Chapter 13 Layers of Trust
Nick Malone
The kitchen table was a beast of a thing—an imposing slab of timber hewn from the massive trunk of a fallen oak that once towered over the property like a guardian.
Crafted by hand generations ago, its surface bore the marks of its history—scratches, scuffs, and deep grooves that told stories of countless.
The wood was darkened with age, polished to a burnished glow that reflected years of polishing and hard living.
It took twenty men to haul the thing into the house, their grunts and sweat mingling with laughter and curses as they wrestled it through the narrow doorways.
Its sheer size made it the centerpiece of the room, a monument to endurance and resilience.
Around that table, deals were struck, feasts devoured, and legends born.
The kind of table that could withstand whatever life threw at it—and the kind of table that bore witness to the best and worst of what it meant to be alive.
Nick sat at the worn kitchen table, his elbows braced on the scuffed surface, fingers steepled in front of his mouth.
The air inside the house was unmoving, like the quiet before a storm.
Outside, the wind stirred the skeletal branches of the trees, their spindly shadows stretching across the windowpane in eerie, fractured patterns.
But inside, it wasn’t the silence that unnerved him.
It was the noise in his head.
A deafening roar of tangled thoughts, unanswered questions, and a creeping sense of inevitability. Bastien Laurent. Juliette’s visits. The photograph of Celeste as a child in this very house. The stalker’s message, an echo of a threat that felt closer with every passing hour.
Every piece of the puzzle was here, laid out before him like a disjointed crime scene, and yet—something wasn’t clicking.
It gnawed at him, a slow, maddening itch just beneath the surface of his skin.
The answer was here, in front of him. He could feel it, sense it like the pulse of an enemy hidden in the dark.
But where? What the hell was he missing?
Sabre let out a low, restless chuff beneath the table, his muscular frame tense even in stillness. The Belgian Malinois wasn’t just lying there; he was listening. His ears twitched at every subtle sound, his breathing steady but alert. Even the dog knew something was off.
Nick dragged a rough hand down his face, exhaling sharply. His body thrummed with the kind of anticipation that settled in right before shit hit the fan. He wasn’t used to waiting. He wasn’t used to reacting. He hunted threats, not the other way around.
Celeste sat in the adjoining room, curled into an oversized chair like she was trying to make herself smaller, but Nick wasn’t fooled. Her posture might have been defensive, but her eyes—locked on him, unblinking—held fire. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t speak. Just watched.
And somehow, that was worse.
Nick felt her silence against his skin, slipping beneath his ribs like a blade waiting to twist. He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more—the fact that their stalker was still one step ahead or this entire thing had become more than just a case. It had tangled itself into something personal.
Something visceral.
Not just for Celeste.
For him.
The line between duty and something far more dangerous had blurred the second she walked into his life, and now it was gone altogether.
Nick wasn’t just protecting her anymore.
He was hunting.
Hunting the bastard who thought they could toy with her, torment her, drag her into some sick game. Hunting the ghosts of a past that refused to stay buried.
And God help whoever stood in his way.
Nick exhaled sharply and pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against the hardwood. Celeste lifted her head.
“You’re planning something,” she murmured.
Nick rubbed his jaw, his gaze focused on the phone screen still glowing on the table. “Damn right I am.”
Celeste stood slowly, “Nick—”
“No.” He shook his head, cutting her off before she could talk him down. “This stops now, Celeste. No more waiting. No more reacting. We take the fight to them.”
Her lips parted, but she didn’t argue.
Because she knew he was right.
***
Nick reached for his phone, tapping in a secure line. It was time to set a trap.
Nick paced as the call connected.
“Graham,” came the voice on the other end.
“It’s me,” Nick said, his voice low and sharp. “We’ve got movement on our stalker.”
Silence. Then, “Where are you?”
“Out of the city. I need assets moved in position by tomorrow night.”
Graham sighed. “Consider it done.”
“Good.” Nick snapped. “I’m done playing defense.”
