Chapter 27
Ethan
The sunlight hits Lucky's porch in thin, hesitant lines. I’m crouched at the base of the lake house deck, wiring a motion sensor into the corner post.
Sam’s report came an hour ago—perimeter clear. He’s diving deeper, tracking anything that might stir, any trace of Scheifer. I exhale, finger tracing the wires, brain already shifting to the next steps.
Soldier mode engages. No hesitation. No distraction.
The building will be a fortress before nightfall.
Lucky moves around inside, barefoot, guitar slung low across her body, notebook open. She hums quietly, tentative. Better than yesterday. Must be because I’m here, breathing the same air, watching, covering.
I stand, brush sawdust from my jeans, and walk inside. She looks up, half-smile, eyes tired but alert. I close the gap between us in measured steps, hand resting lightly on the table near hers.
“I’m moving in,” I say, clipped, no room for argument. “Temporarily. Security measures. Don’t make me ask twice.”
Her gaze flickers, hesitates, then a slow nod. She’s been trying to keep her mind on her music, and I respect that. Good.
I glance at the notebook, the messy scrawl of chords and lyrics. “You writing new stuff?”
“No,” she says softly. Voice low. “I’m not going back… not to the industry. I don’t know what I’m doing. Music… It’s just… what my soul needs right now. But I can’t focus.”
I step closer, feet brushing the edge of the rug where she sits. My tone softens, the soldier inside taking a quiet backseat to the man who’s already seen how fragile she can be.
“You don’t have to go back,” I say. “Don’t let anyone dictate how you do it—ever. Write the songs you want to write. Play the music you need to play. Nobody else matters.”
Her fingers hover over the strings, unsure, hesitant. “I… I don’t know if I can,” she admits, gaze falling. “I’ve been… broken for so long, I don’t know where to start.”
I crouch down and reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, thumb resting lightly on her cheek. “Start anywhere. Your way. No stage. No cameras. No deadlines. Just you and the music. One chord at a time.”
Her lips twitch into a small, grateful smile. She stands, sets the notebook on the coffee table, and strums softly, unsure at first, then with more confidence. The sound fills the room—quiet, imperfect, alive.
I stand behind her, arms crossed, watching, silently. She’s finding her voice again. Her rhythm. Her self. And I’m here, guarding it, guarding her.
Because nothing else matters right now.
Not Scheifer. Not the past. Not anyone else.
Just this room. Just this music. Just her.
Every imperfect chord she plays on her guitar is alive, real, and it makes my chest tighten.
I take a slow step closer, hands still crossed, but I can’t stop thinking about how much she’s given herself to me already—her trust, her fear, her heart. And I realize I’m done hiding mine.
“Lucky,” I say quietly, letting my voice catch in my throat, “I need you to know… I care about you. More than I probably should. More than anyone should care about anyone. And I don’t want to lose you.”
She stops mid-strum, head tilting back, eyes opening slowly. Her expression is a mix of surprise and… something softer. Vulnerable.
I let my arms unfold, stepping closer until I’m just behind her, close enough that my chest nearly brushes her back. My hand hovers near hers, resting lightly on the edge of the guitar—not touching her, not yet—but close enough that she feels me.
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” I say, low, careful. “I’m not asking for a promise, or a move, or… anything. Just… know how I feel.”
Her shoulder shifts slightly against me, tiny, unconscious. Her hair brushes my fingers when she breathes, and I feel that pull—the pull of her, of her body, her fear, and her trust.
Then she leans back a fraction, just enough that the heat between us is undeniable. I can smell her, my shower gel she used earlier at my place, hear the subtle catch in her breath, and my restraint falters. My hand drifts to the small of her back, anchoring her gently.
She puts her guitar down, turns, and her lips find mine before I can even process it. They’re soft, tentative at first, but she presses closer, all of her—the tension, the trust, the need—folding into me. My other hand lifts to cradle the back of her head, keeping her near, keeping her safe.
The world narrows. The cabin, the music, the past, the stalker, everything—it’s just us. Her lips move against mine with desperation, with relief, with a kind of raw honesty I’ve never known before.
And I let it take over. Her hands fisting in my shirt, her chest pressing to mine. I lean into her, deepening the kiss, letting her weight shift onto me, feeling her trembling. She’s fragile, scared, alive. And I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be: the one holding her together.
