Nineteen Ella
NINETEEN
Ella
Justice’s burner phone feels small and cheap in my hand, the kind that’s meant to be disposable, to disappear without a trace.
I turn it once between my fingers, weighing my options.
He drives with that same maddening calm, eyes forward, hands loose on the wheel like he owns the road.
Leo snores in the back, a soft, steady rumble that makes the silence heavier.
“What if I promise not to leave town?” My voice is quiet, meant more for myself than him.
“No. Put the call on speaker.”
The words snap like a lock clicking into place. He doesn’t even look at me when he says it. My butt is tender, and I want to smack him. The guy spanks hard. I bite back the retort rising to my lips and instead punch in a number, pressing the speaker button.
Rosalie answers on the third ring, voice tight. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me.”
“Where in the world are you?” Relief bursts through her tone, tangled up with annoyance. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You need to stop hiding in those stupid safe houses. It’s not safe, Ella. Just come to my place.”
My forehead presses against the glass, the window cold against my skin. The road blurs past, sunlight striking in flashes. “I’m working, and I’m fine. Quit fussing over me like somebody’s grandma.”
“Did you just call me old?”
I grin despite myself. “How’s the house construction coming?”
“Perfect. I’ve set up a whole suite for you. An office too. You’d have space.”
“I appreciate it.” The words come easy, but my gut knots. “I don’t really want to live under Bratva lock and key.”
“You’d have freedom, Ella,” Rosalie says.
Yeah, just like the freedom at that boarding school my stepmother had shipped me off to for my childhood.
There was no escape, and every time I got in trouble, usually by taking apart computers to figure out how they worked, I ended up on cleaning duty.
If I never have to clean another filthy kitchen, I’ll die happy.
“Thanks,” I say. “If I need a place, you’ll be the first I call. ”
The hum of the SUV fills the pause. Justice doesn’t look my way, but I feel the weight of his awareness. He hears everything. He trusts me not to give Rosalie the truth, or he thinks it doesn’t matter if I do.
Rosalie clears her throat. “There was an attack on Malice Media last night, and it wasn’t from Alexei and Hologrid Hub. I can’t imagine that Alana’s dad would attack his new son-in-law’s building, so it’s probably not the group from Aquarius Social. That leaves TimeGem.”
“It’s possible,” I allow. “But I don’t think Sylveria is dumb enough to come at Justice directly.” But who knows.
Rosalie breathes out.
I stiffen. “What?”
She sighs now. “I don’t know, but what if Sylveria is trying to start a war in which you get caught?
She wants you dead. If it’s known that the Rendales and the Beathachs are at war, at least to those in the underground, then your death wouldn’t be blamed on her.
She could have you killed and then scream bloody murder about Justice or Thorn taking you out. ”
It’s a good hypothesis.
Justice glances at the phone and then back at the road. Yeah, Rosalie is wicked smart.
So I don’t tell her I was present for the attack and explosion. Has my stepmother made a move? “I’ll keep that in mind. Try not to worry.”
“I can’t help it. Also, and I have no idea if this is related, but Horace Whimple has gone underground. Sylveria has put out feelers to find him,” Rosalie says.
I can’t see the connection between Sylveria attacking me or Justice and the loss of her boyfriend. “He probably smartened up and left that witch.”
Rosalie chuckles. “That was my first thought, too. So, Justice is there?”
“Yes. Rosy? Have you heard from Alana?” I change the subject.
“Not really. She’s on her honeymoon. I doubt she has time to talk.”
Very good point. “That tracks.” I lower my voice into a teasing drawl. “Speaking of honeymoons, are you still planning to marry that Russian mobster?”
“I told you to stop calling him that—especially on the phone. I am an officer of the court,” she snaps, but there’s no heat behind it.
True. She is a lawyer. “Right. Sorry.” I’m not sorry, but I let the apology stand. I glance at Justice. His jaw’s set, but his lips twitch like he’s holding back a grin. He doesn’t give me much, but that almost-smile … it does something.
It’s too bad he’s so good in bed. That confuses me.
I want to talk to Rosalie. Really talk. About what happened in the forest, or the server room, about the mess in my chest every time Justice looks at me, about the urge to run, and the thrill of maybe not running.
But with him sitting right here, heat radiating off him like a storm contained in a human body? No. Not yet.