He ended the call and turned back to Celeste, who was watching him like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“What?” Nick asked, exhaling through his nose.
Celeste crossed her arms. “This isn’t just about the stalker anymore, is it?”
Nick’s jaw tightened. “No.”
And it wasn’t.
It was about the truth buried beneath decades of secrets. It was about Bastien Laurent and why the hell his name kept surfacing.
And it was about Juliette.
Celeste’s fingers tightened around the hem of her shirt. “You think my sister is involved?”
Nick wasn’t sure.
But every damn instinct he had was telling him Juliette knew more than she let on.
“She’s a variable we can’t ignore,” he admitted. “But right now, we focus on the bastard playing games with your life.”
Celeste exhaled, nodding. “So, what’s the plan?”
Nick’s gaze darkened.
“We bait them out.”
***
Nick ran a hand through his hair, trying to center himself, but his pulse was still running too damn fast.
His mind was on high alert.
Celeste shifted in the oversized chair, her legs unfolding slowly as if she was making a decision in real-time.
Nick’s presence was magnetic, his frustration, his determination—it all pulled her in like gravity. Her fingers tightened against the armrests, her breath shallow, pulse quickening as she pushed herself to stand.
The distance between them felt like an impossible divide.
She closed it in three steps.
Nick’s jaw clenched as she approached, the tension crackling in the air between them, thick enough to choke on. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the strain evident in every taut muscle of his frame, like he was fighting a war between instinct and control.
Celeste wasn’t having it.
Not tonight.
She knew what would calm the savage beast inside Nick.
Her fingers curled into Nick’s shirt, yanking him forward with a force that shattered whatever restraint he had left. Her mouth crashed against his, the kiss desperate, consuming, an unspoken demand that sent fire racing through his veins.
Nick didn’t hesitate.
His hands were on her in an instant—gripping, claiming, owning every inch of her as he walked her back toward the table, never breaking contact, his tongue plunging past her lips in a ruthless, punishing kiss.
Celeste moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders, dragging down his chest, her body arching into his like she wanted to crawl inside him. She was fire and silk, wild and unrestrained, and fuck if that didn’t undo him completely.
Nick’s control snapped.
With a growl, he gripped her thighs and lifted her onto the table, spreading her legs wide, slotting himself between them.
He tore at her shirt, ripping it up over her head, baring smooth, golden skin that he immediately laid claim to— his mouth moving over the delicate line of her throat, his teeth scraping, biting, marking.
Celeste gasped, her head falling back, giving him everything, her hands tangling in his hair as he descended lower, his mouth hot and demanding against the swell of her breasts.
He shoved the lace of her bra down, exposing one tight, aching nipple, and dragged his tongue across it, his lips closing in a slow, torturous suck that sent a violent shudder rolling through her.
"Nick—"
He didn’t let her finish. He yanked her hips closer, grinding against her, letting her feel just how hard, thick, and fucking ready he was for her.
“You feel that?” His voice was rough, dark. Dangerous. “That’s all for you, Celeste. Every. Damn. Inch.”
She whimpered, rocking into him, her hands tugging at his belt, desperate, needy.
Nick’s jaw ticked. She was unraveling beneath him, falling apart, and he wasn’t even inside her yet.
He planned to ruin her. She would want no other after this.
With one swift motion, he yanked at her jeans, shoving them down her legs, tossing them aside. He didn’t bother with teasing—he was past patience.
Celeste barely had time to breathe before his fingers found her, slick, swollen, utterly drenched lips, all for him.
“Fuck, baby,” Nick rasped, his fingers stroking, exploring. “You’re so wet for me. You need this, don’t you?”
Celeste’s body arched violently as he thrust two fingers inside her, his thumb circling her clit, just enough to make her tremble.
"Yes," she gasped. "God, yes!"
Nick's lips curled into a wicked smirk.
“Then take it.”
He ripped his belt open, shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, thick, hard, pulsing with need. His cock had a mind of its own. He gripped her hips, yanking her closer, lining himself up against her soaked, throbbing heat.
