Chapter 10
Holly
Noel’s House—Guest Room, Later That Night
The guest room smells faintly of cedar and wood polish.
It’s cozy—warm beige walls, thick flannel blankets, a little window that looks out over the yard where snow drifts quietly in the moonlight.
The kind of place you’d normally feel safe.
But I can’t sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that dead rose.
The curling petals. The messy handwriting. The way Noel’s jaw clenched when he read it.
And then—because my brain clearly hates me—every time I try to push that image away, I see him.
Noel Kane, ex–Special Forces, current bodyguard, accidental heart hazard.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling, willing myself to stop thinking about the way his hand felt against my back earlier, steady and sure, guiding me out of danger like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The man radiates control, but there’s something underneath it. Like a pull I can’t stop feeling.
I should be terrified right now.
But under all the fear, there’s this slow, steady warmth I can’t explain.
It’s just him.
After a while, I hear it—the low murmur of a voice downstairs.
Noel’s voice, deep and quiet, drifts up from the living room.
He’s talking to someone—maybe on his cell phone or through comms.
“Yeah, Ego, I got her here. No sign of surveillance or tails on the drive. No, I’m not sleeping. Just keep a team on the city perimeter. Whoever’s behind this is organized, but they’re getting sloppy. They’ll slip.”
There’s a pause. I can’t hear the other voice, but I imagine the calm tone on the other end, another Sigma operative somewhere still watching over the city.
I should be asleep. I should be curled up under those flannel sheets, pretending this is just another job, another long day that’ll be forgotten when the gala’s over.
But sleep won’t come.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him—Noel Kane—standing by the fire, steady and unshakable, that same quiet strength in his shoulders and something darker, deeper, burning behind his eyes.
When the low rumble of his voice drifts up the stairs, my breath catches.
He’s on the phone.
I slip out of bed, heart thudding, and pad barefoot to the top of the stairs. The lights from below paint faint amber stripes across the wall, and I can just make out his silhouette—broad shoulders, one hand braced against the mantle.
“Yeah, she’s shaken,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Can’t blame her. I’ve seen seasoned agents freeze up with less. But she’s got guts. She’s still thinking about that damn gala. That’s something.”
He chuckles, the sound soft but wrecked, like gravel under velvet.
Then, his voice grows sharper. “Fuck off. I already know. Not supposed to get attached. Tell the boss I remember the rule.”
There’s a pause. I swear I can feel him exhale, the weight of it pressing into the quiet.
“Just don’t ask me to promise anything yet.”
My heart stutters.
He’s talking about me.
I press a hand to the banister to steady myself, pulse tripping faster than it should.
The silence stretches, and then his voice again—softer this time, stripped bare.
“She deserves to sleep without looking over her shoulder. Deserves more than this.”
A beat. Then, almost a whisper: “She deserves a damn sight better than me.”
Something inside me twists tight, sharp and sweet all at once.
No one has ever talked about me like that before—with that blend of protectiveness and regret, like I’m something breakable he’s trying not to want.
I should go back upstairs. I should. But I can’t.
Because whatever’s pulling me toward that voice isn’t fear.
It’s him.
I linger there, one hand pressed to my heart, listening to the way his sigh cracks the silence. It’s the first sound all night that makes him sound human—tired, lonely, aching.
And suddenly, it hits me: maybe Christmas really is the season for believing. For second chances and quiet miracles.
Maybe I was put in Noel Kane’s path for a reason, or maybe he was put in mine.
All I know is that I’ve never felt this way before.
Not with anyone. Not with this kind of raw, magnetic certainty that he’s the one I’ve been waiting to collide with.
And if he wants me too, then why not?
I square my shoulders, take a slow breath, and pad down the stairs.
He doesn’t hear me at first. He’s standing by the fire now, comm turned off, a half-empty glass in his hand.
Whiskey—not milk.
The amber liquid catches the glow from the flames, painting gold across his fingers.
He looks unguarded. Just for a moment.
“Still awake?” he asks without turning, that deep voice curling around me like smoke.
“You’re up,” I say softly.
He finally looks over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
I cross the room before I lose my nerve. The air between us hums, full of things neither of us has said.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t let him.
I reach up, fingers curling in the front of his t-shirt, and press my mouth to his.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful.
It’s desperate. Like all my emotions, the fear and tension and want are all colliding all at once.
He goes still for half a heartbeat—then his glass clinks softly against the mantle as he sets it aside and his hand comes up, cupping the back of my neck.
The kiss deepens.
His lips are warm, tasting of whiskey and something darker, something him. His body heat seeps through my thin pajama top, and every nerve in me sparks alive.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to look at me, his breath is ragged.
“Holly,” he warns, my name a growl and a prayer all at once.
“I know,” I whisper. My voice shakes, but not from fear. “I just—had to.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes searching mine like he’s looking for permission to believe in something again.
And for once, I don’t look away.
Outside, snow drifts against the windows. The fire crackles.
The whole world feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting to see if maybe this is what a Christmas miracle looks like.
Because right now, in Noel Kane’s arms, I can finally believe in one.