Chapter 16
Soon, my love…
The words come over and over, the voice pulling at me through layers of consciousness, each more terrifying than the last. I dream in fragments: the crush of bodies, a shuddering whisper in my ear, the unnatural weight of the flower in my hand, and the faceless man responsible for it all.
I wake with a gasp, sitting upright in bed, my heart taking up residence in my throat. The room is dark, and the sheets are tangled against my legs, the comforter kicked to the floor.
I press my palm against my chest, feeling the wild gallop of my heartbeat and the shallow rasp of my breath. The reality of last night crashes over me.
He was there.
In the crowd.
Close enough to touch me, to whisper to me, to press that goddamn flower into my hand. Close enough to…
I try to stop the thought before it can complete itself, but it’s too late. The image is there, planted and growing.
What could have happened. What would have happened if Gunnar had been two seconds slower, three feet farther away.
My stalker could have pulled me into the crowd, into a waiting car, and straight toward a nightmare from which there would be no rescue.
This is no longer about letters or a single trespassing incident. I can’t convince myself that everyone else is overreacting. For the first time since this began, I truly understand how much danger I am in.
The realization sits heavy in my gut. Someone is watching me, studying me, and waiting for the perfect moment to take what they believe belongs to them. Me.
I am not safe.
Not in crowds, my own home, not anywhere.
Except with Gunnar.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand.
The mirror across from the bed catches my reflection, and I barely recognize the woman staring back.
My makeup is smeared—mascara tracking dark lines down my cheeks and lipstick bled into the creases at the corners of my mouth.
My hair is a wild tangle, and the black jumpsuit is wrinkled and twisted around my body.
I look like a disaster. I look like a… victim.
I turn away from the mirror and head for the bathroom, stripping as I walk.
The jumper ripples down my body as it falls to the floor, followed by my undergarments.
After a quick shower, I stand in the center of my walk-in closet, wrapped in a towel, surrounded by designer labels and the carefully constructed wardrobe of a celebrity.
None of it feels right. None of it feels like me.
I reach for the bottom shelf, filled with the clothes I never wear in public: the soft, worn yoga shorts I bought three years ago in a studio in Silver Lake and an oversized hoodie I stole from a boyfriend in college that I never returned.
The fabric is cotton, not cashmere. The fit is loose, shapeless, and hides everything.
It is the opposite of the persona I have spent years perfecting.
I pull them on and feel, for the first time in days—maybe even years—like I can breathe.
The house is quiet when I emerge from my bedroom, the hallway dim, with morning light filtering through the windows at the end of the corridor. I pad down the stairs, as I follow the low hum of voices toward the den.
The door is open, all of the guys are diligently at work.
Gunnar is behind the desk, bent over a laptop, his face illuminated by the blue glow coming from the screen.
He looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes and his hair mussed as if he’s been running his hands through it.
The realization that he might have stayed awake all night, watching over me, sends a complicated flutter through my chest.
Hesitant to interrupt them, I knock on the doorframe, a soft tap of knuckles against wood that draws four sets of eyes.
Damon is the first to speak, his voice gentle, devoid of his usual professional distance. “How are you doing?”
I nod automatically. “Okay.”
The lie sits between us, obvious and unchallenged. I am not okay. I am shaken, scared, and suddenly, terribly aware of my own fragility. But I have spent a lifetime learning to say, “I’m fine,” when I am anything but. The habit is too strong to break.
My gaze moves past Damon, past Hawk and Jagger, to Gunnar. He has straightened in his chair, his body rigid and his eyes locked on my face with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. I gather what remains of my courage and force the words out. “Can we talk?”
Silence stretches through the room, elastic and tense.
Gunnar pushes up from behind the desk, his chair rolling back and hitting the wall with a soft thump.
He moves toward me with a predatory grace that practically defines him: all coiled power and controlled motion.
His presence seems to fill the doorway when he reaches me, large and intimidating and somehow exactly what I need.
He stares down at me without saying a word. I turn on my heel and walk over to the French doors at the end of the hall. He follows behind me, silently.
The morning air is cool when I step onto the terrace, carrying the scent of chlorine from the pool and the saltiness of the ocean.
