Chapter 19
HALLIE MAE
I stormed off that beach like the tide was chasing me.
Didn’t look at the body. Didn’t look at Noah. Just shoved the paper into my bag and walked—fast, blind, like I could outpace the crack forming in the center of me. The sidewalk burned under my sandals, the sun far too bright for the things I’d just seen. For the blood still fresh on the sand.
I didn’t wait for an explanation. Couldn’t.
Because whatever Noah might’ve said, I wouldn’t have believed it.
I barely remembered driving home. Just the hum of the road beneath me and the taste of betrayal in my mouth. My hands shook on the wheel. My throat burned from the things I hadn’t screamed.
And now a man was dead.
And Noah was the reason.
I didn’t cry until I got inside. Slammed the door behind me, dropped my bag on the floor, and turned the lock like it would keep everything out .
But it didn’t.
Because two minutes later, he was there.
Banging on my door like it owed him something.
“Hallie Mae,” he growled through the wood, voice low and sharp. “Open the door.”
I didn’t move.
“I swear to God, I’ll break it down if you don’t.”
That did it.
I ripped it open so hard the frame rattled, and there he was—the fury in his eyes matching mine beat for beat.
“You followed me?” I snapped.
“You think I was gonna let you go after what just happened?” he barked back, stepping into the doorway. “You could’ve been next.”
“Oh, and that would’ve ruined your plan, right?” I hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest. “One more body, one less problem.”
His jaw tightened. “You think I’d hurt you?”
“I don’t know what to think, Noah. You lied to me.”
“I’m protecting you,” he growled.
“From what? Yourself?”
“From the people who actually killed your father,” he bit out. “And if you’d stop fighting me long enough to?—”
“I let you touch me,” I cut in, my voice suddenly ragged. “I let you inside me. And you?—”
“I know,” he said, stepping forward, crowding the space between us. “And I would never, never hurt you.”
I hated how close he was.
Hated how my body remembered him even when my heart didn’t trust a single thing he said.
I was angry. Angrier than I’d ever been in my life.
I wanted to scream until my throat bled .
I wanted to throw something—glass, wood, his gun, anything that would shatter loud enough to match what was breaking inside me.
How dare he?
How dare he come into my life like that—like a storm dressed up as a sanctuary.
He held me while I cried over my father. He kissed me like he meant it. He touched me like I was more than just a body.
And now?
Now there was blood on the sand. A man’s head blown open like it was nothing.
Now there was a piece of paper with my daddy’s face and his listed side by side like they were part of the same sick equation.
And Noah had the nerve—the absolute nerve—to act like I was the problem.
Like I was just supposed to keep believing him, keep trusting him, because he said so.
I was shaking with rage, and it was all I could do not to slap that calm, steady face of his and scream until he broke the way he broke me.
Because I had given him everything.
And if he lied—if he was even half responsible for what happened to my daddy?—
I didn’t know what I’d do. But I knew it wouldn’t be forgiving.
“You lied,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “I didn’t tell you everything. That’s not the same.”
“You split hairs real pretty for someone who deals in blood,” I snapped, but my voice was shaking now, everything unraveling at the edges .
His hand caught my waist, fast, like he couldn’t help it. “You’re shaking.”
“Don’t touch me.”
But I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because the second he touched me, the second his fingers dug into the curve of my hip through the thin cotton of my dress, the ache flared back to life—hot and vicious.
“You hate me right now,” he murmured.
I nodded.
“Then hit me,” he whispered. “Scream. Break things. Just don’t shut me out.”
I had never felt rage like this. Not ever.
Not when I was a kid and heard Mama screaming in the middle of the night, Bible thudding to the floor like it had lost its faith, too. Not when Daddy told me no to my first college out of state. Not even when I stood in that cold morgue and saw him lying still beneath a white sheet.
This was different. This was personal. This was mine.
It came from someplace deeper than grief.
This was betrayal mixed with lust.
Love mixed with loathing.
A wildfire under my skin that didn’t know whether to devour or destroy.
My hands shook with it—rage that felt like a second heartbeat pulsing through my veins, hot and erratic, and too loud to ignore. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want his sympathy, his understanding, or those steady eyes acting like he still knew me.
I wanted him to hurt. I wanted me to hurt, just enough to feel like I was still real. Because nothing else made sense anymore.