Celeste’s breath hitched.
Nick didn’t wait.
With one brutal, punishing thrust, he buried himself inside her— deep, stretching, filling her completely.
Celeste shattered.
A broken cry tore from her throat, her nails digging into his back as she clenched around him, the pleasure so sharp, so devastating, it nearly undid him right then and there.
"Fuck," Nick growled, his head falling forward against her shoulder, his hands tightening on her hips as her walls squeezed around him.
It was too much.
Too tight. Too hot. Too fucking wet.
But he wasn’t stopping.
He pulled back, slammed into her again, dragging a raw, breathless moan from her lips as he set a ruthless, relentless pace, driving into her with long, deep strokes, claiming every inch of her body.
Celeste was wrecked.
Her fingers clawed at him, her head falling back, her body arching as he took her apart, piece by piece.
"Nick—oh, God—"
“Say it,” he growled, slamming into her harder.
Celeste’s body tensed, her walls pulsating, fluttering around him, her legs wrapping tight around his waist.
"Yours," she gasped. "I’m fucking yours, Nick—"
"Fuck, yes, you are."
He took her harder, deeper, punishingly slow, then brutally fast, dragging her to the edge of oblivion.
Nick had perfected the art of drawing her pleasure out to the very edge, his touch mercilessly controlled.
He knew exactly when to ease his pace, his restraint a deliberate torment designed to leave her trembling, her breath hitching as she pleaded for release.
But he refused her that satisfaction, savoring the way her body twisted beneath him, lost in the agonizing ecstasy he so skillfully prolonged.
And when he’d taken his fill of her desperate, helpless need, he drove into her with a raw, unyielding intensity—hard, fast, and relentless—his passion a force of nature.
Celeste’s entire body snapped like a live wire.
She came hard—clenching, pulsing, screaming his name as she shattered around him, her nails raking down his back, her thighs trembling as she rode wave after wave of pleasure so sharp, she nearly blacked out.
Nick wasn’t far behind.
He groaned low, primal, his movements turning ragged, desperate, his body tightening, locking.
"Celeste—"
His last thrust sent him over the edge—hot, pulsing, spilling his seed deep inside her, his growl muffled against her skin as he buried his face in her neck, his entire body shuddering with the force of it.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Just heavy breathing. Racing heartbeats. The lingering heat of what they had just done searing into their bones.
Nick finally lifted his head, planting a deep, lingering kiss against her swollen lips.
"You okay?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, raw.
Celeste exhaled shakily, a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Never better."
Nick chuckled, shaking his head as he brushed her hair from her damp forehead.
"You keep looking at me like that, princess," he murmured, gripping her chin, tilting her face up to his, "and I’m taking you again."
Celeste’s smirk turned wicked.
"Then what the hell are you waiting for?"
And just like that—Nick was on her again.
Because once wasn’t enough. Not even close.
But just as he went to flip her ass over—
His phone buzzed.
Three times.
Nick stiffened.
Celeste let out a shaky breath, her forehead dropping against the desk. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Nick growled, pressing one last rough kiss to the small of her back before forcing himself to step back.
His blood was still roaring. His body was still aching for her.
But his instincts had never been wrong.
He reached for the phone, flipping it over.
His stomach turned to stone.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: "The pieces are already in motion, Malone. You’re just too late to stop them."
***
Nick’s grip on the phone tightened, his breath coming slow and measured. Too slow. Too controlled.
Celeste’s fingers curled around his wrist. “Nick?”
He couldn’t look at her.
Not yet.
His brain was already working through the possibilities—who knew about the trap? Who had access?
His gut twisted.
Someone had betrayed them.
And that meant Celeste was in more danger than ever.
His free hand curled into a fist. Someone was going to answer for this.
Nick exhaled through his nose, his voice low, lethal.
“We’re not waiting for them to make the next move.”
Celeste’s pulse jumped. “What are you saying?”
Nick lifted his gaze, eyes burning with an edge of ruthless determination.
“I’m saying we’re about to find out just how deep our enemies go.”