Chapter 16
The next morning, I wake slowly, my mind climbing toward the surface through warm water instead of sheets. Pregnancy sleep is totally inhuman. It’s more like hibernation.
Then, something savory drifts in from another room.
Anton is cooking again.
That man and his kitchen skills… I’m already a curvy girl, and this man is going to mean a new wardrobe. And I don’t mean maternity clothes. He has a knack with his hands. The woodwork, the way he dices vegetables like some sort of chef ninja.
And I already know how he uses them in bed…
That one-night stand will live in my memory for years. Maybe forever.
I sit up quickly, needing distance from the memory before it settles too deeply. My lower back twinges the way it always does lately—my psoas, according to my new-mother book—and I stretch out the stiffness with a breath.
The soft clink of a pan echoes up the staircase. Anton’s music lingers up, as well. I’m more of a Beyoncé, Raye kind of girl myself, but I kind of like his indie Brit pop and edgier sound.
The lyrics hit me in the gut—something about not wanting to be here, about satisfaction feeling like a distant memory.
Ain’t that the truth, Arctic Monkeys. Satisfaction is a distant memory and…will it always be?
I never really considered what happens when Anton and I come out the other side of this as settled parents, where we’ve figured out a routine, our child is happy…and so damn cute.
Am I really going to be with someone else? Or am I going full-on celibate?
My stomach clenches in hunger. Pregnant hunger, which thankfully is enough for me to ignore that question for now and grab a quick shower. I only think about the sad idea of celibacy three more times before I get my uniform on—just barely—need new pants, stat.
I spritzed myself with YSL Black Opium (which I normally save for best, but I need the pick me up) and straighten the shirt that barely buttons over my chest or my little bump, and pad down the stairs.
Anton stands with his back to me at the stove, tall and broad and unfairly composed in sweatpants and a dark tee. He moves with deliberate focus, the kind that’s both calming and intimidating.
“Are you making breakfast or interrogating those eggs?” I ask.
He turns fast and when his eyes find me, he offers a smile. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I answer.
He gestures toward the counter. “Toast, eggs, potatoes. Didn’t know what you could handle.”
“Everything,” I say. “Though I should watch what I eat.”
“Why?”
I shift myself onto one of the breakfast bar stools. “You’re a feeder. And I’m eating for two but…you know, they say it’s hard to get your figure back, and I was already trying to do that before I got pregnant.”
He turns—slowly—and the look he gives me could melt steel.
“Freya”—his voice is unshakably calm— “if you think for one second that I want less of you…” His eyes sweep down my body.
“You’re not paying attention.” He takes one step closer and pierces me with those baby blues.
“There’s not a damn thing about your body anyone should want to erase or ‘get back.’”
His gaze drops to my belly. “If we can’t celebrate miracles anymore, this world is more broken than I thought.”
He nods and turns back to the stove as if he didn’t just knock the wind out of me. In one fell swoop, the man worshipped me and gave me every reason to worship myself.
Why did he say that? I’m not paying attention? He doesn’t want any less of me…in what way? Physically?
Because damn, we are on the same page with that.
No, Freya, don’t get all excited. He’s being sincere, but he means it in general. About all women. Celebrate bodies. Babies…in general. That’s it.
He’s not making moves.
Funny how some of my mom’s lessons stuck—the ones about grit and working hard—but others, like loving the body I’m in, never fully took root. I’m not unconfident, but I still make self-deprecating comments. I need to cut that shit out before this baby comes.
My mom is a curvy woman and never puts herself down.
Mom.
I should see what Anton thinks of her coming.
He plates the food and sets it in front of me. “I hope you like rosemary. There’s a dash too much on the potatoes…”
I pick up my fork and taste them. I’d pay for these. “Mmmm. So good. They’re perfect.”
He plates up his own food and sits next to me. I love eating meals with him. Not only because he cooks them, and I hate cooking, but because it all feels so wonderfully normal. Like the parts of a relationship I’ve never gotten to.
The comfort part.
Anton isn’t the only man I’ve kept at arm’s length, though it was easier with the others. Not a single one of my ex-boyfriends ever lit me up more than the idea of achievement.
But Anton acts as though I’ve already achieved everything. He’s constantly reassuring.
I flick my gaze over to where he sits next to me and remember what he said at the bar.
Proud of you.
My nerve endings still light up now just thinking about when he said it. Is it pathetic how much his approval means to me or is that normal to want it when you respect someone?
And that circles me back to another person I respect.
“So you said I could invite people up anytime…”
He sips some orange juice. “It’s your place. No permission needed if you’re about to ask.”
“Well, it’s not just that…” I wiggle one of the rosemary potatoes with my fork. “My mom and grandma are coming.”
“Great.” He brushes a fallen curl off my forehead absentmindedly, and I realize he must have reached the comfort stage, too.
He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m glad they’re staying here because shady shit happens at that hotel in town,” he jokes.
I laugh, but it falls quickly. “She wants to come into the anomaly scan. And my grandma, too.”
He considers.
It’s his turn to play with the potatoes.
Is he worried about the scan? Or my mom?
It doesn’t take long before he glances back up. “Sounds great.”
“Okay, great,” I say, happy to put the conversation behind us but not sure his “great” is the same as mine or even that I mean my “great.”
I love my mom and grandma, but the scan—maybe it should be more of an intimate thing with just me and Anton rather than a party. After all, it’s possible there could be bad news. Anton doesn’t know my family, and it would be a lot for him to take that all in with strangers.
I can’t think that way. The baby is fine. I’m pretty sure she kicked yesterday, though it was more of a bubble and flutter.