I grabbed his shirt.
Fisted it.
Yanked him forward.
And kissed him like I was drowning.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft.
It was teeth and fury and the taste of last time still on my tongue.
He groaned, deep and feral, and shoved me backward into the wall, mouth colliding with mine, one hand dragging up the back of my thigh to hook it around his hip.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I panted, even as I ground against him.
“I don’t give a damn,” he growled. “I’m not leaving.”
His hands were everywhere—rough and sure and hungry. He shoved the strap of my sundress off my shoulder, yanked it down so fast it tore a little, the fabric whispering against my skin as he bared me to the waist.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice thick with heat and something darker. “I don’t care what that paper said. You feel this?”
He pressed his hips to mine, hard and hot and ready, even through his jeans.
I moaned, helpless against it.
“You still want me,” he said, eyes locked on mine, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast. “Say it.”
“No,” I breathed, even as I arched into his hand.
“Liar.”
His mouth claimed mine again, brutal and demanding, and I gave in. I gave everything. Let him drag me to the floor, the wood warm against my back, his body blanketing mine .
He lifted my dress the rest of the way, shoved my panties aside with a growl that vibrated through my bones, and thrust inside me in one hard, unforgiving stroke.
I cried out—whether from pain or pleasure, I didn’t know. Didn’t care.
Because I needed this.
Needed him.
Even if I hated him. Even if I couldn’t trust him.
His name tore from my throat over and over as he drove into me, each thrust harder than the last, my legs locked around his waist like I couldn’t bear to let him go.
The edge came fast, hot and savage, curling my spine off the floor as I broke beneath him, crying his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
He followed with an urgent sound—my name punched from his lungs as he came inside me, hips stilling, forehead dropping to mine.
We stayed like that—bodies tangled, hearts racing, breath ragged.
Then he kissed me again.
Soft.
Ruined.
And whispered, “I’d never lie about this. Not to you.”
But I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know if I believed him.
And I wasn’t sure which was worse—believing him, or not.
The silence stretched, warm and heavy. His body didn’t move from mine, but the fury that had driven us to the floor had cooled, replaced by something slower. Quieter. His fingertips traced the underside of my thigh, then slid gently up, settling on my waist like he was grounding both of us .
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice hoarse. “For all of it. Not for this—” he brushed his lips across my jaw, “—but for everything else. For how it looks. For what I’ve brought to your doorstep.”
I swallowed hard, my hands still fisted in his shirt. “What are you part of, Noah?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly, his length still inside me, his body warm and solid against mine. “That’s the thing,” he said quietly. “I don’t even know anymore.”
He pulled back to look at me, brushing a strand of damp hair from my face, his fingers careful, reverent.
“It started with family. Blood. Men who built something after war because they couldn’t go back to normal.
Because we were too good at killing, and too bad at pretending we didn’t need the chaos. ”
“Dominion Hall,” I whispered.
He nodded. “And the people we work for, who use us now? Black ops, private deals, things the government wants to keep off the books.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “But it’s more than that. It’s a legacy. One I’m a part of whether I wanted it or not.”
“And do you?”
His eyes locked on mine. “That’s the problem. I don’t think I ever did. Not really.”
He leaned down, brushed his lips over my collarbone. Soft. Gentle. The ghost of an apology.
“I’ve spent so long living in that world, Hallie Mae—breathing it, bleeding for it, never questioning it. But then I met you. And I started thinking ... maybe there’s more. Maybe there’s something after.”
I closed my eyes as his hand slid up my ribs, over the soft swell of my breast. His thumb brushed across the peak, and I gasped—soft and startled this time, not out of anger but need.
He kissed me again, slower now. Like he wanted me to feel it.
Like he needed me to believe this wasn’t just more of the same.
“I don’t want to be part of something that hunts good men in church offices,” he whispered.
“Whatever happened to your dad … I think Department 77 was behind it. They’ve been after my family, twisting things, setting traps—and now they’ve dragged you into it.
I didn’t know, Hallie Mae. But I swear to you—I’m not one of them. ”
He paused, voice rough. “That’s why I took out the gunman at Grace House. He was going to hurt people—innocent people. I couldn’t let that happen.”
His hips moved again, slow, deliberate, and I realized he was still inside me. Still part of me. We hadn’t pulled apart. Hadn’t drawn a line.