Chapter 11
FALLON
The safe house isn't safe from what I want.
The beach cottage sits isolated on a stretch of coast twenty miles from Tidewater, accessible only by a single road that winds through salt marsh and scrub pine.
Secure perimeter, motion sensors, cameras monitoring every approach.
Griff and Thatcher did a full security sweep when we arrived, checking sight lines and camera placements, pronouncing it as defensible as any location off-base could be.
Then they left. Just Holden and me and the storm rolling in from the Atlantic.
The cottage is small but surprisingly well-appointed.
One bedroom with a queen bed and quality linens, living area with comfortable furniture that doesn't scream "safe house," kitchen compact but equipped with everything we might need.
Windows face the ocean, giving us clear sight lines, and the security measures are so well-hidden I wouldn't notice them if Griff hadn't pointed out the reinforced frames and bulletproof glass.
State-of-the-art protection disguised as a beach rental.
"You take the bedroom," Holden says, setting our bags inside the door. "I'll be fine on the couch."
"That couch is like four feet long and you're over six feet tall."
"I've slept in worse places." He's already doing a security check, testing window locks, verifying camera feeds on his phone. Professional, thorough, refusing to meet my eyes because we both know what being alone together in close quarters means after last night's kiss.
I watch him work, tracking the efficient movements, the competence that never wavers even when I know he's as aware of me as I am of him. The cottage feels smaller with both of us in it. More intimate. The kind of proximity that makes ignoring attraction impossible.
The weather forecast warned of a hurricane passing offshore, close enough to bring heavy rain and high winds. Already the sky has darkened to slate gray, clouds building on the horizon like a wall. Waves crash against the beach with increasing violence, spray reaching almost to the dune line.
"Storm's going to get worse before it gets better," Holden says, checking his phone again. "We might lose power."
"How long are we stuck here?"
"Until Hartwell gives the all-clear. Could be days if the investigation takes time." He finally looks at me, and the intensity in his gray eyes makes my pulse stutter. "You okay with that?"
Am I okay being trapped in a small cottage with the man I kissed last night? The man whose taste I can't forget, whose hands I can't stop thinking about, whose presence makes me want things I've been afraid to want since Bruce destroyed my ability to trust?
"I'm okay with it," I say softly.
The afternoon passes in careful distance.
Holden works on his laptop, coordinating with Hartwell via encrypted messages.
I try to read but can't focus, too aware of him across the room.
The sound of his breathing. The way he rolls his shoulders when tension builds.
The rare moments when his mouth quirks at messages on screen.
We're dancing around each other, maintaining space that feels increasingly impossible to hold.
By evening, the storm has arrived in full force. Rain lashes the windows, wind howling around the cottage with enough violence to make the walls shudder. The power flickers once, twice, then dies completely.
"Power's out," Holden says, already moving toward the kitchen. "Generator will kick on in a minute, but I'm going to override it."
"Why?" I follow him, watching as he opens a panel I hadn't noticed near the back door.
"Noise and heat signature." His fingers work quickly over controls, shutting down the auto-start sequence. "If someone's looking for us, a running generator is a beacon. Battery backup will keep the security systems operational for days, and we don't need lights to know if someone's coming."
The tactical logic makes sense, but it also means we're about to spend the night in the dark. Together. In very close quarters.
"Should have candles somewhere," he adds, moving to the kitchen drawers.
We find them along with matches and battery-powered lanterns. I light candles while Holden checks his phone, grimacing at the battery level. "Down to twenty percent. We can charge essentials off the backup battery if needed, but I'd rather save it for the security feeds."
"Mine's about the same." I check, finding similar results. "Guess we're going low-tech for the duration."
"For now." He doesn't sound concerned, just matter-of-fact. "Hartwell knows where we are. We're secure. Storm actually works in our favor—anyone trying to approach has to deal with the same conditions we do, and our sensors will pick them up long before they get close."
Candlelight flickers across his face, casting shadows that make his features look sharper, more intense. Without the hum of electronics and HVAC, the cottage feels smaller. More intimate. Just us and the storm and all this unspoken tension crackling between us.
