7. Sloane
SEVEN
SLOANE
Sloane's feet carried her down the main staircase with an urgency that bordered on desperation, her hand gripping the polished wooden banister as she descended toward the first floor.
Each step echoed in the spacious lodge, the sound seeming too loud in her ears as she fought to keep her breathing steady.
The warm lighting and mountain views blurred past her peripheral vision as she focused solely on reaching the sanctuary of her suite.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
The command repeated in her mind like a mantra, but the tightness in her chest continued to build with each step she took away from Room 223. Away from Ronan. Away from the moment when everything had felt too real, too possible, too dangerous for someone like her to believe in.
She reached the end of the corridor and fumbled with her keycard, her hands trembling slightly as she swiped it through the electronic lock. The soft beep granted her access, and she slipped inside her suite, closing the door behind her with more force than required.
The presidential suite stretched before her in all its luxurious glory—the king-sized bed with its mountain of pillows, the sitting area with its stone fireplace, and the massive windows that framed the breathtaking wilderness beyond.
Everything about this space screamed permanence, stability, the kind of life she'd never dared to imagine for herself.
This isn't real, she told herself, pressing her back against the door as if she could physically hold back the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. This is just temporary.
But watching Judy and Todd in that guest room, seeing the way their faces lit up when they talked about their ten years of visits to Hale Lodge, witnessing the obvious love and contentment that radiated from them like warmth from a fire—it had cracked something open inside her that she'd spent decades keeping locked away.
They'd found their special place. Their safe harbor. Their home.
The word 'home' echoed in her mind, carrying with it the weight of every disappointment, every broken promise, every time she'd been forced to pack her meager belongings and start over somewhere new.
Home wasn't a concept that existed in her vocabulary, not really.
It was a luxury for other people, people who hadn't learned at six years old that the adults who were supposed to protect you could disappear without warning.
Sloane pushed away from the door and walked deeper into the suite.
The space felt enormous around her, filled with expensive furniture and thoughtful touches that spoke of a place designed for comfort and rest. She'd never lived anywhere this beautiful, never imagined she could deserve something like this.
And you don't deserve it, the familiar voice of self-preservation whispered. You're fooling yourself if you think this is anything more than charity.
But even as that thought formed, she could still feel the phantom sensation of Ronan's hands helping her to her feet in that bathroom, and could still see the way his blue eyes had darkened with something that looked suspiciously like desire.
The memory sent heat through her body, a warmth that had nothing to do with the suite's comfortable temperature and everything to do with the way both Ronan and Kozue seemed to look at her.
Like she was valuable. Like she was wanted.
Stop it. She shook her head sharply, running her hands through her brown hair. You're overreacting after last night. Almost being kidnapped, running from danger—of course you're latching onto the first sense of stability you've felt in years. Decades, really.
The foster care system had taught her that good things were temporary, that safety was an illusion, that depending on anyone other than herself was a recipe for heartbreak.
She'd survived by never expecting more than she could provide for herself, by never allowing herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, someone might choose to keep her around.
Sloane walked into the ensuite bathroom, her reflection catching her attention in the large mirror above the marble vanity.
Her cheeks were flushed from her hurried escape and her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears she refused to acknowledge.
She looked like a woman on the edge of something—hope, maybe, or disaster.
In her experience, they often felt remarkably similar.
She turned on the faucet and splashed cool water on her face, then reached for the hand soap to wash away the grime from crawling under that guest room sink.
The mechanical action of cleaning her hands gave her something to focus on, something concrete and manageable in a moment when her emotions felt anything but.
The irony wasn't lost on her that fixing that leaky faucet had felt natural, satisfying even.
Her chaotic childhood had given her an eclectic skill set—plumbing from Troy, cooking from Tonya, basic electrical work from Marco, and self-defense from the streets.
She'd always assumed those scattered abilities were just survival tools, random knowledge accumulated through necessity.
But here at Hale Lodge, they felt like something more.
Like preparation. Like maybe every difficult placement, every job she'd worked, every skill she'd been forced to learn had been leading her toward this place where she could actually be useful.
Where her history of adaptation and resilience might be seen as assets rather than evidence of instability.
You're getting ahead of yourself, she told her reflection sternly. This is just a job. A temporary safe place until you figure out your next move.
But even as she tried to convince herself, the longing in her chest only grew stronger.
She wanted to stay here. Wanted to explore whatever was building between her and Ronan, between her and Kozue.
Wanted to believe that maybe, for the first time in her life, she'd found something worth fighting to keep.
And that terrified her more than any underground opponent ever had.
Sloane dried her hands on the fluffy towel and left the bathroom, walking to the dresser where her duffel bag sat like a reminder of how little she actually owned.
She pulled out a clean t-shirt—one of only two—and changed out of the one that now smelled faintly of dust and old pipes.
The fresh shirt was soft cotton in a deep emerald green that brought out the golden flecks in her hazel eyes, though she didn't pause to notice.
She had work to do, promises to keep. She'd told Kozue she would help him prepare the communal dinner, and she wasn't about to let him down just because her emotions were threatening to overwhelm her carefully constructed defenses.
Focus on what you can control, she reminded herself, the same advice that had gotten her through countless difficult situations. Do your job. Keep your head down. Don't expect more than what's been offered.
She left her suite and walked back down the corridor, her steps more measured now.
The lodge's main areas bustled with quiet activity—guests exploring the common spaces, staff members going about their duties, the comfortable hum of a well-run establishment.
It took several minutes of wandering through the lodge's various wings before she finally located the kitchen, following the increasingly delicious aromas that seemed to permeate the air.
When she pushed through the swinging doors, she was greeted by a space that took her breath away.
The kitchen was enormous, clearly designed to handle both the lodge's restaurant service and large-scale catering for events.
Gleaming stainless-steel appliances lined the walls, while a massive island dominated the center of the room.
Natural light poured in through large windows, and the warm honey-colored wood of the cabinets created an atmosphere that was both professional and inviting.
But it was the sight of Kozue that caused her heart to skip a beat.
He stood at the central island wearing a black apron over a forest green henley that clung to his broad shoulders and muscular arms. Dark jeans molded to his long legs, and his thick brown hair looked slightly mussed.
The sleeves of his henley were pushed up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair.
When he looked up and saw her standing in the doorway, his entire face transformed with a smile so genuine and welcoming that it hit her like a physical force.
The warmth in his green eyes made her stomach flutter with butterflies she had no business feeling, and her pulse quickened in response to the obvious pleasure he took in her arrival.
Oh no, she thought as she found herself smiling back without conscious decision. This is dangerous.
"There you are," Kozue said, his deep voice carrying that same easy warmth that seemed to be his natural state. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind about helping with dinner."
The flutter in her stomach intensified, and Sloane felt herself caught between the desire to step closer and the instinct to turn around and run before she could want something—someone—she couldn't have.
This place is just temporary, she reminded herself desperately. Isn't it?
She tried to ignore the physical response her body had to his presence as he gestured with a flour-dusted hand toward a white apron folded neatly on the massive counter.
"You'll want one of those. My spaghetti sauce has a mind of its own and tends to splatter."
He tossed it her way and Sloane caught it against her chest. The fabric smelled clean, like sunshine and lavender detergent as she slipped the loop over her head and tied the straps behind her back.
Turning slightly, she gathered her long hair into a ponytail, securing it with the elastic she kept around her wrist.