Chapter 33 Ava
Chapter thirty-three
Ava
I see the glass before I even reach the door.
It’s scattered across the sidewalk like shattered ice, glittering cruelly in the rising sun.
My heart starts pounding before my brain can even process what I’m seeing.
The “Open” sign hangs crooked, swinging slightly in the morning breeze.
The lock… it’s mangled, twisted out of shape like someone ripped it apart with their bare hands.
The door is broken.
My store—my safe place, my quiet world of stories and peace—is broken.
I step forward, glass crunching beneath my boots, and freeze the moment I see inside.
Tables overturned. Shelves knocked sideways. Books—my books—are strewn everywhere like debris in a storm. It’s chaos. Total destruction.
But it’s the red that stops me cold.
Spray paint, thick and violent, slashed across the far wall in letters so jagged they look like they’re still bleeding.
My stomach lurches. The words blur as my vision swims.
I can’t breathe.
My fingers fumble for my phone. I don’t even remember unlocking it before Elijah’s name is ringing in my ear. He answers on the first ring.
“Ava?” His voice is sharp, already wired with tension.
“I—someone—Elijah—” My voice cracks, my throat closing. “The store. The front door is—someone smashed it. It’s all—”
“Ava.” His tone changes instantly—lower, firmer. “Don’t go in. Baby, listen to me. Do not go inside.”
“I—I already did. Just a little. It’s… they ruined everything. There’s paint on the wall, and the shelves, they—” My breath hitches as I choke on a sob. “They wrote something. It 's about us.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that vibrates with controlled fury.
“What does it say?” His voice is ice.
I try to speak but nothing comes out. My whole body is shaking. I press the back of my hand to my mouth to muffle the sound before the sob finally escapes.
“Ava. Baby. Talk to me. I’m almost there.”
I close my eyes, willing myself to hold it together, but the words come out broken.
“YOU DON’T BELONG TO HIM.” I whisper it like it burns. “They were here. Inside my store.”
Elijah is silent again, but I hear his engine rev in the background—he’s already in the truck, already flying toward me.
“I’m coming. I’m two minutes out. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Just stay right there, please baby.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. My hands are trembling, phone slippery in my grip, tears spilling faster than I can wipe them away.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, voice cracking.
“I know, baby. But I’ve got you. No one is ever going to hurt you. I promise. Just hold on for me, okay? I’m almost there.”
I slide down onto the cold concrete, curling in on myself with the phone still pressed to my ear.
And I wait. For Elijah. For safety.
I'm so far gone—so disconnected from everything around me—that I don’t even notice when Elijah arrives.
The world is a blur. The only thing that cuts through it are his hands, gently cupping my face.
And then I look up.
His eyes are a storm—wild, fierce, and on the edge of breaking. For a moment, it feels like they might consume everything around us, including me. But instead, they anchor me.
"Hey, baby girl," he says, voice low, steady. "I’m here now. Can you get up for me?"
I can’t. I shake my head—slow, barely a movement—but it’s all I can manage.
"Okay. It’s okay. We’ll just stay here for a while."
He doesn’t hesitate. He settles behind me, arms wrapping around me from behind, pulling me into the warmth of him. His chest to my back, his breath steady against my shoulder.
He builds a shelter with his body. A place where nothing bad can touch me. A space carved out of silence and safety. Where only peace lives. Where there’s no judgment, only understanding. No noise, only him.
Because even though I know he wants answers—needs them—he doesn't ask.
He doesn’t push. He just holds me. He 's here. For as long as it takes. For as long as I need.
And that... that’s what makes me love him even more.
Even if I didn’t think it was possible to love him more than I already do.
The sound of tires crunching over gravel pulls me out of my shock.
I lift my head from where it’s tucked against Elijah’s chest, blinking through the haze, and spot two large black cars rolling up the drive. The windows are tinted, the kind that hides everything inside—and for a second, cold fear grips my chest.
I freeze.
What if it’s someone coming to hurt us?
Elijah feels the shift in me immediately. He tightens his arms around me and leans in, voice low and steady against my ear.
“Shh. Don’t worry, babe. It’s the Kingstons. I called them. They’re here to help us.”
For a second, it doesn’t feel real—like I’ve accidentally walked onto the set of a heist movie. They move with that same calm, deadly precision that always makes people whisper. Suits tailored, expressions unreadable. There’s no mistaking what they are, no matter how polished the exterior.