“Ella.” Rosalie’s voice sharpens again. “No more safe houses.”
“We’ll see. I have to get back to work but will be in touch soon. Say hi to your gangster for me.” I end the call before she can push, thumb pressing hard against the button. The screen goes black, and I hold the dead weight of the phone in my lap.
Outside, the land stretches wide, and the sky is pale and endless. Every turn in the road is another possibility. I start mapping exits, routes, and places to vanish. Freedom isn’t just about survival. It’s the challenge, and if I can beat Justice Beathach at his own game? That’s worth every risk.
I glance at him. “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer. Typical.
Outside, Silicon Valley fades behind us. The glass and steel towers give way to low commercial blocks, then thinner neighborhoods, until the road narrows and the trees take over. My butt feels heated and my clit tender. I’m kind of in a continuously aroused state.
Butthead.
Pines line the ridges, tall and dark, throwing shadows across the asphalt.
The air sharpens, cooler, tasting faintly of salt.
Mountains rise in the distance, green and gray with the hint of early mist, and the road curls upward through them before dropping toward the ocean.
The water appears like a bruise on the horizon, slate colored and rolling, its whitecaps flashing as we descend.
We reach a long, private driveway cut between thick stands of fir.
Justice turns in without a word, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
At the end of the drive stands a three-story wooden structure.
It’s too massive to be called a cabin, but it has the bones of one with logs stacked and fitted with precision, wide eaves, and glass windows catching the gray sky.
Another freaking safe house? It’s bigger than the cabin we hit last night. This is a massive home. “Hey,” I say, leaning forward. “We’re by Thorn’s place.”
“We are.” Justice pulls to a stop, kills the engine, and opens his door. “Come on.”
“You have another house nobody knows about?” I step out onto the gravel, shoes crunching, and take it in. For years nobody knew about Justice. It’s impressive, really, in this time when every idiot has a digital footprint trailing behind them.
Leo bounds past me when I open the back door, barking joyfully before tearing into the trees.
“Is he safe here?” I ask.
“He’s not going to leave you. He’s not dumb. He’s a smart dog,” Justice says dryly, already hefting too many bags for one man.
I shift my weight. “Do you need help?”
“I’ve got them.” He shoulders the bags like they weigh nothing and heads up the steps. The wood gives a faint groan under his boots. The porch smells like cedar, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. He unlocks the door without pausing, like he’s done it a hundred times.
I glance at the tree line, that prickling instinct crawling higher. “Shouldn’t there be Irish mobsters patrolling?”
“Oh, there are.” His tone is flat. “You just can’t see them.”
That shiver? Yeah, it runs straight down my spine. Invisible guards. Perfect. I tug the hem of his T-shirt lower on my jeans and follow him in.
The place instantly charms me, as it’s not what I expect.
Honey-colored logs create thick and solid walls that don’t feel new or staged.
They’re scarred a little, worn smooth where hands have touched them over years, with beams across the ceiling, the kind wide enough to sit on and hide.
The smell is layered. Wood smoke clings stubbornly to stone, the bite of salt air creeps through cracks, and the scent of leather softens the notes.
Windows eat up the far wall, and beyond them the Pacific heaves, gray and restless.
A stone fireplace waits, logs stacked beside it.
Couches sag with use, blankets tossed like afterthoughts.
A low table is scratched all to hell. Books crowd shelves in the corner, spines cracked, some stacked sideways because there’s never enough room.
It’s messy. It’s lived in. It hums with life.
Not the sterile kind of hideout I expected.
A home. Which makes no damn sense with Justice standing in the middle of it.
He doesn’t give me time to stare and just heads down a hall, boots echoing on the boards, to shove open a set of double doors.
The bedroom is more country than city. A heavy quilt in red and cream spreads over a large bed surrounded by oak furniture built to last. But it’s the stones that stick out.
Obsidian chunks sit in a bowl on the dresser, along with polished pieces gleaming on the shelves, as well as sparkling garnets set into the base of lamps.
Little shadows and sparkles in an otherwise cozy room.
A reminder this is his space. Not soft. Not safe.
He dumps the many bags on the bed and looks back at me. “Take a shower. Pick something to wear. I’ll put the groceries away.”
The words are simple, but they hit with weight.
Justice in a kitchen isn’t domestic—it’s deliberate.
Another move in a game I don’t know the rules of.
