Chapter 14 Elle
Elle
The next morning
I don’t know how I got here from the warehouse. It felt like only a moment ago, but now it’s a new morning in a new place. It’s bright and golden here. The sun spills across the bed, filtered through the blinds of the cabin windows, warming my skin.
That’s where we are, I suppose, based on the wooden walls. A cabin, and Sterling must’ve brought us here. I can’t help the small smile forming on my face at the mere thought of him. My body’s simply reacting to his name.
I feel the crisp, white sheets beneath me. The air smells like pine and woodsmoke, a world far away from everything I’ve known. It’s so quiet that it makes the rest of the world feel like it never existed. I blink, trying to piece together the in-between. Between the gunfire, the panic, and now.
My body feels like I’ve been asleep for days. But it couldn’t be that long, could it? Perhaps only enough time has passed for the ache behind my eyes to settle. For the fog in my head to feel thinner, as if I’m finally surfacing.
But without the fog, I’m more aware of the aches across my body. I flex my fingers under the blanket, dragging them along the fabric. My skin remembers a sting from the cut in the panic room. The way his fingers roamed over my leg, careful yet quick, and trying to fix what had to be done.
Sterling. I turn my head, and there he is, sitting in a chair beside the bed, elbows braced on his knees, his head in his hands.
He hasn’t slept. I can tell just by looking at him.
His frame is so still and so taut. When he finally lifts his head, our eyes meet.
He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. Still, something passes between us. A raw and undeniable feeling.
He starts to say something at the same time I do.
“Are you—?”
“How did we—?”
We both stop. His face flushes instantly, his gaze dropping as he shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. I didn’t know someone like him could blush. He’s such a firm, caring presence. He’s someone who always seems so prepared, even when handling danger.
It makes me smile a bit wider, even with the dull pulse slowly building behind my eyes.
But I can’t help but keep them open, staring at him, and taking him in.
He looks so different without the mask. Less like a mysterious stranger in the dark.
More like…a man who’s still figuring out how to exist outside of shadows.
Yet he makes time and space to help me heal from whatever I’m going through.
My memory’s still too spotty to remember all the details, but more remnants in my mind crawl to the forefront. Yet no matter what, I know deep in my heart that I can trust Sterling.
And maybe, he blushes for the same reason I do, because I haven’t looked away from his stunning beauty.
The mix of sharp and soft lines that makes up his handsome face—his striking jawline, the curve of his cheekbones, the perfect shape of his eyes.
The broadness of his shoulders, the firmness of his body.
From time to time, I thought I’d been dreaming when I looked at him.
When I blink now, I realize he’s been talking. But I’ve missed it entirely.
I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “Sorry,” I murmur, my embarrassment clear as I face him. “What were you saying?”
Sterling rubs a hand over his jaw, shaking his head. “Nothing. It’s not important.”
But it feels important. It all does when it comes to him.
He rises and moves toward the quaint kitchen space, sleeves rolled, posture tight like he’s trying not to think too hard about anything.
But I see the hesitation, the faint fumbling, and the little glances back at me when he thinks I’m not watching.
But I watch him the entire time, following him around with only a few feet between us.
It’s interesting, seeing him like this, in the morning light, quiet and disarmed. He cracks a few small eggs into the pan. They’re small, speckled, and look to be cute quail eggs. Is he cooking those for me…?
I step closer, wrapping a throw blanket around my shoulders. I’m shivering madly, but I persist, not wanting to worry him. My voice comes out unsteady with my teeth lightly chattering. “You… You stole those, didn’t you?”
He glances over his shoulder, faint color dusting his cheeks. “Only took what was left behind,” he says, a little too fast. “The nest was abandoned.”
I lift a brow, smiling despite myself. “Mm, and what else did you…take?”
He hesitates, long enough to give himself away. “A bit of this, a bit of that,” he says, flipping the eggs with exaggerated focus. “Went hunting too. So we have some meat, if you prefer that instead.”
Something about the way he offers the simple gesture stirs something in me.
Truthfully, all of the little details about him fascinate me.
Every small gesture pulls at me. The way he moves around the cabin’s little kitchen like he’s afraid of breaking the quiet.
