29. Nell
I wake to warmth.
Soft. Steady. Unfamiliar.
It takes a moment for the pieces to slot into place—blanket tucked tight around me, arm curved protectively across my waist, the solid weight of a body pressed behind mine.
I’m not alone.
I blink into the dim light, confusion clinging to the edges of sleep. Then I feel it—his breath, slow and measured against the back of my neck. The rise and fall of his chest pressed against me.
Cameron.
He stayed.
Last night comes back in flashes—the tears I couldn’t control, the panic I couldn’t shake, the quiet hands that guided me back into bed when the dark got too loud.
And now—this.
He didn’t run. Didn’t leave me to spiral alone. He’s still here.
My throat tightens.
It’s a comfort I didn’t ask for and don’t deserve, but it wraps around me anyway, quiet and unwavering. I shift slightly, just enough to glance over my shoulder.
He’s awake.
Eyes open. Watching me, like he’s been waiting.
“You didn’t leave,”
I say softly, the words dry and small.
His voice is husky, in that sexy sort of way that flips my stomach.
“You didn’t let me.”
For a second, the silence blooms thick between us. Then he lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair from my face—gentle, careful, like touching glass, and I don’t flinch, not this time.
“I’m used to doing this alone,” I murmur.
“Not anymore,”
he says. Like a promise.
“Don’t do that,”
I mutter, shifting across the bed like distance will protect me.
“Do what?”
His voice is low, confused—like he hasn’t just cracked open something I’ve spent years keeping sealed.
“Don’t act like I matter to you.”
I look at him, but not for long.
“Maybe it’s just words to you—just something you say in the moment. But to me, it’s different. I feel it. And when this is all over, and you’ve had your fill of danger and chaos and me… I’ll be the one left picking up the pieces. Alone.”
I turn away. Chin high. Shoulders tense like armour.
“Please just go.”
I hear the silence press in around us, heavy with things he won’t say. Maybe can’t.
But I don’t let myself crack. Not in front of him.
I know how this works. Men like him always say the right thing—just long enough to make you believe it. And when they’re done playing hero, they vanish without a sound.
I won’t let that happen again. I can’t.
I’m not like the girl I saw him with on the camera. She had steel in her spine and ice in her eyes. She could handle him. Handle this.
But me?
I’m soft. Breakable.
And I don’t bounce when I fall.
He leaves with a grunt, confirming my fears—I’m right. I’m a target for him to protect and nothing more.
I can’t even deny it—the smell drifting from the kitchen is criminally good. Whatever Cameron’s cooking, it’s working. My shoulders feel lighter, my brain less like a pressure cooker on the verge of detonation.
And weirdly… I feel structured. Mind and body, like someone hit a reset button I didn’t know I needed.
Who knew all it took was an overbearing man with a list of daily tasks and a taste for control to whip me into shape?
Terrifying. But also—kind of effective.
I just need to keep my wits about me. Stay grounded. Detached. Immune to charm and well-seasoned chicken.
That was the plan.
A solid one—until the scent hits me. Whatever he’s cooking smells illegal. My stomach makes an audible betrayal as I follow it straight into the kitchen… and promptly regret it.
He’s standing there like sin incarnate—vest clinging to his torso, grey sweatpants hanging low enough to ruin me. And the backwards cap?
Unforgivable.
How does he keep finding new ways to be more attractive? There should be a law.
“Sit. Dinner’s nearly done,”
he says, not even glancing over his shoulder. He knows I’m here. Probably knew the second I hit the stairs, too.
I drop into the nearest chair, defeated. I’ve successfully avoided him all day by simply not touching an appliance. Apparently, survival and emotional distance are best maintained through culinary abstinence.
He flips something in the pan, then—without pause—casually drops.
“I’ve got to head out with Talia tonight. Scouting potential markers for the strike. Should only be a couple hours.”
I nod, even though he’s not looking.
“You’re good to stick to the routine. I’ll keep eyes on the cameras remotely. Panic button’s under my desk if anything goes sideways.”
