Chapter 16
SOPHIA
Iwalk into the kitchen and stop dead.
A man I’ve never seen before is sitting at the island like he owns the place, one booted foot propped on the stool rung, casually demolishing one of my pecan muffins.
He’s big—not Reth-big, but solid in a lived-in, dangerous way.
Tattooed forearms, dark hair that looks like it lost a fight with a wind tunnel, and a face that’s seen some shit and laughed at all of it.
My stomach drops as panic spikes. My hand finds the knife block behind me; the handle is cool, solid, familiar. I yank it free and hold it up like a shield, heart slamming so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
The man raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “In case you were wondering,” he says, perfectly conversational, “I don’t grab sharp-edged things with my bare hands. So if you’re planning to stab me, fair warning, I’ll probably just knock you out.”
He takes another bite of muffin.
“It won’t be personal,” he adds around the crumbs. “I just really don’t want to get stabbed today.”
“Who are you?”
“Ian.” Another bite. “You’re Sophia. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way…” He gestures with the half-eaten muffin. “Put. The goddamn knife. Down.”
The knife stays exactly where it is. My knuckles are white around the handle.
Part of me—the trained part—is already cataloging him.
Relaxed posture, no tension in the shoulders, zero threat display.
The other part is screaming that I’m alone in the kitchen with a man I don’t know while Reth is… somewhere.
I inch a step backward. “Where’s Reth?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head.
Ian sighs like this is the most predictable thing in the world. “Of course not. Because that would require communicating, and we both know he sucks in that department.”
“Where is he?”
“Away.”
“Away where?”
“Work stuff.”
I stare at him. He stares right back, completely at ease, like being glared at by a woman who was kidnapped and is now holding a chef’s knife is just a regular Tuesday for him.
Work stuff. The words feel like a slap. He left me here—after everything—and didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye.
Or explain. Or… anything. And now I’m standing here with a knife and a stranger wondering does Reth even owe me any sort of explanation?
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t feel this hollow, icky pull in my stomach because he’s gone.
He’s my kidnapper. And now he’s just not here. I should feel relieved…but I don’t.
“What work stuff?” I ask.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, then chuckles like he can’t help it. “For someone whose job is listening, you ask a lot of questions.”
“Who the fuck are you, and what the hell are you doing here?”
Ian shakes his head, still chewing. “That little punk-ass son of a bitch. He has me on babysitting duty, the least he can do is tell you—”
“Tell me what?”
“He had to leave.” Ian shrugs like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want to leave you alone since the last time he did that…” He makes a face. “You almost lost your mind.”
“I did not.”
He leans in like he’s sharing state secrets, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were talking to a door.”
My face burns. Humiliation crawls up my throat. “You watched me?”
“Surveillance. But don’t worry.” He winks. “Reth cuts my feed when he’s in here with you.”
That makes me breathe a little easier, given what happened between me, my fingers, the hallway, and Reth getting a pretty big sniff of my indiscretions. Still, the idea that someone else saw me at my most broken—talking to a fucking door like a lunatic—makes my skin crawl.
I’m still holding the knife. “Surveillance?”
“It’s in the job description.” He gestures lazily at the knife. “Along with not getting stabbed before breakfast. You mind?”
“So, you work for him?”
“He likes to think so.”
I frown.
“Okay, fine. Yes. But it’s a partnership.”
“Does Reth know that?”
“He’s aware of my position on it.” Ian grins, crooked and unapologetic. “Took him about three years and one broken nose to accept it, but we got there.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“Things.” A pause. He leans back, stretching like he’s settling in for the long haul. “You want coffee?”
“I want answers.”
“Coffee first. Answers are above my pay grade before nine.” He stands. “Besides, you look like you could use it. Long night?”
Still keeping a firm hand on the knife, I sit.
Because what the hell else am I going to do?
My legs feel shaky, my skin too tight, and some pathetic part of me keeps waiting for the sound of Reth’s footsteps even though I know he’s gone.
The silence in the house feels heavier without him.
I hate that I notice. I hate that this stranger is here, acting like he belongs, like he’s going to be around long enough to learn how I take my coffee.
He moves around the kitchen like he’s been here a hundred times, pours two mugs without asking how I take mine, and slides one across the island. Black. Of course.
“I don’t take coffee from strangers.”
