Chapter 9
NINE
JACK
By the time we get back to the cabin, the sun’s already sliding down behind the tree line, turning the sky the color of bruised peaches and fire.
Stella is quiet in the passenger seat.
Not the normal quiet where she’s plotting a joke or thinking about glitter glue crimes. This is the kind of quiet that comes after a long day of holding yourself together so you don’t crack in front of twenty-five five-year-olds.
I don’t push her. I just drive.
I keep scanning mirrors. I take the long way. I watch cars behind us, count the turns they make, feel for patterns in the road. Every time Stella shifts beside me, I feel it in my bones like a radar ping.
She’s safe. She’s here. She’s breathing.
That should be enough.
It isn’t.
She follows me inside without arguing, slips her shoes off by the door, and heads straight for the kitchen like she’s trying to reclaim normal. It’s almost funny—how she can be shaken to the core and still worry about routine.
I lock the door behind us and check the windows out of habit, then watch her open the fridge and stare into it like the answer to our problems might be hiding behind the milk.
“Okay,” she says, voice too bright. “We have eggs and… mystery cheese along with everything else Lone Star stocked.”
“Mystery cheese?” I ask.
She points. “This has no label. It’s either cheddar or ….”
I move up behind her, close enough to feel her warmth. “I’ll risk it.”
She glances over her shoulder at me and her expression softens a fraction—then her eyes sharpen like she remembered something.
“Jack,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Do you think we’ll ever discover who’s behind everything?”
“Yes. It’s all about patterns. And I recognize patterns.”
Her voice goes smaller. “I hate that my life has patterns now.”
I step closer, low enough that she has to look up at me. “This isn’t your fault.”
She lets out a little laugh that has no humor in it. “Tell my nervous system that.”
I want to touch her. Pull her into me. Keep her there. Instead, I do the next best thing. “I’m calling Grayson,” I say.
Stella’s eyes flick up. “Your boss?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She swallows. “Do it.”
I pull my phone out and step toward the living room, keeping Stella in sight. The second I hit call, Grayson answers like he’s been expecting me.
“Status,” he says.
“Safe house. Secure,” I reply. “School day went smoothly. No incidents.”
“Good. What do you have?”
I glance back at Stella. She’s pretending to rummage through the silverware drawer, but her shoulders are tense.
“Nothing new,” I say. “We need somebody to make a move.”
A pause. Grayson’s voice goes colder. “Agreed. We’re keeping up on our end, checking everyone at the school for red flags.”
“Anything come up?”
Grayson exhales. “Not yet, but I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Appreciate it.”
Grayson pauses. “Sinclair.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let emotions compromise protocol.”
My jaw tightens.
“Protocol keeps her breathing,” Grayson continues. “Your feelings don’t.”
I stare out the cabin window at the darkening woods. “Understood.”
“Text me if anything changes,” he says, then hangs up.
I stand there for a moment, phone still in my hand, feeling the weight of that warning like a hand on my throat.
Don’t let emotions compromise protocol.
Too late.
Because the moment I turn and look at Stella leaning against the counter, hair falling loose from her ponytail, eyes tired but stubborn…
My emotions don’t feel like a complication.
They feel like instinct.
Like something hardwired.
She looks up when I return. “What did he say?”
“They’re looking into everyone at the school,” I reply. “We’ll figure this out.”
Stella nods, then bites her lip. “Jack… am I being paranoid?”
“No.”
Her breath shudders out. “That’s not comforting.”
I step in closer. “It’s honest.”
Her gaze flicks to my mouth—just a quick glance, like her body betrays her even when she’s scared.
I feel it like a spark in my bloodstream.
“Dinner,” I say abruptly, turning before I do something reckless. “You sit. I cook.”
Stella blinks. “You’re… cooking again?”
“Yes.”
“You realize you’re setting unrealistic expectations for all men everywhere.”
“Good,” I mutter.
She huffs out a laugh, and I cling to that sound like it’s oxygen.
Dinner is simple—eggs, toast, whatever vegetables I can find that aren’t suspicious. Stella talks while she eats, the way she does when she’s trying to normalize fear. She tells me about Levi’s “ninja escape” demonstration and how Evan finally spoke more than one word.
I listen. I watch her hands. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way her eyes soften when she talks about her kids.
It makes me want things I shouldn’t want.
After we clean up, Stella curls into the corner of the couch with a blanket around her legs, laptop open, pretending she’s planning tomorrow’s lesson. She keeps typing, then stopping, then typing again like her brain can’t settle.
I stand near the window, checking outside one more time. The woods are quiet. Too quiet.
