Chapter 10
Amom.
Why the fuck is that a complete turn-on?
I lean against the island, watching her curl into herself, one leg tucked close, trying hard to not take up space.
But she does.
She takes up space that’s impossible for me to ignore.
The way she moved through my apartment, straight to my grandfather’s buffet as if it called to something in her.
I didn’t miss the way she kept herself facing forward without thinking about it.
Whoever’s been fucking with her has her well-trained.
But beyond that, the way her eyes lit up catches my attention.
Full of awe you only see when someone stumbles onto something worth treasuring.
I didn’t expect that. Hell, I didn’t expect her.
She’s more than I could have imagined.
Sable turned my head last night—any man with working eyeballs could see her beauty. But up close, in my space, she’s simultaneously sharp and controlled, yet not. There’s something beneath the surface, something I want to pull out piece by piece until I see every last bit of who she is.
She’s so fucking different.
And the blonde is bothering her.
She hasn’t said it outright—not yet—but I can see the hesitation in her eyes, the way she’s testing my reaction before she says too much.
I exhale slowly and tilt my head. “You gonna tell me what’s got you looking like you don’t know if you should be here or not?”
Sable worries her bottom lip and lets out a noise that is something caught between a laugh and a sigh. “I don’t know if I should be here.”
My jaw ticks, but I keep my voice even. “But you are.”
She looks down for a second, fiddling with the hem of her jeans before glancing back up. “I just… I didn’t want you to think I meant any of it. Last night. The messages.”
My fingers drum against the counter. She’s nervous, shifting slightly in her seat, the kind of restless movement that says coming here might be making things worse.
“I didn’t,” I say simply.
Her shoulders relax a fraction. “Good.”
“But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a problem.”
Her fingers grip tight, just for a second, and she swallows.
Bingo.
I don’t know the details… yet. But I know one thing with absolute certainty: Sable Hawthorne doesn’t deserve a single ounce of bad in her life. Not from what I can see. Not from what I’ve learned.
When our conversation faded into silence last night—early this morning, really—I did what any rational man with a particular set of skills would do.
I looked into her. Lightly. Casually. I didn’t have to dig deep to confirm what I already suspected—Sable is a fucking force.
Graduated top of her class with a Master’s in Marketing and Communication.
Built her own marketing agency from the ground up, then sold it for what I assume turned out to be a substantial payout.
Now, she runs a décor shop that restores furniture.
A passion project stemming from an extensive home renovation she documented on a blog for Thorne Revival.
The information existed in plain sight, readily available to anyone who cared enough to look. And if I needed to go deeper, I could. But nothing about her raised a single red flag.
The blonde, though? That’s another story. I need the full dossier on her. Who the hell is she, why does she think she can mess with Sable, and what's the best way to make her vanish if she steps out of line.
“I can help you.”
Sable startles. “I don’t want to kill her. I mean clearly, she is mentally unstable—”
“I wouldn’t kill her.” I push off the counter and lean back against the cabinets, letting out a small chuckle. “We just met.”
Her chin drops at the implication of what I might mean. That I could. The raised leg drops next to stabilize herself on the floor and arched brows pull together. “So… what exactly does helping me look like?”
I prop my hands against the counter behind me, watching her. “We break the stalker.”
She lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Break her. Right. Not ominous at all.”
I shrug. “You take away the thing she wants—control, fear, your attention—and she’s got nothing. She loses.”
Sable exhales, rubbing her temples. “Okay, so what? I just… ignore her?”
I tilt my head. “Ignoring her hasn’t worked so far, has it?”
Her silence is my answer.
“She needs to believe she’s already lost,” I say, keeping my voice even. “And the best way to do that is stop looking like a target.”
Sable flexes her fingers where they rest on the counter. “And how do I do that?”
I taste the words before I let them out.
“You let her see that you’re mine.”
Sable freezes.
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and unblinking.
I don’t move.
“Yours,” she echoes, measuring, processing and turning the word over in her head.
I nod once. “We spend time together. Publicly. She needs to see it. Needs to believe that someone bigger, meaner, and far less stable than her has his eye on you.”
Shaking her head like that will physically reject the idea, she says, “So, what? You’re going to be my… bodyguard?”
I smirk. “Truthfully? I’m thinking boyfriend.”
Pink lips part slightly, but no sound comes out.
I watch realization settle in from the way she adjusts herself in her seat, dragging one knee up again, chewing the inside of her lip. Aside from getting her a restraining order and signing this blonde up for a padded cell, this is her best option. Even if it scares her.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I say, voice low.