Well. That’s comforting.
Still, maybe a quiet evening alone will do me some good. Maybe it will allow my hormones to cool off before I end up doing something stupid.
Again.
As he plates up dinner, Cameron glances my way—eyes distant, jaw working like he’s choosing his next words with care. But I already know what’s coming.
“I still need to know about your uncle,”
he says, voice steady, too calm.
“If you’re going to wander my house crying in the middle of the night, I deserve to know what he did.”
Straight to the point.
Of course he’s not letting it go.
Nothing says ‘pity me’ like a girl with trauma stamped on her skin. A girl who let her uncle use her like she was disposable.
“There’s nothing to tell,”
I say, but it barely passes as a lie. He freezes mid-motion, then looks up at me like I’ve just insulted his intelligence.
“Nell.”
His voice sharpens.
“I will find out. One way or another. Better it comes from you.”
Damn him and his tactical genius. I thought I was clever—traced his identity like a pro, cracked open his secrets—but clearly, I’m the amateur here. One foot behind, as always.
I exhale, slow and sharp, like it might take the pressure with it.
“There’s not a lot to say.”
I keep my voice breezy, like I’m giving him the weather report.
“My mom left me with my uncle a lot. He made the most of those opportunities. Nights. Days. Whenever no one else was around.”
I force a dry smile.
“Classic tale. Fucked-up family edition.”
I’m trying to keep it light—to hold this whole thing at arm’s length—but his eyes don’t budge. There’s nothing light in them. Only fury melting those chocolaty molten pools.
And for once, it’s not directed at me.
“What did your parents have to say about it?”
“Ha.”
I try to smother the laugh before it escapes, but it bubbles out anyway—sharp and bitter. He really has no idea how deep this rabbit hole goes.
“There’s a reason I don’t talk to them anymore,”
I mutter, folding my arms.
“Let’s leave it at that.”
But of course, he doesn’t. He keeps that spotlight on me like I volunteered for it, like he’s owed my worst memories just because he held me through one nightmare.
It’s not fair.
And it’s not how this works.
What would he do if I threw the same questions back at him? If I asked about her—his wife, his ghost, the reason his eyes go cold when he thinks I’m not looking?
I doubt he’d be half as generous with the truth.
Which is exactly why, when he’s out with Talia tonight, I’m going digging. Deep.
He wants my secrets? Fine.
But now it’s his turn.
“So? What do you think—fucked up enough for you?”
I shoot, words sharp and practiced like a blade I’ve used too often.
“Don’t waste your pity on me. I’m past the whole ‘poor me, he touched me’ narrative. It’s done. Buried. End of story.”
My voice cracks on the edge of something I refuse to acknowledge, so I push harder.
“And now that Adam’s out of the picture too? There’s nothing left to rehash. So, let’s not, yeah? Just… don’t bring it up again.”
I’m the one in control now. Drawing my own lines in the sand. And if he thinks he’s going to play shrink—poke around in my bruises and call it healing—he’s got the wrong girl.
He’s not a therapist.
He’s not my saviour.
He’s just trying to size up the damage before deciding if I’m still worth the chase. Testing the cracks before he tries to tug on my heartstrings again.
And I can save him the trouble.
It’s not worth it.
I’m not worth it.
“I don’t pity you.”
I freeze mid-chew, fork suspended halfway to my mouth. His voice is flat—too steady—and when I glance up, he’s watching me like he’s already ten moves ahead.
Then his gaze drags down my body.
Slow.
Measuring.
When his eyes meet mine again, I feel flayed open—like he’s dissecting me with every blink.
“I’m just trying to figure out how many more assholes I need to kill,”
he adds, calm as anything.
Is he serious?
He looks serious.
No twitch of a smile. No trace of humour. Just that same impossible stillness he carries when he’s deciding whether to pull the trigger.
A chill coils down my spine.
“You’re not funny,”
I snap, sharper than I mean to.
His reply lands without hesitation.
“I’m not trying to be.”