Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nick
I don’t bother with traffic lights or rules. I break every one of them between Midtown and the Upper West Side. Horn blaring, lights flashing, red turning into green, it doesn’t matter.
The second I hear her voice on the phone—tight, shaky in a way Sara Brooks has never been before—it snaps something inside me.
It’s not just protective. It’s possessive.
Something primal, something raw. My blood boils, and all I can think is that if anyone laid a finger on her, I’ll burn this city down to find out who.
By the time I reach her building, I’m already out of the car before it’s fully parked. The door hasn’t even clicked shut when I’m halfway up the stairs.
She opens the door before I even knock.
She’s trying to hide it, but I see through the act. The smile too even, the hand on her hip appearing fine. But I see the panic in her eyes, just beneath the surface.
“Hey,” she says, her voice a little too controlled. “Thanks for coming.”
I don’t answer immediately. I just walk in and shut the door behind me.
She’s barefoot, hair half up, that messy twist that probably took more time than she’d ever admit. A half-eaten takeout container sits on the table. Meatball glares at me from the couch as if I’m late.
“I didn’t like the way you sounded,” I say, my voice low.
“I know.” She exhales shakily. “I almost didn’t call. I wasn’t going to.”
“What changed?”
She hesitates. Then she walks to the table and picks something up. A thick envelope, no stamp, no address. She hands it to me without a word.
I take it from her, open it.
One line.
I think we should talk. You deserve to know the full story.
Isla Vale—Edge Magazine.
I blink once, then look up. “Who the hell is Isla Vale?”
“I don’t know,” she replies, her voice small. “But she left that. Slid it under the door maybe five minutes before I called you.”
The knot in my stomach tightens. “You didn’t see her?”
“I checked the hallway. It was empty.”
I glance back at the note, my grip tightening around it before I toss it back onto the table. But I know it’s not over. There’s something else there, something else lurking in her eyes.
I step closer to her, my voice sharp. “Sara. Talk to me. Start from the beginning.”
She closes her eyes for a beat, then nods.
“I didn’t tell you before,” she begins, her voice small, “because I didn’t want to sound paranoid… but a few days ago, I started getting texts. From an unknown number.”
Every muscle in my body goes still. “What kind of texts?”
Her lips press together, and she pulls out her phone, scrolling through it before handing it to me.
Green really is your color.
You think Nick is different with you?
I read each message twice, then again a third time. Cold fury burns through me, sharp and steady, carving through everything in its path.
“And this was after the gala?” I ask, my voice quiet but dangerous.
She nods. “I blocked the number. I thought it would stop.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No. It just… got worse. I started feeling like I was being watched. I saw a woman outside the office, trench coat, sunglasses. Not once. Three times. Always standing just far enough away so I couldn’t be sure.”
“You mean Rebecca.”
“I think so.” She shrugs, a helpless motion. “I don’t know. I keep second-guessing myself. I wanted to believe I was imagining it.”
“You weren’t.”
I say it as if it’s a fact. Because it probably is. I know Rebecca well enough to recognize her methods. She’s always playing the long game. Making you question everything just before she strikes.
“And then the envelope tonight,” Sara says, her voice dropping. “That was it. That’s when I called you.”
I walk over to the table and pick up the note again, the words still sharp, still dangerous.
“I had a run-in with a journalist, too. Someone told Emily they were here for a PR thing. But I didn’t clear it.”
I don’t mention the photo. Not yet. Not while she’s already drowning in this mess.
Her face falls. “You think it’s Rebecca.”
“I think it’s likely she’s behind it,” I say, moving closer to her. I crouch in front of her, keeping my voice low but firm. “She’s doing this to mess with your head. But you’re not in this alone. You hear me?”
Sara blinks, her chin trembling slightly. “Nick…”
“I mean it,” I say, the words rough, the promise solid. “This ends now. I’m going to handle it. The journalist. Rebecca. Everything.”
Her throat works as she swallows, her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve. “I feel stupid.”
“Don’t,” I say, my voice fiercer than I intend. “This isn’t your fault. None of it.” I stand, move a piece of her hair behind her ear, the touch soft but lingering. “Let me handle the rest.”
She leans into my hand, just for a second, but it’s enough. Enough to crack something inside me. Because all this time, I told myself keeping my distance was for the best. That pulling back would keep her safe.
But staying away hasn’t protected her. It’s only left her scared. Alone.