The way he won’t quite look directly at me for too long.
His jaw tightens when he fumbles a plate.
There’s tension in his shoulders. And yet, there’s a faint pinkness across his face. That part makes me want to smile.
My eyes never leave him as he works. His sleeves are pushed further up to his elbows. His muscles move with silent strength when he reaches across the counter. His movements are confident, but not for show. Nothing about him seems to be for show. He simply moves with purpose, steady and magnetic.
I find myself leaning into his silence, letting my thoughts drift and trying to make sense of things. Sterling is a Song-Smith, that much I’m sure of now. He looks too much like them not to be. Damon’s the oldest. Stan’s the youngest. And Sterling’s the one no one talked about.
Clo used to talk about her sons as if she were showing off her favorite jewels, cut and polished. Damon with his cold command. Stan with that reckless charm. But never Sterling. It’s like he was cut out of the picture entirely. Erased, even. But why?
I don’t have time to think of the answer, because the pulse in my head returns, faint but building. The throb behind my eyes wrings my neck. I press a hand to my temple and try to breathe through the blinding pain. I don’t show the way I feel. I don’t want to worry Sterling.
Then he slowly sets two plates in front of me. One with a runny egg. The other with more meat. “Which one do you want?”
His voice is calm, yet careful like he’s holding his breath. But my mind doesn’t know how to answer. It slips sideways, catching on the bitter taste of memory. Tea, Clo’s favored blend that was floral and laced with something I now know too well. A drug that dims my mind and makes me forget.
I flinch at the memories, fogginess threatening to take over.
But then I look up, to fight it by staring at my favorite view.
Sterling’s staring at me, his gorgeous gray eyes steady and knowing.
He doesn’t say a word, but I see it in the soft furrow of his brow, like he’s ready to take the hurt from me.
I don’t want him to. This is mine to shoulder.
I tuck the throw blanket closer, pressing my arms around myself like I can squeeze the cold out of my bones, trying to stop the shivers and the pain pulsing through my skull.
I know what this is. I’ve seen it before in so many people, ones I thought I buried far away in my memories.
But those have been coming back to me slowly. And now I feel it in myself.
It’s withdrawal. From Kys. I know it too well.
I wish I didn’t. It drags old memories from places I’d buried them, in childhood fragments.
They don’t come back clearly. They fracture and blur.
Little flashes of fear and frantic voices I couldn’t place then and still can’t now.
They unravel inside me like threads too knotted to follow, each one pulling tighter and tighter.
It hurts. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again. But then I look at him, letting my throbbing eyes linger.
Sterling. His shimmering eyes, silver in this sunlight. His dark hair, so inviting. Some silken strands of silver-white show in the jet-black. And suddenly, the pain fades, even a little, enough to breathe again.
My gaze traces the line of his jaw, the slope of his wide shoulders, and the firm broadness of his chest. He comes closer, almost touching but only reaching toward me. He moves like someone steady enough to hold the world if he had to. I think he would.
The throbbing thoughts slip away. The fog in my mind clears. In this moment, I forget the pain. I forget the past. I forget everything except the comfort of him in the room.
It’s odd to feel this way, when part of me still wants Stan. But even that want feels rather further away now, fainter maybe. Because when Sterling’s here, my heart doesn’t reach for anything else.
But instead of giving in to my desires, I reach for the mug he sets in front of me. It’s not Clo’s tea. That recognition relaxes my shoulders and lets me breathe even easier. Sterling’s tea smells naturally earthier, more herbal, like dried leaves with a hint of sweet flowers.
Sterling doesn’t say anything, watching me from where he stands. I meet his eye and sip the tea. I smile at the taste. It’s not bitter. It doesn’t taste like poison. It tastes warm. In fact, that’s what this whole moment feels like. Warm. A little quiet. But that’s us.
I smile a little more, my eyes following him as he reluctantly returns to the stove.
I don’t think I could ever want to stop staring at him, even though I remember him more a little clearly now.
I picture the vineyard, and in it, the masked man.
The one who held me tightly. The one I saw standing over bodies.