Ian rolls his eyes. “Fine. If I let you stab me, can we be friends? But just a flesh wound. Anything deeper than that, I’ll expect a blowjob. And for that, Reth will have my balls, which I’m pretty attached to at this point in my life.”
I don’t laugh. I can’t. My mind is still spinning on Reth—on the way he disappeared after breathing me in like he owned the scent, on the fact that he trusted this man enough to leave me with him.
Protection or prison? I still can’t tell.
And the worst part is… some stupid, traitorous corner of my heart is already wondering when he’s coming back.
Ian sighs dramatically. “This is gonna be a real long couple of days.”
I stand. “I’m going back upstairs.”
“Just FYI,” he calls after me, raising his mug in a mock toast, “I’m making margaritas at two. And I make a mean one. You’ll want to be here for that. Trust me.”
I end up in the seasons room.
I don’t decide to go there, I just do. It’s the way I always end up here, like the room pulls something in me I haven’t named yet.
The same bench. The same window. The same mountains that don’t give a damn about any of this.
I pull my knees up, wrap my arms around them, and stare out at the indifferent peaks while the thing sitting in my chest refuses to be ignored.
He left without a word, and I don’t like the way I’m feeling because of that. Like I have the right to be hurt by it. At least he cared enough to make sure I wasn’t alone.
Hours later, I’m still sitting there when footsteps hit the hallway. Ian fills the doorway holding a bottle of tequila, two shot glasses hooked between his fingers, and an apple.
He looks at me. Looks at the apple. Holds it out.
“Before you ask—yes, I’m aware you’re not a horse. But you haven’t eaten, and Reth will cut me if I let you starve, so.” He sets everything on the bench beside me. “Eat the apple, Crazy.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Crazy?”
“You speak to doors, you’re fucking crazy.”
“Oh my God,” I huff then take the apple.
He pours two shots, drops onto the bench beside me with the ease of someone who has never once been uncomfortable in an unfamiliar room with a person he doesn’t know, and hands me a glass.
I take it.
The glass is cool against my palm. Ian’s shoulder brushes mine as he settles in—not crowding, just… there. Like he’s done this a hundred times. Like he belongs in this house, in this room, in this moment, next to me. The thought should unsettle me. Instead, it feels strangely steadying.
He clinks his glass against mine. “To not getting stabbed before happy hour.”
I almost smile. Almost.
We drink, and the tequila burns clean and sharp all the way down. Makes me cringe a little.
Ian leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him like he’s settling in for the night. “So. You gonna keep staring at the mountains like they owe you money, or are we gonna talk about the fact that you look like someone kicked your puppy and then stole your favorite knife?”
I glance sideways at him. “You always this charming?”
“Only on days I’m not getting threatened with sharp objects.
” He pours us both another shot without asking.
“Look, I get it. Waking up to a stranger in your kitchen after your… whatever the hell Reth is… ghosts you? Rough morning. But I’m not here to make it worse.
I’m here because the big idiot actually gives a shit, even if he’d rather chew glass than admit it. ”
I turn the shot glass in my fingers, the liquid catching the sunlight from the window. “You say that like you want me to think he gives a shit.”
Ian’s voice softens, just a fraction. “I’ve known him a long time, Sophia. He doesn’t send me in for just anybody. Hell, he barely sends me in for himself.”
I drink the shot, and he pours another. By the fourth, the light outside has shifted, and somewhere between the tequila and the view, the edge has come off enough that I ask the thing I’ve been turning over for a while.
“What does he do, besides kidnapping women?”
Ian’s mouth curves into that crooked, troublemaker grin. “He does a lot of things. But kidnapping women ain’t one of them.”
“Yet here I am.”
“Yeah.” He rotates the glass between his fingers, suddenly more careful with it. “It’s probably no consolation, but he didn’t want this.”
My chest does something stupid and painful. A tiny, traitorous flutter that feels dangerously close to hope. He didn’t want this. The words should comfort me. Instead, they twist like a hook behind my ribs.
“What is he protecting me from?”
He shifts. The easy humor in his shoulders tightens. “You’re a smart girl, Sophia. You know I can’t answer that.”
“Do I need protection from him?”
“There is not a chance in hell Reth will hurt you.” No hesitation. No qualifier. Flat and absolute the way only true things are.