"Hungry?" I ask, needing a distraction.
"Starving."
We raid the kitchen, finding supplies Hartwell had stocked.
Pasta, sauce, salad fixings. A bottle of red wine that someone with good taste selected.
Holden lights the gas burners with a match since the electric ignition won't work, and we cook together in the small space, shoulders brushing, hands touching when we reach for the same utensil.
Every contact sparks electricity, awareness building with each accidental touch.
Holden opens the wine while I drain pasta, and we settle at the small table with candles casting flickering shadows across his face. The storm rages outside but inside feels almost peaceful. Intimate in ways I haven't experienced in years.
"Tell me about the tattoo," I say, emboldened by wine and proximity and the way he keeps looking at my mouth. "The coordinates on your forearm. I've seen them during your beach runs but never been close enough to read them."
His hand moves to his arm instinctively, fingers tracing the ink. "Where Wade died."
The pain in his voice makes me reach across the table, covering his hand with mine. "You carry him with you."
"Seemed right. Keeping him close, remembering what it cost." He turns his hand over, threading his fingers through mine. "Your turn. Tell me about the freckles."
Warmth rushes through me at the intimacy in his voice. "What about them?"
"How many are there?" His thumb traces circles on my palm, sending shivers down my spine. "Where do they go?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implication. Because my freckles aren't just on my face and shoulders. They dust my chest, my stomach, places he hasn't seen but is clearly imagining.
"You'd have to count them to find out," I hear myself say, bold in ways Bruce never let me be.
His eyes darken. "Is that an invitation, Dr. McKay?"
"Maybe." I drain my wine, liquid courage mixing with want that's been building since he kissed me. "Or maybe I'm just tired of dancing around what we both know is going to happen."
"Fallon." My name comes out rough, strained. "We should talk about this. Make sure you're certain."
"I'm certain." I stand, move around the table to where he sits. His hands find my hips automatically, pulling me close until I'm standing between his knees. "I've been certain since you kissed me. Maybe even before that."
"This isn't just physical for me." His voice is low, serious in ways that make my heart race. "I need you to know that. This isn't about proximity or adrenaline or scratching an itch. You're important to me."
"You're important to me too." I cup his face, feeling stubble rough against my palms. "And I know what I want, Holden. I want you. Tonight. Tomorrow. However long we have."
He stands slowly, hands sliding from my hips to frame my face with devastating gentleness. "Tell me to stop if you change your mind. Any time, any reason. You're in control here."
The words unlock relief I didn't know I was holding. Control. Choice. Agency that Bruce spent years taking from me. Holden offering it back without hesitation, without conditions.
"I won't change my mind," I whisper.
He kisses me then, slow and deep and thorough. Nothing like the urgent kiss in the kitchen. This is exploration, claiming, promise all wrapped together. His tongue slides against mine and I make a sound low in my throat that's pure want.
We stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes between kisses.
My sweater hits the floor. His shirt follows.
Hands mapping skin, learning what makes the other respond.
By the time we reach the bed I'm down to my bra and leggings, and Holden's looking at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Freckles," he murmurs, fingertips tracing the ones across my collarbone. "You weren't kidding."
"Told you." My voice becomes breathless as his touch drifts lower, skimming along the edge of my bra. "They're everywhere."
"Everywhere?" His eyes meet mine, heat and humor mixing. "Guess I’d better check. Thoroughly."
He lowers me onto the bed, following me down, and proceeds to do exactly that.
Kissing every freckle he finds, learning my body with patient attention that makes me squirm.
My bra disappears and his mouth finds my breast, hot and wet and perfect.
His tongue circles my nipple, flicking and teasing until the bud tightens to an almost painful point.
"Holden." His name comes out pleading.
"I've got you." He kisses his way down my stomach, lips blazing a trail across skin that's never felt this sensitive. "Let me take care of you."
His hands slide my leggings and underwear off in one smooth motion, leaving me completely bare beneath him. Cool air hits heated skin and I shiver, but Holden's hands are there, warm palms gliding up my thighs, spreading me open with devastating gentleness.