Chapter Nineteen
Sierra
T he index cards felt like weights in my hands as I loomed before the closed curtains, anxiety crawling through every bit of me. My heels clicked too loudly against the polished floors, each step echoing the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat. Four in, seven held, eight out.
The breathing technique did nothing to calm the acid churning in my stomach. The donors’ muffled chatter seeped through the velvet drapes—laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional bark of a too-loud joke.
I peeked through the gap in the curtains, scanning the crowd for broad shoulders and that familiar smirk. Empty so far. Connor had promised he’d be here before my speech was over.
“Front row, sweet girl. I'll be there.”
But the front row was a sea of gray suits and heavy necklaces, no trace of his tattoos or that predatory darkness that made everyone shrink back when he entered a room.
Marissa stood beside me, lazily twirling a glass of wine she definitely shouldn’t have had. “Two minutes,” she whispered, adjusting the name tag pinned to my cream satin blouse. “You’ve got this, Sierra. Just stick to the cards.”
I nodded, too nervous to speak.
The cards were smudged from last night’s rehearsal, from Connor’s hands on my hips and his mouth on me as he made me recite lines. But now, without him here, I was terrified.
I smoothed my flowy skirt for the tenth time, the fabric wiping at my sweaty palms. Mr. Jones tapped the mic at center stage, his voice booming through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, our speaker.”
The curtains jerked open.
Cold sweat snaked down my spine as I stepped in front of the podium. The crowd blurred into a smudge of expectant faces, their applause sharp and terrifying. I gripped the wood, knuckles bleaching white, my teeth clenching.
“Th-thank you,” I stammered, squinting against the lights. My gaze darted to the empty seat in the front row, hoping to see the hulking man who had kissed me silly this morning there. Where was he?
“Good evening... distinguished guests and generous supporters of the Sunset Public Library…”
The donor’s applause crashed over me like a tidal wave, their clapping hands morphing into the sharp crack-crack-crack of floorboards snapping in Jerry’s house, every face watching me, judging me.
I continued the speech until the world halted, and the index cards slipped from my hands, scattering across the floor in front of me.
All I could see was him behind the sea of unfamiliar faces.
Jerry .
He leaned against the philosophy stacks, fingers drumming a familiar rhythm on a battered copy of a book. He was thinner now, his face cratered from meth or misery, but those eyes, flat and evil, were the same eyes that used to wish me dead.
I stumbled back from the podium, my back hitting Marissa, who stood nearby .
“Sierra.” Marissa’s hand closed around my elbow, her grip tourniquet-tight. “Breathe through it. I’ll take over.”
I ran.
I ran offstage; I ran wherever my feet took me. The world narrowed to the pounding of my heartbeat in my eardrums, each second gone by scattering black dots across my vision.
I stumbled past the caterers, shouldering open the door to the storage closet.
“You will never amount to anything. Just a willing girl.”
Rough carpet bit through my stockings as I collapsed in the corner. Four in. Seven held. Eight?—
Acid scorched my throat as I gripped the wall, the library’s AC freezing the cold sweat at my temples. Distantly, Marissa’s voice sounded through the mic—but all I could hear was Jerry’s whiskey-rasp from the past.
“You’ll always appreciate me, girl. I made sure of that.”
The world was closing in around me, every breath too short, and the walls were closing in closer and closer.
Boots pounded—heavy, fast—I think the door opened, and then big hands were cradling my face, thumbs digging into my jaw hard enough to hurt. I vaguely made out blurry pupils, ones that were black with fury.
“Look at me.”
“ Look at me .”
My jaw was forced upwards, and I choked on the relief flooding my body.
Connor.
Nothing could describe the sheer reassurance Connor’s presence brought, the way the walls immediately opened back up. I knew I was safe. I knew he’d protect me.
His dress shirt clung to his sweat-sheened pectorals, the top buttons torn loose by frantic hands. A muscle flexed in his jaw, the kind of stillness that came before a storm.
“In through your nose, Sierra, now . ”
I sucked in a ragged breath, oxygen scalding my throat. His gaze tracked the mess streaking my face, the way my baby hairs stuck to my forehead. Then he crushed me against his chest, my ear pressed to the vicious hammering of his heart.
“He’s here,” I hiccuped, fingers twisting in his shirt, clawing him for dear life. “H-He—“ A garbled sound came from me as I tried to explain.
Connor paused, and the air quickly felt dangerous. His phone buzzed—Adrian’s contact photo flashing.
“Fuck,” he hissed. He was on his feet before I finished, pulling his phone and leaving me on the ground.
“No!”
I fisted his dress shirt, the fabric pulling taut. His bicep flexed under my hand, a steel weapon, even as he stilled. “Don’t—don’t leave?—”
Connor stared down at me with eyes as black as a starless sky.
Then he immediately sank back down, hauling me onto his lap until I was tucked protectively under his chin. When he spoke again, it was into my hair, his lips moving against my scalp.
“Never.” The word came out dark, an animalistic promise. “I’m here.”
