3. Stella
STELLA
Iwake up with a gasp, my chest heaving as remnants of the nightmare claw at my throat. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird while my muscles shake with tension.
For a terrifying, disorienting second, I’m back in the cold, dark closets of my childhood, suffocating in the dark. I thought I’d finally put those horrors to rest, or at the very least, shoved them so far down I hoped they’d stay put for good.
Clearly, after the triggering panic attack Easton witnessed last night, my past has decided to stage a violent comeback. Trembling, I force my eyes to open wide and look toward the doorway.
Relief washes over me so acutely it makes my eyes sting.
The heavy wooden door is standing wide open, letting a sliver of the hallway’s soft nightlight spill across the floor.
Just like Easton promised. I still don’t know if I trust him or not, but this is a good step.
Then again, he did basically kidnap me. Or did I want to go with him?
My head is all over the place, and waking up from a nightmare isn’t going to make things any clearer.
Pushing the heavy, incredibly plush blankets aside, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. My knees are weak, practically vibrating with residual adrenaline, but the walls of the guest room suddenly feel too close.
On shaky legs, I slip out into the hall, padding silently across the massive house.
The floorboards are cool beneath my bare feet as I wander through the unfamiliar space, trying to ground myself by analyzing my surroundings.
Everything is clean lines, dark wood, state-of-the-art tech, and exactly what you’d expect from the owner of a premier security firm. It feels… solid. Safe.
"You should be resting, Stella."
The deep, rumbling baritone clears from the shadows behind me, cutting through the quiet.
I startle at the sound, gasping and whipping around so fast my balance completely deserts me. My bare feet lose their grip on the polished hardwood floor, and I go sliding, gravity pulling me downward.
But I don't hit the ground.
Before I can even blink, a massive, unyielding wall of muscle blocks my fall.
Easton's giant arms wrap around my waist, catching me effortlessly and pulling me flush against his broad chest. The sheer heat radiating off him is staggering. He’s towering, his broad shoulders easily blocking out the rest of the hallway, and I can feel the rigid, protective tension locking up his rippling muscles.
I freeze, my hands pressing against his solid chest. I know I'm being weak right now. I hate it. Every defense mechanism I drilled into my soul during my years in the foster care system is screaming at me to push him away, to snap at him, to put my fierce reporter mask back on.
Bracing myself, I wait for the lecture. I wait for him to mock me for being jumpy, or to get angry for wandering around like a ghost in the middle of the night.
I’ve been told to shut up and deal with my “nightmare problem” by more foster parents than I care to remember.
I look away from him, not wanting to see the disappointment and annoyance in his eyes.
Instead of shaming me or dismissing my fear, Easton holds me.
His grip is fierce, possessive, and entirely unyielding, yet there’s an unbelievable gentleness to the way he anchors me against him. Tears prick the back of my eyes when his fingers slide up and down my spine, soothing me without saying a word.
My hands curl up against his chest, clutching the soft fabric of his shirt. I’m not sure if I want to push him away or cling to him forever, which is a terrifying thought. Through it all, he cradles me and protects me, even from my own mind.
Easton doesn't demand explanations. He simply breathes, his massive chest rising and falling against my cheek, providing a steady, rhythmic baseline that slowly coaxes my own erratic breathing back to normal. He holds me until the violent shaking in my limbs finally tapers off into a quiet calm.
When I finally go still and unclench my fists, he relaxes slightly, his rigid muscles softening against every one of my curves pressed against his chest. Easton slowly lifts his hands to rest on my shoulders, peeling me off of him while still keeping me close.
“Wh-what are you doing up?” I ask for some stupid reason. I need something to fill the silence, some distraction that reminds both of us what our relationship really is: professional and held together by my impending doom. Not exactly the ideal situation to find love.
“Ever the reporter,” he replies, the low tenor in his voice rattling through my body and making me aware of every single place we’re touching.
