Chapter 10
MICAH
The rest of the night blurred into something shapeless.
I sat on the sofa in the suite, remote in hand, flipping through channels without seeing any of them. Sports. News. Some reality show where people yelled at each other over manufactured drama. None of it stuck.
My mind was elsewhere.
On a blonde woman who talked about flowers like they mattered.
On the way she'd looked at me through that shop window—recognition, surprise, something else I couldn't name.
On the fact that I'd run like a coward instead of doing what any normal person would do, which was literally anything other than bolt.
I finally settled on the History Channel. A documentary about Genghis Khan. Conquest. Strategy. The kind of ruthless efficiency that built empires out of blood and will.
That, I could watch.
The narrator's voice droned on about the Mongol Horde, about tactics and terrain and the way Khan had reshaped the world through sheer force. I leaned back against the sofa, eyes half-closed, letting the words wash over me.
At some point, I fell asleep.
I woke to the sound of a too-enthusiastic voice promising solutions for erectile dysfunction.
My eyes opened slowly, vision adjusting to the blue glow of the television. An infomercial. Some doctor in a lab coat grinning like he'd discovered fire, talking about blood flow and confidence and reclaiming your life.
I reached for the remote and turned it off, the room plunging into silence.
Then I became aware of my body.
Specifically, the rock-hard erection straining against my jeans.
I sat there for a moment, jaw tight, trying to will it away through sheer force of irritation.
It didn't work.
Of course, it didn't.
Because my subconscious had spent the night replaying every detail of her—Joy—and my body had responded accordingly, even while I was unconscious.
I rubbed a hand over my face and glanced at the clock on the table.
6:46 AM.
I'd slept through the night.
That almost never happened. I usually woke every few hours, instincts trained to stay alert even when I was supposedly safe. Hazards of the calling.
But somehow, last night, I'd dropped into sleep so deep I hadn't stirred once.
My phone sat on the table beside the clock, screen dark.
I picked it up and saw a message waiting.
How the hell had I missed it?
The text was simple: Come to Dominion Hall when you're up. -S
Silas.
I stared at the message for a moment, then set the phone down and stood.
A workout. That's what I needed. Something to burn off the tension coiled in my muscles, the frustration simmering under my skin, the inconvenient arousal my body refused to let go of.
I changed quickly—shorts, tshirt, running shoes—and headed down to the gym.
The Palmetto Rose's gym was small but well-equipped. Weights. Treadmill. Rowing machine. Empty at this hour, which was exactly what I wanted.
I hit it hard.
Burpees until my lungs burned. Pull-ups until my arms shook.
Deadlifts heavy enough that most men would've called it a day halfway through.
I pushed until sweat soaked through my shirt, until my muscles screamed, until the only thing I could focus on was the next rep, the next breath, the next movement.
It didn't help.
Not really.
Because even when my body was occupied, my mind kept circling back to her.
The way she'd smiled before I'd ruined it. The way her voice had sharpened when she'd defended flowers like they were worth defending. The way she'd looked at me—not with fear, but with something I didn't deserve.
I finished the last set of push-ups and collapsed onto the mat, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling.
This was getting out of hand.
Back in the suite, I stripped and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand.
Steam filled the room, fogging the glass, and I stood under the spray with my head bowed, hands braced against the tile.
Don't think about her.
Don't.
But my hand was already moving, gripping my cock, the water slicking the way as I stroked once, twice, trying to make it quick, trying to get it over with so I could focus on something—anything—else.
Her face flashed behind my eyes. That soft mouth. Those wide eyes. The way her body moved, curves I had no right to notice but couldn't stop noticing.
I imagined her here. In this shower. Pressed against the tile, water running over her skin, blonde hair dark and slick as I—
No.
I shoved the image away and finished fast, jaw clenched, release hitting like punishment instead of relief.
When it was over, I stood there under the spray, breathing hard, feeling nothing but shame.
Again.
I dried off, dressed in clean clothes, and called down to the lobby.
"I need a car," I said.
"Of course, Mr. Dane. Where are you headed?"
"Dominion Hall."
There was a brief pause. "It'll be ready in five minutes."
I grabbed a cup of free coffee from the lobby on my way out, bitter and scalding, exactly what I needed.
The car was waiting at the curb. Same driver as yesterday. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror as I climbed in.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
"Where to?"
"Dominion Hall."
His eyebrow went up. Just slightly. Then he nodded and pulled away from the curb without another word.
We drove in silence, the city waking up around us. Joggers on the sidewalks. Early risers with dogs. The kind of peaceful morning that felt like it belonged to someone else's life.
When we pulled up to the gates, they opened without the driver touching anything.
He glanced back at me again, something curious in his expression, but he kept his mouth shut.
Smart man.
Silas was waiting at the front door.
Of course, he was.
He stood there with his hands in his pockets, expression calm, like he'd known exactly when I'd arrive.
"You eat yet?" he asked as I climbed out of the cab.
"No."
"Good. Come on."
I followed him inside, through the familiar entryway with the snake tank, down hallways I was starting to recognize, until we reached the kitchen.
And stopped.
The spread was insane.
Not breakfast. A feast.
Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Sausage. Hash browns. Pancakes stacked high. Fresh fruit. Pastries that looked like they'd been made by someone who gave a damn. Coffee in a carafe that smelled better than anything I'd ever brewed myself.