Her lips part against mine, and I feel it—the raw, urgent need she’s been holding in, the way she presses closer like she’s been starving for this. I slide my hands down her back, letting them rest on her hips, anchoring her to me, feeling her shiver.
She presses herself harder, and my restraint cracks. My thumb brushes along her spine, tracing the curve where her shirt rides up, and I feel the heat radiating off her. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in lightly, desperate for contact, for connection, for me.
I tilt my head, deepening the kiss, letting it become a conversation without words. Her body molds against mine, and for the first time, she’s not hiding, not guarding, not pretending. She’s just… Lucky. And she’s mine to protect, to hold, to let her feel whatever she needs to feel.
A low, broken sound escapes me, half from restraint, half from surrender.
I brush my lips down her jaw, against her neck, feeling her pulse racing under my mouth.
She gasps, trembling, pressing herself further against me.
I can feel the fragile tremor in her spine, and it makes me grip her tighter, needing to keep her steady, needing to be the only solid thing beneath her.
Her hands slide under my shirt, warm and insistent.
I let her explore, let her lead, while I keep her anchored to reality, to safety, to me.
Every inch of her pressed to mine tells me she’s been holding back, surviving in small, controlled doses.
Now… now she’s letting it out, letting me in, allowing herself to exist without fear, just for this moment.
I pull back slightly, just enough to look at her, see her eyes glassy and bright, the hint of tears. I gently brush the strands of hair back off her face, and she leans into my touch like she trusts it to heal her, even for a second.
I whisper against her lips, “I’ve got you. No matter what.”
And with that, she melts into me again, and I give in completely. I let my hands roam, my body press fully against hers, letting every restrained part of me meet the part of her that’s been waiting to be held, to be wanted, to be safe.
The room fades. The world shrinks to just us—breath, warmth, skin, heartbeat—and for the first time in a long time, we both let ourselves feel alive.
Her lips are still on mine, soft but insistent. She’s small, fragile, but she presses her weight into me like she’s been holding herself together for years, and now she doesn’t have to.
I tilt my head, deepening the kiss, letting my mouth claim hers for just a moment—just enough to let her know I’m here, I’m steady, I’m not going anywhere.
Her hands fumble at the buttons of my shirt, pulling me closer, and I can’t help the low sound that escapes me. Half frustration, half surrender.
Her fingers graze the waistband of my jeans, and I catch her hand, pressing it against the hard bulge straining there, silently telling her she’s safe. She gasps softly, and I let my other hand slide along her spine, holding her like she’s the only thing in the world I need to protect.
The kiss deepens, unrelenting, desperate. Her body molds to mine, every trembling ounce of her pressed against me, and I feel something stir deep inside—a need to be close, to shield her, to claim her in the only way that matters right now: fully, completely, without restraint.
She clings to me, lips moving hungrily against mine, hands gripping my shoulders, and I can feel her soul pressing into mine, every fragment of chaos and pain and longing.
I respond in kind, letting my hands and mouth communicate what words never could.
She’s mine to hold, mine to protect, mine to let breathe for just this one perfect, urgent, fragile moment.
And as we finally part for breath, her forehead resting against mine, I feel it—the truth I can’t hide anymore. I’m not just protecting her. I’m in this, all of me, and I’ve been pulled in so completely that nothing else matters.
Her chest rises and falls against mine, slow and steady now, and I cradle her in my arms, letting her rest against me. I’ve got her. I always will.
My hands cup her thighs, slide beneath the fabric of her black, purposely ripped jeans, feeling the heat of her skin through the tears in the denim, and she arches into me, gasping, clinging tighter.
It’s like every ounce of fear and longing and chaos inside her is flowing into me, tethering us together.
I guide her upstairs to the bedroom, keeping her pressed against me, letting her weight mold into mine as we stumble through the door.
Inside, her back hits the mattress, and coax her to lie down.
I hover over her, letting her adjust, letting her feel my presence, my warmth, my control, my protection.
Her hands trace my chest, fingers grazing the buttons of my shirt, nails lightly pressing into the fabric, and I respond, leaning down to capture her lips again, my tongue thrusting deep into her mouth.