Elijah’s hand tightens protectively at my back.
I glance up at him. “You called them?”
“They’re the best,” he says quietly, jaw locked. “And they’re friends.”
I watch as they fan out with surgical focus, checking the perimeter, the broken door, even the rooftops. Kaleb glances over his shoulder at me as he passes—dark eyes sharp but kind. He gives Elijah a quick nod, like a silent promise that they’ve got this.
The smallest bit of tension in my chest unknots. Not all of it. But some.
“You’re not staying here,” Elijah says suddenly, voice low but firm.
I turn to him. “What?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m not leaving you here. I don’t care if he broke a window or the whole damn block—I’m not giving him another shot at getting near you.”
“Elijah, I…” My words falter. I look around at the mess, at the spray paint screaming from the wall.
YOU DON’T BELONG TO HIM.
I pull in a shaky breath, trying to make sense of anything, but it all feels upside down. “I can’t just leave,” I whisper. “I have to warn Mia, clean up all this mess, and assess the damage for the insurance.”
I try to focus on anything—something—besides the chaos around me. My hands tremble at my sides, and my lungs feel too tight in my chest. I need something to do. Anything.
Because if I stop moving, if I let myself really look at the broken glass and the furious red paint screaming from the wall, I might fall apart completely.
It’s like ever since that horrible date, everything’s spiraled. First the flowers. Then the notes. The photos. George showing up like a ghost I never wanted to see again. And now this.
Everything’s sideways. Everything except Elijah.
He’s the only thing that makes sense in all this madness. The one steady place I can land on. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I don’t know what I’d do without him. Without his voice, his hands, his calm.
Without the way he says “Good girl” like it’s a promise that I’ll be okay.
Panic pushes into my chest again. But so does something else—his hand, steady and warm at my spine. His presence, grounding me like always.
His hands cradle my face before I even realize he’s moved. “Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
I do. My vision blurs.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “We’ll call Mia on the way to your apartment. She’ll be safe. And the team will take care of everything else—cleaning, organizing, documenting the damage for insurance. You don’t have to handle this alone, not anymore.”
I try to speak, but my throat tightens.
His thumb brushes a tear from my cheek. “You’re coming home with me, baby girl. Just until this is sorted. Until I know you’re safe. You’re everything to me Ava. And I won’t take a single chance with you. Ever.”
I exhale shakily. The bracelet on my wrist—his bracelet—catches the morning light. My fingers move to touch it, an old habit now. Something that reminds me I’m his. That I’m safe.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll come home with you.”
His lips brush against my temple. “Good girl,” he murmurs.
And for the first time since I saw the broken glass, I breathe a little easier.
***
The moment I step inside Elijah’s apartment, the air shifts.
Warmth. Leather. Cedar. And him.
It’s calm in the way old buildings sometimes are—like it remembers how to hold people without demanding anything in return. The shelves are neat but filled with life: books, framed photos, a few trinkets from a man who doesn’t share easily but keeps everything that matters.
I've been to Elijah's apartment before—but never like this. Not like someone who’s staying. Not like someone who belongs.
While he carries my suitcases inside, I wander past the kitchen and into parts of his home I’ve never really seen.
The living room opens into a wide hallway, everything clean and deliberate, but not cold.
His style is simple—masculine, understated—but with a depth that surprises me.
Dark woods, soft lighting, hints of deep navy and charcoal in the walls and furnishings. A quiet kind of strength.
His bathroom makes me pause. It’s the kind of space you see in design magazines. The shower alone could comfortably fit six people, and the tub—deep, sleek, indulgent—is calling my name. A mental note: I will be in that tub before the week is over.
I move into his bedroom slowly, not sure if I should. But something about being here now—really here—makes me feel like I’m allowed to know this part of him.
It’s cleaner than I expected. Not sterile, just... intentional. And his closet? A walk-in masterpiece of organization. Suits. Tees. Hoodies. Everything folded or hung with military precision. I half expect little labels under his shoes.
Anyone who didn’t know him would never guess Elijah—the man who makes my knees weak with a single look—is the same one who folds his socks.
Then I see it.
Hanging on the far wall, framed in black wood, is a photograph. The photograph.