My lips curved. “And here I thought dangerous men thrived on bad decisions.”
His gaze darkened slightly. “Some of us learned better.”
Silence stretched, charged and thick.
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms. “You didn’t deny being dangerous.”
His eyes flicked to my mouth.
“Didn’t think you needed convincing.”
The heat between us spiked, sudden and electric.
I took a slow sip of coffee, watching him over the rim. Testing.
“You know,” I said casually, “you’re really bad at pretending you’re not attracted to me.”
His jaw tightened.
He didn’t answer.
Which was answer enough.
A pulse of boldness moved through me, surprising even myself. Maybe it was grief. Or Paris. Or the realization that life could end without warning.
Or maybe I was just tired of playing safe.
I set the mug down and stepped closer, stopping just inside his space.
Close enough to feel the heat of him.
Close enough that his focus sharpened immediately, attention narrowing to me and nothing else.
“You look at me,” I said quietly, “like you’re holding something back.”
His breath slowed.
“Ella.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw.
He didn’t move away.
Didn’t touch me either.
But tension coiled between us, tight and humming.
My voice softened, teasing but honest underneath. “You want me.”
His gaze burned into mine.
“That’s not the problem.”
“So, what is?”
His hand lifted slightly—like he meant to touch me—then dropped again.
“That I don’t get things like you,” he said quietly. “I break them.”
The honesty hit harder than flirtation would have.
Something inside me softened—and leaned forward, anyway.
“Then maybe,” I murmured, “you should stop deciding what’s good for me.”
Silence.
His eyes flicked to my lips again.
My heartbeat climbed.
Slowly, almost absentmindedly, I reached out and brushed my fingers against his injured knuckle.
The contact was small.
Innocent.
But the effect was immediate.
His breath caught almost imperceptibly.
More heat shot straight through me.
His hand closed reflexively around mine, large and warm, grip firm without hurting. Holding.
A spark raced up my arm like it was a live wire.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then his thumb shifted slightly against my wrist.
A tiny motion.
But my pulse jumped hard enough that I knew he felt it.
The air between us changed.
Thickened.
My imagination ran ahead of me—his hand sliding up my arm, his mouth finding mine, my back hitting the wall—
Instead of pulling away, I leaned closer.
Close enough that my breath ghosted along his jaw.
Kane went utterly still.
Close enough that if anyone walked in, they’d think we were already kissing.
His grip tightened slightly around my wrist, instinctive, like he was bracing for impact.
Or temptation.
My lips hovered near his ear, and for half a second, I almost lost my nerve.
Then grief, adrenaline, and reckless honesty shoved caution aside.
I let my mouth brush his earlobe as I whispered, soft enough that only he could hear:
“You can stop pretending you don’t want to kiss me.”
The contact was barely there.
A whisper of skin against skin.
But the reaction was immediate.
Kane sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body tightening. A visible shudder ran through him, shoulders locking like he’d just taken a hit he hadn’t seen coming.
His fingers flexed around my wrist, heat spiking where he held me, and for one glorious second his other hand lifted, hovering near my waist like instinct was about to override discipline.
His head tipped forward slightly, forehead almost brushing mine, control hanging by a thread.
His voice, when it came, was rough. Lower.
“Ella …”
A warning.
A plea.
A promise.
I felt a rush of satisfaction—and something more vulnerable underneath it.
Because I wasn’t wrong.
He wanted this.
Wanted me.
And for a heartbeat, I thought he might finally give in.
My imagination surged again—his mouth crashing down on mine, his hands dragging me against him, the wall cool against my back—
A sharp honk from the street below shattered the moment.
Reality slammed back into place.
Kane released me immediately, stepping back, control snapping down like a steel door locking shut.
I swallowed, heart racing.
Well.
That definitely counted as progress.
He cleared his throat. “We should go.”
I smiled faintly. “Running away again?”
His gaze lingered on me a beat too long, then his eyes narrowed. “Keeping you alive.”
“Those mutually exclusive?”
His mouth twitched. “Sometimes.”
We grabbed coats, and moments later we stepped into the cool Paris morning, the city waking around us.
Walking beside Kane was strangely natural. My stride adjusting automatically to his. His attention constantly scanning without looking obvious about it.
I noticed it now.
The way his hand occasionally brushed my lower back guiding me around pedestrians. The subtle positioning that always kept me away from traffic.
Protective.
Possessive, almost.
And the unsettling part?
I liked it. Scratch that—I loved it.
We reached the metro entrance, descending into the bustle below. Morning commuters packed the platform, conversations blending with announcements overhead.
I stepped closer to Kane as a train thundered past, wind whipping through the station.
His hand settled at my waist automatically.
Warm.
Solid.
Claiming space.
A group of guys across the platform glanced our way, eyes lingering a little too long.
Kane noticed instantly.
His arm tightened fractionally.
The look he gave them was calm.
Cold.
A quiet promise of consequences.
They looked away first.
My stomach flipped.
“That was unnecessary,” I murmured.
“They were staring.”
“So?”
His voice dropped slightly. “Didn’t like it.”
Heat curled low in my belly again.
“You don’t own me.”
His eyes slid to mine.
“No,” he agreed calmly. “But they don’t get to look at you like that.”
The possessiveness in his tone sent a shiver through me.
The train arrived, and we boarded, bodies pressing close in the crowded car. Kane shifted automatically, boxing me into the corner so no one bumped me.
His chest brushed my shoulder every time the train lurched.
His hand remained at my waist, steadying.
Each accidental touch felt deliberate.
Slow burn.
By the time we emerged near étienne’s address—a quiet residential street—I felt wound tight with awareness.
We slowed near the building entrance.
“Ready?” Kane asked quietly.
I nodded.
Just as we stepped toward the door, a man exiting the building slammed into me, shoulder clipping mine hard enough to knock me off balance.
Everything happened fast.
Kane’s arm shot out, catching me before I fell.
His other hand caught the man by the jacket, shoving him back against the wall.
Hard.
The man blinked in shock.
“Watch where you’re going,” Kane said softly.
Dangerously softly.
The guy stammered something in French, hands up defensively.
I touched Kane’s arm. “It’s fine.”
His grip stayed tight another second before he released him.
The man hurried away.
My heart pounded.
Kane’s attention snapped back to me instantly, hands sliding to my shoulders, scanning me for injury.
“You all right?”
His voice had changed.
Even rougher.
Protective instinct fully awake.
“I’m fine,” I said softly.
His hands lingered a beat too long.
Warm through Rose’s sweater.
His gaze dropped to my mouth again.
The city noise faded into background static.
Something slow and inevitable simmered between us.
A promise instead of a threat.
His thumb brushed absently against my collarbone where the sweater dipped slightly.
My breath hitched.
His eyes darkened.
Then he stepped back.
Control.
Again.
But I saw the strain in it.
And suddenly I knew.
This wasn’t a question of if.
Just when.