“Sorry, I–”
“No need to apologize, sweetheart. I imagine I’m up for the same reasons you are; the past won’t stay in the past.”
I blink at him a few times as a new understanding passes between us. The depth of emotion and unspoken fear hidden in his dark brown eyes catches me so off-guard that I don’t even comment on his “sweetheart” nickname.
Without another word, Easton wraps an arm securely around my waist, guiding my uneven steps as he leads me back down the hallway and into my room.
His movements are supportive and tender while still being in total control.
I have no doubt that this man could turn on a dime and deal out lethal punishment.
Yet, I also know deep in my soul he wouldn’t use his strength to hurt me.
He steps up to the bed and pulls the heavy covers back for me, which is another unexpectedly tender gesture of care. I climb in, feeling drained of every last drop of energy, and watch as he tucks the blanket up to my chin.
Easton’s rough, weathered hand is marred by a lifetime of hard fighting, making it a brutal contrast against the soft fabric.
This man’s intimidating strength and the incredibly sweet, reverent gesture of tucking me in makes something ache deep in my chest. Bossy, grumpy, short-tempered, and rude, are all things I’ve dealt with from the men in my life.
But kindness? Gentleness? I don’t know what to make of it.
I can’t trust it, that’s for sure. For the first time in my life, however, I want to.
My bodyguard steps away, his towering silhouette moving toward the doorway. He pauses, framing himself in the open exit, his dark eyes locking onto mine in the shadows.
"You're safe here, Stella," he rumbles quietly, the absolute conviction in his voice echoing through the quiet room.
The door stays open. And for some strange, terrifying reason... against all of my hard-learned doubts, my cynicism, and every single one of my previous life experiences... I believe him.
A few hours later, a soft light filters through the window, waking me from a surprisingly dreamless sleep.
I stir, realizing I’m tangled in incredibly soft, high-end sheets.
For a fleeting second, I’m entirely disoriented, blinking at the unfamiliar, elegant molding on the ceiling.
Then, the chaotic, rapid-fire events of the previous night come rushing back in a tidal wave.
Breaking into Aegis. Easton trapping me.
The Syndicate scouts in the shadows. The panic attack. Oh, god, the nightmare.
Groaning, I bury my face in my hands. I mentally curse myself as hot embarrassment floods my cheeks.
How could I let my mask slip like that? I guess I thought after all this time, I wouldn’t have to wear a mask, I’d just be a bitter husk of a person who lets things roll right off their back.
Apparently, I have a little more dissociation to do.
I absolutely hate feeling vulnerable. It’s a dangerous luxury I couldn't afford growing up, a lesson carved into me by years of shifting from one cold foster home to the next. In my world, vulnerability gets you crushed.
And yet, as I lay here, I have to deal with the deeply conflicting feelings warring inside me regarding Easton.
The man is everything I usually fight against with every fiber of my being.
He’s huge, covered in scars, and exhibits a brand of over-the-top, caveman possessiveness that should make me run for the hills.
He locked me in a room, for heaven's sake!
But then my mind flashes back to the quiet intensity in his eyes when he brushed my hair behind my ear, the unshakeable weight of his vow to protect me, and the way he held me while I shook.
Instead of sparking my anger, the memory makes my chest tighten with a strange, unfamiliar warmth. It terrifies me more than the Syndicate does.
"Get it together, Stella," I whisper to the empty room.
I need control. I need my autonomy back.
Determined to slide back into "reporter mode," I throw off the luxury linens and stand up.
I grab my hairbrush, aggressively pulling it through my tangled chestnut locks until they're smooth, and then tightly tether it all back into my practical, signature braid. I pull the strands, securing the hair tie like I’m securing my armor.
The moment the braid is set, I feel my spine stiffen. The reporter is back.
Just then, a rich, dark scent wafts into the room from downstairs. Coffee. Freshly brewed, strong, and calling my name.
Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and venture out into the hallway, following the aroma downstairs to confront my captor-turned-protector.