I remember only that. I know there’s more. I feel it in my gut. And still, I don’t look away. Because I’m not afraid of him. I don’t think I ever was. I don’t know what that says about me. Or him. Or this strange quiet between us.
All I know is, sitting here in a cabin I don’t remember being brought to, with a man I barely know but feel safe with, I feel truly present. And when he finally turns toward me, flushed and avoiding my eyes like he doesn’t know what to do with this silence either…I think I like that about him.
Sterling Song-Smith. Dangerous and composed. But right now, rather flustered. And frankly, endearing. I shouldn’t think it. Though, I certainly do. Sterling is adorable.
***
We eat in silence for a while. I shouldn’t be surprised, since Sterling made the food, but it’s surprisingly delicious, rich and warm, a comfort I hadn’t realized I missed.
I glance up. “This is…really good,” I say, quieter than I mean to.
Sterling shuffles in his seat subtly, but not subtle enough. “How are you feeling?”
I smile, realizing he avoided my compliment. But I can’t address it, when his voice is so distracting, so deep and smooth. I can hear it so much clearer now without his mask on. “I’m fine,” I answer.
He nods and doesn’t say anything else. He takes a slow sip of the coffee I can smell from across the table. It smells bitter, burnt at the edges, but he drinks it like it’s necessary.
I pick at my plate, letting the silence stretch. When I glance up again, he’s watching me. He does that a lot—staring as though he’s reading more than I’m saying. Like he’s memorizing me. I wonder why.
He looks away the second I catch him. He’s so composed, often seems to be, but there’s a tension in the way he holds himself. Something rigid and quiet in his body language, even more than usual today. His fingers tap against the side of his mug like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“You should keep eating,” he says, nodding toward my plate.
I take another bite just to make him stop looking so worried.
“How’s your head?” he asks.
“It’s better,” I lie. The truth is, it still throbs.
He doesn’t believe me. I can tell because he still looks worried. But he doesn’t call me out on it. Instead, he refills my tea with no honey or bitterness. Only warmth from the kettle’s pour. Then, almost as a whisper, he asks, “What do you remember?”
The question settles between us like weight. I blink. I could lie, pretend I’m still too dazed, but I don’t. “The vineyard,” I say. “The masked man.”
He freezes, his shoulders going still.
“I remember you holding me,” I add.
His throat works around a reply, but it doesn’t come. He looks away, jaw tight. There’s something in the air now. A tension that stretches, anticipating. Then he speaks again, abrupt. “How was sleep?”
I let him change the subject. “Well.”
“You should rest more.”
I study him. “Are you always this concerned?”
That gets a huff of breath from him, sort of like a laugh. “You ask too many questions.”
I knit my brows. “I’ve barely said anything.”
He gives me a look. I return it. And then, I say something reckless, too fast and too thoughtless.
“When are we going to look for Stan?”
It’s like flipping a switch. Sterling doesn’t move at first, but the change is immediate. His shoulders tense some more, his fists clench, and his face turns to stone. I hit a nerve I didn’t mean to. The silence stretches thick and unmoving between us.
Eventually, he lets out a heavy sigh. “You should rest before we go searching.”
He stands up right after. I watch him move, but my stomach sinks, the tea and food not settling well. I shouldn’t have brought it up. “I—”
“Rest, Elle,” he says, quiet but clipped.
I quietly groan, trying not to worry him. But my stomach’s full of bile. He starts grabbing things. First, his coat, then keys, and other things I can’t track fast enough with my headache and my heartache. I stay silent. I know better now.
But when he turns to face me again, there’s a softness threaded beneath the edge of his voice. “I’m going to find something that’ll actually help you.”
I nod, unsure of what else to say.
“Eat, then go lie down,” he murmurs.
My heart kicks up. “Sterling, is something—?”
“You’re safe here,” he cuts in. “No one’s coming. No one but me.”
I curl my fingers in my lap. The door closes behind him.
And I sit there for a long moment, my teacup cooling between my palms, wondering which version of him is the real one—the ghost who held me in the vineyard, or the man who just walked out to go find something that might make my head stop hurting, because he caught me in a lie.
Maybe they’re both him. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him.
He’s a mystery I want to unravel, as much as my heart wants him.