“These are amazing.” I point to the eggs with my fork. “What’s in them?”
“Onion, ginger, tomato paste…”
“Ginger? In eggs?”
He pops some into his mouth. “Not my idea…”
“But your very good decision. Damn…” I might be tucking in for seconds at this rate.
He gives a small smile. “Glad you like it.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. I look at my watch and realize I need to get to work soon.
The Zoe Marshall case floods my brain again.
I clear my throat. “So. Yesterday was…a lot.”
“Mmm.” He agrees. “Do you want to go over anything else you thought was suspicious?” he asks. “I said I’d help.”
I take a bite of toast and wipe my fingers together to get the crumbs off.
“I saw the site. I think I need to see the car next.”
He nods, his aquamarine eyes listening with intent.
I think back on the detail. “The tire marks are inconclusive, and obviously, weather makes it impossible to turn back time and see for myself.” I reflect back on the report; there’s extensive damage everywhere.
“The car, though—it’s still untouched at the pound.
The photos concentrated on front-end damage, expected but I want to see for myself if there’s anything else. ”
He scratches his stubble. “I was thinking last night about your comments on the tread. Maybe there’s rear-end damage.”
That makes me pause.
“You think she could have been pushed off that cliff?”
Why didn’t I think of that? I wondered if there was evidence of the gas pedal being rigged.
“Why are you so annoyingly good at this?” I crunch some more toast.
“I’m old,” he says.
“…Der,” I correct.
His lips twist into a smile. “Been there, done that. But you’re nearly ten years younger, and you’re good at this, too.”
My cheeks warm. “Trying to be.”
“You are,” he says simply.
There’s a beat of silence.
He stands to clear his plate. “But you don’t have to do it alone to prove you’re good. One thing I learned in the military: being in a pack doesn’t mean anything about the strength of each wolf.”
I never thought of it that way. I was always told if you want it done, do it yourself.
“I appreciate your help,” I say carefully. “You’re a good mentor.”
His lips draw into a thin line, and he nods once.
“And I don’t take that for granted,” I add, because despite what he said about wolves, something inside me still wants to prove I’m good enough to be leader of the pack.
“I’m not asking you to back off.” I’m almost nervous now, setting boundaries. It’s probably even silly, given Anton would make my job easier. “Just…I want to earn it.”
His blue eyes sweep my features, reading the meaning without needing more. “Understood.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“But…” He moves in closer, leaning on the breakfast bar, and his clean scent invades my space. “I need to be honest about something, too.”
“Okay.”
“You were at the quarry alone,” he says. “Someone was out there. Someone who didn’t want to be seen. Someone who potentially tampered with the guardrail so Zoe would drop to her death. Potentially, someone who’s comfortable killing.”
My pulse kicks up.
“There are a lot of theories at this point, but letting maybe have the upper hand isn’t my style.”
He leans toward me, his jawline tics; he means business. “I’m not trying to overstep. I’m trying to be honest… I can’t sit this out,” he says earnestly.
He wants to keep an eye on me. I know what this is like. I only lived it less than a year ago, watching my best friend Lara with her devoted knight, Gabriel.
“So you want to trail me?” It comes out part-sincere, part-sass.
“With your permission.” He softens.
I should say I don’t need it, but I don’t.
“Okay, but I need you to treat me like a cop. Not like I’m in witsec.”
His smile is one of relief. “Roger that.”
The simplicity of it disarms me. No argument. No wounded ego. Just a man meeting me where I need him to. Where I’m still sharpening myself to be taken seriously, he’s solid and fully formed. God, it’s sexy.
I want to stand on my own two feet. I want to earn my stripes. But damn if he doesn’t make it hard to remember why asking for help ever felt like failure.
“Freya.” He leans even closer, and heat rolls off his body. “For the record, it’s not because I think you can’t handle yourself. It’s…”
His gaze drops to my belly for a second, then back to me.
Right. It’s for the baby. Everything is for the baby, Freya. Get back to your mantra.
“I know you just want to keep me safe…” I swallow, because saying it out loud feels like peeling off armor. “…Our baby safe.”
“Both of you.”
Both of us.
God, the lines are blurring.
Images flash uninvited: His body behind mine in the dark. His hand around my hip. His breath at my ear. The hottest damn bodyguard in the Universe. The kind of protection that isn’t soft—it’s lethal. The kind that ruins a woman for anyone else.
I try to sound composed. “Just…don’t make it obvious.”
“I can do stealth,” he says, voice curling low.
My breath stills thinking about him in his Navy SEAL combat gear, all sexy with black paint on his face, making those blue eyes illuminate like a predator’s.
I wonder if he has any old pictures.
I find myself leaning into the warmth between us when my phone buzzes and the room snaps back to cold reality. Good.
Something needs to save me from my daydreams.
A text.
I swipe it open.
Ingram
You were right to keep the case open. Meet me at the junkyard at 2pm.
And just like that, the spell breaks.
Behind me, Anton straightens, instantly alert.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
I look up at him, heart thudding.
“I don’t know…”
A junkyard isn’t neutral ground. It’s where things go to die. And Ingram wouldn’t drag me there unless he found something that shouldn’t exist. Why is he being active on this case now?
As far as he’s concerned, if he did a thorough job, my running through the Marshall case is a practice run through a fatal accident.
But it seems like Ingram is seamlessly following my logic because I was headed to the police impound today. At the junkyard.
I think back to the wrench at the quarry. The feeling of being watched.
Ingram knew I was going there.
My pulse ticks up a notch.
Suddenly, Anton’s backup doesn’t just feel sexy; it feels necessary.