And I won’t do that to her anymore.
“Sara,” I murmur, her name barely a whisper, but the weight behind it is undeniable.
She looks up, her eyes glassy and uncertain, trying to piece together where this moment fits in the mess we’ve become.
I can see the uncertainty in her eyes, the cracks that I’ve made in her trust. I step closer, my chest tightening as I look at her, the words I’ve been avoiding finally spilling out.
“I know,” I say, barely more than a whisper. “I’ve been distant. I thought… I thought pulling away would protect you, but all it’s done is leave you alone. And I never should have done that. I thought I was doing the right thing, but all I’ve done is make everything worse.”
She looks down, her fingers trembling where they rest on the edge of the table. She’s not looking at me, but I can feel the walls she’s built, the walls I helped put up.
“It’s not your fault,” she says softly, her voice breaking. “I just… I didn’t want to worry you.”
I shake my head, stepping closer. “No. You shouldn’t have had to carry this on your own. I should’ve been here. But I pulled away, thinking it was for the best, and now I see how wrong I was. I should’ve been by your side.”
My throat tightens, the regret hitting harder than I expected. “I’m here now. And I won’t leave you to face this alone. I won’t make that mistake again. You hear me?”
She meets my gaze then, her eyes searching mine, and for a moment, the world falls away. All I want is to hold her, to show her that I’m not going anywhere.
I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering for a second too long.
“You promise?” she whispers, and I answer her the only way I know how.
I kiss her.
Her breath catches, and then she’s kissing me back, slow at first, as if it’s something we’ve both been holding back for weeks. Every stolen glance across a boardroom table, every unspoken desire, funneled into this single moment.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers gripping the front of my shirt, holding on to something solid, something real.
And fuck, I know that feeling. I’ve been in free-fall since the night of the gala, and she’s the only thing keeping me from crashing.
When I pull back, just enough, our foreheads rest together. Her eyes stay closed, her breath soft and unsteady.
“I don’t want you afraid,” I murmur, my voice rough, low.
“Then don’t pull away again,” she whispers.
Fuck.
I kiss her again, this time deeper. Slower. I taste desperation and relief and something else I’m not ready to name.
Her arms loop around my neck. Mine settle at her waist. We fit, seamless, as if we’ve always known the exact way to align.
And then we move.
We end up on the couch. I lower her gently, but when she tugs me closer, all the tension we’ve carried snaps apart.
Her fingers dive into my hair. My mouth trails along her jaw, her throat. Her breath stutters when I bite down, just barely, just enough to hear her moan my name.
“Nick…”
My name on her lips? Dangerous. Addictive.
“I’ve missed you,” she breathes.
I pull back just enough to look at her. “I’ve missed us.”
She touches my face, thumb brushing over my jaw, and for a second, everything else fades. The threats. The texts. The note on her floor. Rebecca.
Her eyes hold mine as she starts unbuttoning my shirt. She’s taking back every second we lost.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur.
“I’m mad,” she says, fingers still working down the row of buttons. “And scared. And tired. And… I want you. Right now. On this couch.”
I let her strip the shirt off my shoulders, tossing it somewhere behind us. Her hands skate over my chest, palms flat, as if grounding herself on the heat of my skin.
“I never stopped wanting you,” she says, brushing a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“Then show me.”
She meets my eyes, pupils blown wide. Her voice is quiet, but powerful.
“I need my mouth on you. I need to taste you. I need to forget everything but the way you make me come apart.”
Fuck.
I sit back against the couch cushions, legs spread, pulse thudding in every inch of my body. She kneels between them, eyes locked on mine as she pulls my zipper down slow.
No rush. No shame. Just thick, humming anticipation filling the room with static before a lightning strike.
Her nails scrape lightly along my abs as she frees me, and when her hand wraps around my cock, hot and heavy in her palm, I hiss through my teeth.
“Fuck, Sara…”
She leans in and licks the head, slow and teasing, savoring the first bite of something forbidden. I jerk in her grip, hips twitching, and her smirk is wicked.
“You’ve missed the feel of me too,” she whispers.
I thread my fingers through her hair, not pushing. Just holding. Just watching her open her mouth and take me in, so goddamn slow I nearly lose it right there.
Warm, wet suction. The swirl of her tongue. The soft hum she makes deep in her throat as she sinks down farther, testing her limit.
My head falls back. “Damn, your mouth is perfect. You know that?”