He doesn’t have to feed me. He doesn’t have to soften the edges.
So why does he? To get under my guard? To remind me he can be both the hand that starves and the hand that gives?
“Tomorrow,” he adds, “I’ll take you to the computer hub in the basement.”
I perk up. “You have a computer hub?”
“Of course I have a computer hub.” His voice is even, brooding rather than amused, the weight of it settling heavy in the room.
“We’ll see what we can find out about the illness.
” He pauses, his gaze flicking to the garnet bookends on the shelf, then to a chunk of obsidian catching the weak afternoon light.
Shadows carve harsh lines across his face when he turns back to me.
“I’ll help you take down TimeGem Moments in exchange. ”
I take a step back, pulse leaping. Him actually helping me could get this thing done. It’s too big, too dangerous, too … real. “They’ll come after us,” I say.
“I’m planning on it.” His answer is simple, ironclad.
A bark sounds from outside, sharp and happy. Justice exhales, almost a growl, and rakes a hand down his jaw before he says, “I’ll let your dog in. Then we’ll meet in the kitchen.”
Anticipation lights through me, sparking quick and bright like electricity. If he really helps me, this could work. But the stones glimmer dark in the corners of the room, garnets glowing faintly, obsidian swallowing light, and I can’t shake the sense that they’re watching, listening. Like him.
My stomach twists, heavy and cold. What happens when we succeed? What happens if we fail? Even if I find a way to help him, what does he plan to do with me afterward? “I’d like an agreement in writing.”
He snorts. “No.”
All right, I’m definitely going to escape. Sure, there are guards out there, but I didn’t see a moat like at Thorn’s place. No monsters circling in black water, no castle walls. Just trees, ocean, and a road I can vanish down if I get the chance.
As if catching my thoughts, Justice moves. One step, maybe two, but it feels like the air shifts with him. Suddenly he’s there, right in front of me, close enough the heat rolling off his body skims my skin. My back straightens on instinct.
His eyes pin me. They’re dark, unreadable, and the kind that don’t just look at you but cut through skin and bone to something deeper. They drag across me, slow and sure, and my pulse stutters like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
Heat filters along my every nerve ending. I swallow, my throat dry. “Um.”
Justice doesn’t bother to answer. Instead, he lifts a hand, deliberate, his knuckles brushing against my temple before sliding into my hair.
His fingers are warm, rough, threaded with strength I can feel in every careful stroke.
He pushes a stray curl behind my ear, then lets his hand linger at the side of my face.
My body betrays me. A shiver ripples down my spine, every muscle tightening. The brush of his thumb near my cheekbone sends sparks low in my belly. I should move. I should push him away. Instead I’m rooted to the spot, my chest rising fast, heat pooling where I don’t want it.
He leans closer, not touching but filling my space until I can’t breathe without drawing him in. His voice is a rasp, low and rough. “Planning something?”
My heart slams against my ribs. He knows. Of course he knows.
I shift my weight, but his hand slides, slow and possessive, down the side of my neck. The pressure is light, almost tender, but there’s nothing gentle in the way he does it. It’s control. A warning. A reminder that escape won’t be easy.
I shudder, and his dark eyes narrow, catching it. Not missing a single reaction.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “Afraid of me?”
Yes. No. Both. My body hums with it, fear and want tangled too tight to separate. “I need to take a shower.” My voice shakes.
His phone buzzes. Saving me? He releases me and tugs it from his back pocket to read. “I have a meeting soon that’ll go late, but have time for an early dinner first. Be in the kitchen in fifteen minutes, or I’m coming for you. Shower or not.”
I stand there. “Um, okay.” We’re playing house now?
“You can write out the code for the virus while I’m gone. I want to have it. Maybe I can take it and find a cure for myself.”
There’s no cure just in the code. It’s about energy. At least it was with Thorn. “You’ll use the virus to harm the other social media companies.” He won’t be able to help himself.
“It’s up to me how to use it.” He turns and walks out of the room.
I stand there, my mind spinning and my body firing.
The truth coils sharp and quiet inside me.
I have no idea if I can help him, or what he’ll do with me when the work is finished, if it ever is.
I can’t give him the code. I also can’t stay with him.
Because, even though I know better, it’s not just my body wanting him now.
I can handle a good spanking.
I can’t handle a broken heart.
I don’t know how.