"Jesus," I muttered.
A woman stood near the stove, older, hair pulled back, apron tied around her waist. She looked up and smiled—warm, genuine, the kind of smile that made you think of grandmothers and Sunday dinners.
"You must be Micah," she said. "I'm Delphine. Help yourself."
I glanced at Silas. "You feeding an army?"
Delphine laughed. "Most days, yes."
But no army appeared.
Just me, loading up a plate with more food than I'd eaten in a week, following Silas back outside to a patio that stretched out like it had been designed for royalty.
The patio was massive. Bigger than the ranch house I'd grown up in. Stone flooring. Comfortable furniture. A view of the lawn sloping down toward the water, where the two black yachts sat moored like they were waiting for orders.
And from one of the yachts—laughter.
Female laughter. Bright and easy, drifting across the water.
My chest tightened.
Was she there?
Joy?
I forced my attention back to Silas, who was watching me with that unreadable expression he did so well.
"All the checks done?" I asked, setting my plate down.
"Yeah," Silas said. "Doctor and the shrink will be here soon."
I stopped mid-bite. "You're serious."
"Yeah."
"Today?"
"Now," Silas said. "But don't worry. It's more of a formality."
I wasn't sure I believed him, but I finished breakfast anyway, the food disappearing faster than it should have.
When the doctors showed up—a man and a woman, both professional, both calm—they led me to a room I hadn't seen yet. Clean. Clinical. But not cold.
The physical was straightforward. Injuries. Range of motion. Any lingering pain. The doctor asked questions like he already knew the answers, checking boxes on a form without judgment.
The psych eval was trickier.
The woman—Dr. Amon, she'd said—sat across from me with a tablet and a gentle smile.
"Tell me about your last deployment," she said.
Not mission. Not contract. Deployment.
Like I was still military. I guess, technically, I still was.
I answered carefully. Honestly, but not completely. She asked about stress. About sleep. About moments where I'd felt out of control.
She never said PTSD.
I appreciated that.
By the end, she nodded, made a few notes, and stood.
"You're good to go," she said.
Just like that.
Silas walked me back to the front door. "That's it for today."
I almost asked.
Almost said her name.
Is Joy here?
But I didn't.
Because that would've been admitting something I wasn't ready to admit.
The driver was waiting. He drove me back to the Palmetto Rose in the same silence, and as we pulled up to the curb, I heard myself say it before I could stop.
"You know where McKinley Flowers is?"
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "I do."
"Can you take me there?"
He didn't ask why. Just nodded and pulled away from the curb.
When he dropped me off, I stood across the street from the shop, staring at the storefront like it might bite.
What the everliving fuck was I doing here?
Just to see her?
No.
I wasn't afraid of anything. I'd walked into warzones. I'd stared down men who wanted me dead. I'd killed without hesitation when the mission required it.
So, why the hell was I afraid of this?
Of her?
Fuck.
I crossed the street before I could change my mind and pushed open the door.
The bells jingled.
She didn't look up at first. She was working on an arrangement, hands moving carefully, her whole focus on the stems in front of her.
Then, she did.
Her eyes met mine.
And she almost dropped the flowers.
"You," she said.
I almost turned around and left.
"What do you want?" she asked, voice quiet but not unfriendly.
The words stuck in my throat for a second too long.
Then they came out in a rush. "I wanted to apologize. For what I said. About the flowers. It was rude. My mother probably rolled over in her grave."
Her eyes softened.
Then she blurted out, "I'm adopted."
We both froze.
"I don't know why I said that," she added quickly, cheeks flushing pink.
Before either of us could say anything else, another woman appeared from the back—younger, ponytail, curious eyes that flicked between us like she was watching a tennis match.
"Everything okay?" the woman asked.
"Yeah," Joy said quickly. "Britney, this is—"
She stopped. Because she didn't know my name.
"I can see you're busy," I said, backing toward the door. "I'm sorry. Again."
I turned and walked out, the bells jingling behind me.
I didn't get halfway across the street when I heard them again.
I turned.
She was walking toward me.
I stopped on the far sidewalk and waited, watching every step she took. The way she moved. The way sunlight caught in her hair. The way she didn't seem to notice that more than one tourist had turned to look at her.
She was drop-dead gorgeous.
And she had no idea.
When she reached me, there was another awkward pause.
Then she said, "I accept your apology."
Another pause.
And then I heard myself say it. "I haven't been able to get you out of my head."
Her eyebrows shot up.
But there was recognition there. Something that told me she understood exactly what I meant.
She blushed—not embarrassed, exactly. Something else.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Back to my hotel."
Another pause.
"My place isn't far," she said quietly. "If you'd like a cup of coffee."
I stared at her, unable to process what I was hearing.
This didn't happen. Not to me. Not like this.
I was so far out of my comfort zone that every skill I'd honed, every trick I'd learned, was utterly useless.
"Sure," I said. It came out hard. Curt.
I saw the confusion flicker in her eyes.
"I mean—yes," I corrected, softer this time. "I'd like that. Very much."
She nodded, a small smile touching her lips. "Wait here."
She turned and walked back to the shop, disappearing inside. A minute later, she emerged with her purse slung over her shoulder.
"It's a beautiful day," she said. "We should walk."
"Okay."
And we did.
Side by side. Not touching. The city moving around us like we were the only still point in it.
And once again, I couldn't believe what the hell was happening.