When I turn back, Stella’s watching me.
“What?” I ask.
She swallows. “How do you do that?”
“Do what.”
“Be… steady,” she whispers. “Like you’re not scared at all.”
I walk over and sit on the other end of the couch, careful to give her space. “I’m scared.”
Her brows lift. “You are?”
“Yes,” I say, voice low. “I’m scared of being too late.”
Stella’s mouth parts. Her gaze drops to my hands, then back up. The blanket shifts as she turns toward me. “Jack…”
I don’t move. I don’t touch her.
I just hold her eyes.
“I keep thinking about my house,” she admits softly. “About someone standing in my kitchen. About… that zip tie.”
My jaw tightens.
She inhales shakily. “And then I think about you. How you—how you just stepped in. Like you were built for this.”
I should say something safe. Professional. Instead, the truth slips out, rough and honest. “I was built for keeping people alive.”
Her eyes warm, and something in her expression breaks open. “And you’re… here. With me.”
“Yes.”
Her voice drops. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
The words hit me low in the gut. I feel my whole body respond—protective, possessive, hungry.
“I’m here,” I say, and my voice sounds like gravel.
Stella inches closer on the couch, blanket trailing. “You’re always here.”
I swallow hard.
She’s so close now I can smell her shampoo. Feel the heat of her skin through the air. Her fingers touch my forearm—light, tentative, like she’s asking permission with her hand.
I go still.
“Tell me to stop,” she whispers.
My throat tightens. “Stella…”
“That’s not an answer,” she murmurs, her fingers sliding just a fraction higher, grazing the line of muscle. “Jack.”
Hearing my name from her mouth—soft, needy—does something violent to my restraint.
I reach up, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing her skin like I’m memorizing it. “You’re tired. You’re scared.”
“I’m also me,” she breathes, leaning into my hand. “And I want you.”
The honesty in her voice punches through every rule I’ve ever lived by.
I lean in slowly, giving her time—always giving her time.
Her lips part.
The second my mouth meets hers, she makes a sound that goes straight through me.
It’s not tentative.
It’s not a mistake.
It’s fire.
Her hands grab my shirt, pulling me closer like she’s done pretending she doesn’t need this—need me. I slide my arm around her waist and haul her against my chest, the blanket tangling around us, her warmth fitting against me like she was made for it.
I kiss her harder, deeper, my control fraying at the edges. Her mouth is sweet and hungry and she tastes like coffee and courage.
She shifts, climbing into my lap without even thinking about it, knees on either side of my thighs. The movement is innocent—until it isn’t.
Until she settles.
Until I feel her.
My breath leaves me in a rough exhale, and my hands tighten on her hips like I’m holding myself back from taking too much.
“Jack,” she whispers against my mouth.
I kiss the corner of her lips, then her jaw, then the soft spot under her ear. Her head tips back, and the sound she makes is wrecking.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, voice shaking.
She grips my shoulders. “Don’t.”
That single word lights me up.
I trail my mouth down her throat just enough to make her tremble, then force myself to pull back and look at her—really look at her—eyes dark, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.
She looks like she wants me. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Me either. I’ve never let my feelings get in the way of an assignment.”
She shakes her head slightly. “No, I mean I’ve never done this before.”
I stall, blinking. “You’re a virgin?”
She bites her lower lip, nodding. “I… I mean, I’ve made out with guys before, but… never…” her words fall away as a simple ‘fuck’ leaves my lips.
“I’m older,” I rasp, like saying it out loud will be a barrier.
Stella’s eyes hold mine. “So?”
“So I should know better,” I say, hands still braced on her hips like if I let go, I’ll drag her under.
Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to make my head tilt. “Do you?”
My chest heaves. “No.”
Her smile is small and wicked and so Stella it hurts. “Good.”
I kiss her again—slower this time, savoring, letting the heat build instead of explode. She melts into me, rocking forward just slightly, and my whole body screams to take more.
I force my hands to stay respectful—on her waist, her back, one palm sliding up to cradle her neck. Every touch is deliberate. Controlled. I want this to be good for her. I want her to trust me.
Her nails scrape lightly down my neck and I groan into her mouth, the sound low and involuntary.
She pulls back a breath, forehead pressing to mine. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” I murmur.
Her lips brush mine as she speaks. “I feel… safe with you.”
That sentence nearly breaks me.
Because it’s not just desire anymore.
It’s need. It’s trust. It’s the kind of thing that makes men like me ruin their own lives.
I close my eyes and inhale her. “I’ll always keep you safe.”