The pool glows turquoise in the early light, perfectly still and maintained, a beautiful lie of tranquility.
I walk to the railing and grip it with both hands, staring out at the ocean without really seeing it.
Gunnar stops beside me, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his body, far enough that we are not touching. We stand in silence for a moment that stretches into eternity, the wind rustling through the palm fronds and the water lapping against the beach.
“Thank you.” My words come out small, so sheepish they are barely audible over the breeze. I force myself to turn and look up at him, though my pride screams against the vulnerability of it. “For last night. For… everything.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. His jaw tightens, that muscle ticking in his cheek. When he speaks, his voice is flat, professional, and distant. “It’s my job.”
The dismissal stings, sharp and unexpected. I expected…
I don’t know what I expected. Affection? At least a semblance that he acknowledges what passed between us in the car. Or the kiss that followed as he lay in my bed.
“Is it?” I step closer, drawn in by some magnetic pull that exists between us, whether he admits it or not. “What you did goes beyond your job, Gunnar. The way you held me. The way you—”
“Did exactly what I’m paid to do,” he interrupts. “I’m here to protect you. Nothing more.”
The words land like blows, but I don’t retreat. I can’t. This thing that has been building between us since the moment he stepped onto my porch is impossible to ignore. “Are you saying it’s just me?” I challenge, my voice rising. “That I’m the only one who feels—”
The wind gusts, sudden and strong, whipping my hair across my face and silencing me.
I reach up to push it away, but before my fingers can find purchase, his hand is there.
His fingers warm and impossibly gentle, he tucks the stray strand carefully behind my ear.
His hand lingers on my cheek, dusting along the line of my jaw with a tenderness that contradicts everything he just said.
My breath catches, and I freeze, caught in the spell of his caress.
The intimacy of this small gesture feels bigger than it should.
Without thinking, I lift my hand and place it over his, holding his palm against my face and leaning into his touch.
“This,” I whisper, my eyes searching his. “That’s what I mean. What is this?”
For a moment—a brief, fleeting one—I see it.
The crack in his armor lets me see the truth he’s been hiding behind professionalism and distance.
I see the want in his eyes, raw and desperate, matching what’s been building in me since the night he threatened to spank me.
I see the terrifying, beautiful possibility of a real connection.
He takes a step backward. It happens so fast that I stumble slightly. My hand falls away from his, my cheek suddenly cold where his warmth had been. He puts distance between us, insurmountable physical and emotional distance. The three steps he took might as well be a canyon dug between us.
“Nothing.” The word is final and as absolute as a door slamming in my face. “This can’t be anything.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding and throat tight. “Why?”
“Because I can’t.” His voice breaks on the last word, just enough that I know he’s lying to both of us.
“I can’t protect you if I’m distracted. I can’t watch your back if I’m staring at your face.
I can’t—” He stops and runs a hand through his hair, his composure cracking to reveal the turmoil beneath.
“I can’t do my job if I’m thinking about you the way I want to think about you. The way I—”
He stops to swallow hard, and when he looks at me again, his eyes are bleak.
“Are you saying I’m a distraction?” The question comes out small and wounded. I hate how I sound nearly as much as his answer matters.
“Yes.” The admission costs him. I can see it in the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw.
“You’re the worst kind of distraction. The kind that could get you killed because I’m too busy wanting you to see a threat coming.
And I can’t…” His voice drops to a whisper.
“I can’t let that happen. I won’t let my failure cost you everything. ”
I open my mouth to argue, insist that the connection between us is worth navigating the complications, but he shakes his head, cutting me off before I can begin.
“I’m sorry.” His words are genuine, heavy with regret. “I’m so sorry, Devyn.”
Then he turns and walks away. I stand against the railing of the terrace beside myself, watching him disappear through the French doors and back into the house.
The wind picks up again, and I wrap my arms around my body, the oversized hoodie swallowing me whole. As I stare out at the ocean, at the beautiful view that suddenly looks empty, the tears build behind my eyes—hot, humiliating, and inevitable.
He doesn’t want me. Or rather, he does… enough to push me away.