She doesn’t.
She just swallows, lifts her chin. “I read a lot. Fake dating is one of the cringiest tropes.”
I smirk, cocking my chin. “Who said it will be fake?”
Her breath catches, just for a second, before she says, “I’m old, Hex.” My name on those lips. “You’re young. I’ve got a kid, a whole boring life. And you”—she waves her hand as if dismissing the idea—“you’ve got freedom.”
I push off the counter straightening to my full height. “You’re not old. You’re thirty-nine, and I’m thirty-one.” I step closer, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “There’s absolutely no problem.”
Her mouth parts, but whatever words she’s reaching for don’t make it out. Instead, she just looks at me, her eyes betraying the uncertainty.
“You were studying my ID.” It slips out in a murmur meant more for her than me, a half-formed excuse to believe I couldn’t have remembered. “Still... you’re young, and I’m…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Not.”
I lean my forearms onto the counter in front of her, my voice dropping to something more serious. “You’re exactly the right kind of not.”
Those lips pop open again and take the shape of an ‘o’. I don’t think she expected that response. She feels it land—every word, every truth—heavy and immediate. But I’m not done. I’ve only just begun.
“Tomorrow,” I say, leaning in a little. “Let me take you out. We’ll talk more about all of this. You’ll tell me what’s going on, and maybe we’ll have a good time.”
The chestnut glow of her eyes drifts away from me, searching the room for somewhere to hide. “I’d love to, but I’ve got to mow the lawn tomorrow. Yard work is usually my Sunday thing.”
I let out a soft breath. “Yard work, huh?”
A tight smile shows up on her face. “Yeah. Bash, my son—he’s ten—he’ll be home tomorrow afternoon from his dad’s. He’s got him every other weekend, so I like to get things in order before he’s back.”
I can’t help but study her. Mentioning her son lights up her eyes, and something about that pulls me in deeper.
Just as I’m about to say something else, her phone buzzes on the counter where she had pulled it from her back pocket and set it beside her.
She flinches, telling me she’s been getting messages she doesn’t want.
Probably for a while. She grabs it quickly.
Her face drops as she reads something on the screen, lips pressing together in a way I’ve quickly learned means she’s stressed.
“What is it?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Sable tries to brush it off, but the tension in her face doesn’t lie. “Nothing,” she mutters, but she doesn’t move.
I step around the island and closer into her space. “Show me.”
Her hand stills over the phone for a beat, then she slowly turns it my way.
It’s a meme someone has posted—from the blonde I assume—of a picture of a bar fight with a caption “how professional” and a tag to @ThorneRevival.
I see her gnaw her lip. “Nobody gives a shit about things like that,” I say, my voice softer than before, but the words are meant to push her, make her react.
“One-hundred-fifty-two likes, twenty-two comments, and seven shares. Those numbers could devastate a small business.”
Her shoulders sag, and she spins on the chair to look out toward the light pouring in through the windows over my bed. Then she pushes herself to her feet, clearly trying to escape the weight of it all.
I move faster than I think. Without even meaning to, I reach out and loosely grab her wrist, trailing my touch down her hand to her fingers.
Her body freezes for the briefest second as her eyes drop to the connection, just long enough for me to notice the subtle change in her.
I pull her gently toward me, my fingers lingering against her skin. “Let me help you, Sable. I don’t care who she is. I’m not letting her tear you down.”
The words hit her harder than I thought. She swallows and meets my eyes, but there’s a deep tiredness in her gaze that makes me pause.
“Sometimes I wish I could just disappear, you know?” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know how to fix this. How to make it stop.”
My hand grazes her fingertips. I lean in closer, not letting the small touch go. “I’ll help you make it stop.”
There’s hope in her gaze, brief but real. The warmth of her hand retreats, and her face schools itself to composed and cautious.
“I have to go,” she murmurs. “I took up too much of your time.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. She hurries down the stairs, her footsteps echoing within the distance stretching between us.
I stand there, thoughts swirling.
I’m not letting this go. Not with her.
This isn’t a job.
Giving her exactly what she deserves is no trouble for me.
This is going to be fun.
Or maybe the blonde was right. Maybe Sable Hawthorne does ruin men.
I’m already ruined. There’s nothing left to tear down. No clean edges. No innocence to corrupt.
So go ahead.
Take me apart.
Make it mean something.
Fucking ruin me.