He shifted slightly, setting me on his knees without loosening his grip. His hands roamed my arms, my ribs, and my hips as if checking for damage.
When his palm skated down my back, coming away soaked with my sweat, a sound tore from his throat that belonged in a slaughterhouse.
“Connor—”
He was on his knees before I finished, burying his face into my neck, breath steaming through my blouse.
“I’ll peel the skin from his bones,” he whispered, lips brushing the fabric. “Dip his teeth in acid. Melt his fucking eyes in their sockets.”
The violence… was a lot. But he calmed me. Connor, who’d spent the morning prepping me for my speech, now mapping out a gr uesome scene. His hand continued stroking me, a paradox of threat and worship, as his phone vibrated incessantly from the floor.
“He’s—he’s probably gone,” I breathed, fingernails scraping his shoulders as he pressed heavy kisses over my sweat-sheened throat. “He’s always gone after.”
Connor froze, his kisses halting. When he looked up, his expression could’ve ignited the oxygen in the room.
“After what?”
The question threatened that very oxygen. After scaring me, I wanted to say. I opened my mouth to confess, to vomit, to something , but all that came out was a fractured exhale.
His eyebrows furrowed, his grip on me tightening. “Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t fucking talk. Just— breathe .”
He picked up his phone and typed quickly with one hand, the other cradling me as I watched the muscles in his jaw twitch and tighten with each second that passed.
He pushed his phone back into his pocket, his grip gentling as he traced over my spine. “No one,” he vowed, “no one fucks with what’s mine.”
I nodded, not caring if it was the panic or the truth talking.
His answering snarl shook the shelves as he stood, lifting me like a baby. He cradled me against him, my face buried in his neck as he carried me through the back exit.
“Home?” he asked, buckling me into the passenger seat.
I nodded, finally feeling some sense of calm settle through me. He drove one-handed, the other clamped on my thigh below my skirt like it had to be there. His phone buzzed nonstop—Jax and Adrian’s names lighting up the screen.
“Fans.” He finally spat, the word like a curse. “Blocked the fucking exit.”
I looked up at him, clicking the pieces into place. Is that why he was late? The image floated through my mind: Connor surrounded by women in too-tight clothing, their hands grazing his chest, their laughter sharp as they tried to drag him somewhere .
And then Connor’s patience snapping as he shoved through the crowd.
Guilt curdled in my gut. “I’m sorry.”
He hit the brakes at a red light, turning to grip my chin. “Never apologize,” he corrected sharply. “That fucker’s the one who’s gonna bleed. Not you.”
How he knew who I was talking about, I had no idea. But I didn’t feel like questioning why his first instinct was murder, and not confusion. His hand slid higher on my thigh, warm and soothing, and the thoughts dissolved into a steady warmth.
Connor carried me to the oversized sectional, his forearm cradling the backs of my knees. He tucked cushions around me and helped me out of my heels, his hands lingering on my ankles before pulling the velvet blanket over me. He stalked to the kitchen immediately after.
Mugs clinked, liquid splashed, the kettle clicked, and then he was kneeling before me, pressing a tumbler of chamomile tea to my lips.
“Small sips,” he ordered, his free hand holding my ankle tightly beneath the blanket. The heat soothed the lump in my throat.
Connor’s attention never wavered from how I was breathing, as if he were counting my breaths. When I reached for him, he moved onto the couch and gathered me into his lap with a growl. His arms banded around me like steel cables, like he’d never let me go again.
“You’re safe here,” he murmured into my hair, his voice sandpaper rough. “Try to breathe with me.”
He pressed my palm flat against his sternum, forcing me to sync with the deliberate rise and fall of his chest.
I buried my face in the hollow of his throat, inhaling his scent deeply and closing my eyes. His pulse thundered against my cheek, but his breathing remained steady and controlled, allowing me to match my breaths to his.
His gaze flicked to the security monitor screen he’d installed during one of my naps, showing different angles of his private elevator and parking garage.
The now-empty tumbler seemed to tremble in his hand before he set it down hard enough to make me startle.
He immediately kissed the top of my head as an apology.
When his phone lit up again, he checked it, and I managed to read one of the messages. Adrian asking about ropes…?
I didn’t ask. I couldn’t right now. I continued to focus on his breathing and the way it belied the frantic beat of his heart.
Once I’d calmed down more, Connor lifted me like a baby again and carried me to the bedroom. The blackout shades descended silently, plunging us into a darkness so complete I could pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
He stripped us both, gently running his fingertips over my skin and dressing me in one of his shirts. The sheets were chilled silk, but his body was warm as he molded himself around me, his chest to my back, thigh wedged beneath mine, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist.
“Sleep,” he commanded, his lips moving against my hair. “I’m here.”
Connor’s arm tightened around my ribs even further, kissing my shoulder blade in another silent apology as I pressed back against him.
“Thank you,” I breathed, sucking up all of his scent, his heavy warmth being the only thing keeping me calm.
“Always,” he vowed, the promise feeling unbreakable.
I drifted quickly to the sound of his heartbeat and his fingers massaging my scalp, falling into a dreamless realm.