Chapter 19 Rose
ROSE
Nerves fluttered in my stomach as we topped the driveway. The rain had turned into a full-on deluge, making the steep, winding road up the mountain feel scary instead of the way home. My cabin emerged from the darkness—silent, shadowed, and unsettling.
It was the first time I didn’t smile at the sight of it.
This house was my baby. The one I’d gutted and rebuilt, piece by piece. My safe place. My sanctuary. And now… it felt haunted. Tainted by the image of a faceless man slipping inside, crossing boundaries I’d once believed were unbreakable.
He’d taken the one thing I couldn’t rebuild: my safety. My privacy. My peace. And maybe—just maybe—he’d taken Andrew’s life too.
A wave of nausea crested in my chest. I clenched my jaw and squeezed my eyes shut as the image of Andrew’s body flashed across my mind—blood, brokenness, and the eerie quiet of death. I shifted in my seat, willing it away.
But I couldn’t.
Phoenix pulled under the carport and killed the engine. Before I could gather my purse or catch my breath, he was already out of the truck, striding into the rain with purpose.
I watched his silhouette—broad, solid, moving with the kind of focus that came from years of combat and control—cut through the downpour like it wasn’t even there.
He didn’t head to the porch.
He went around the house.
I grabbed my raincoat from the back, pulled it on, and stumbled out into the storm.
“Hey,” I called, wobbling on my heels as I jogged to catch up. “Where’re you going?”
“Perimeter check.”
Two words, gruff and direct.
And something about them—about him—made my heart slam once in my chest, then settle into something slower. Steadier.
He was checking my property like it was his own.
Because somewhere, somehow… I was.
“It’s raining. And I don’t have a fence.” I pulled the strings to the hood around my neck, securing it tightly around my face.
He kept walking, tunnel-visioned.
“I don’t have a fence,” I repeated, louder this time.
“A perimeter is the continuous line that encloses the boundary of something.”
“I just said I don’t have a fence.” I yelled over the rain as I caught up to him.
“Are you familiar with property lines, Miss Flower?”
“Don’t call me that, and I thought we agreed to be less condescending.”
“You. You agreed to be less condescending.” He slid out of his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It smelled like soap and pine. Like him.
“And you agreed to work on your communication,” I reminded him, breathless as I kept pace. “So communicate. What are you checking for?”
“Tracks.”
Behind us, the headlights clicked off, plunging us into sudden darkness. My hand shot out instinctively, catching the damp fabric of his T-shirt. He paused just long enough for me to latch on.
The rain fell in steady sheets around us, and I had no idea how Phoenix could see anything, let alone track footprints in this mess. But he moved like he did—deliberate, confident. Like his body remembered things even when his mind couldn’t.
“I want you to pull together a list of everyone who knows where you live.”
We began walking slower this time. I kept my grip on the back of his shirt, soaked and clinging to the muscle beneath it. Like a lifeline. Like a child clinging to their mother.
Or maybe more like a woman clinging to the one man she didn’t want to trust—but somehow already did.
He continued, “And anyone or any business that has access to your address.”
“That’s going to take some time.”
“Get it done. And spend some more time thinking of anyone who could have an obsession with you. Think beyond the obvious. Any fan mail? Messages on social media?”
“Fan mail?” I scoffed, caught off guard.
He didn’t answer.
“You… you know about my podcast?”
A low grunt.
I blinked. Of course he knew. It wasn’t a secret—but somehow, the idea of him listening unsettled me. Like he already knew parts of me that I hadn’t realized.
I stumbled over a tree limb just as the thought struck—and crashed right into him.
His arms caught me with the kind of reflexes you don’t lose, no matter how broken your body is. He didn’t just catch me—he held me. Tight. One hand on my waist, the other against the small of my back, grounding me.
Warm.
Steady.
Too close.
My breath hitched. For a split second, I didn’t want to move. My heart was thudding, fast and full against his chest. I could feel his heat through both our clothes, and for one dizzying second, I wondered if he felt it too.
“Slow down,” I murmured, the words escaping before I could control them. My voice was soft. Shaky. Embarrassed.
I pushed out of his arms, too aware of every inch of where we’d touched.
He let me go, but not without hesitation.
And not without leaving the air between us absolutely electric.
“Answer the question,” he said, heat lacing his voice.
I swallowed deeply, trying to get a damn hold of myself. “No, I haven’t gotten any creepy mail or messages.”
We started walking again, this time at a slower pace.
“I want access to your social media.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No. Listen, this is my life—”
“Yeah, and someone is obsessed with it, Rose.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s serious. I know about stalkers. I’d say half the female cases at Steele Shadows Security involve some sort of stalking, and let me tell you, it’s more than a weird obsession.”
“OLD.”
“Old what?”
“No, O-L-D. It’s an actual disorder. Obsessive Love Disorder. It’s an attachment disorder that’s commonly associated with another mental illness, like Borderline Personality Disorder.”
“Didn’t Jeffrey Dahmer have Borderline Personality Disorder?”
“Yes. It’s actually common with a lot of serial killers.”
“What else causes OLD, specifically?”
“Low self-esteem is most common. Neglect, abuse. Usually there’s some tipping point to the obsession. A trigger. Something happens in the person’s life, whether it be monumental or something small like a birthday or something, and it sets them off.”
“Something that makes them go off the rails, so to speak?”
“Right. A trigger.”
We walked a moment in silence.
“You got a boyfriend, Rose?”
The question caught me off guard. “No.”
“When was your last relationship?”
“Months ago.”
“Before that?”
“Uh, a long time. I’m kind of married to my work.”
“How serious were you and your last boyfriend?”
“Decently serious.”
“Meaning?”
“We were engaged.” The words slipped out before I could soften them, and to my surprise, a flush of embarrassment followed. I looked down, as if that might somehow hide it.
His stride broke as he looked over at me. He quickly recovered, though, and picked up his pace.
“We’d only dated a few months when he asked,” I added quickly. “I said yes, and our relationship ended a month later.”
“Why?”
I shrugged, eyes drifting away into the shadows. The last thing I wanted was to rehash the disaster of my engagement—not here, not with him, not like this.
“What’s his name?”
His voice was sharp now. Possessive. Too sharp.
A low current of warning pulsed through me, curling at the edge of something I didn’t know how to name. I was already walking a tightrope with Phoenix—this question felt like a gust of wind trying to knock me off.
“This isn’t really any of your business, okay?”
“Do you and him still talk?”
I looked over at him, barely able to make out his face in the dark—but I didn’t need light to know what was there. His eyes burned. Why? And why did it feel like his questions had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with me?
With us?
He was my patient.
This wasn’t okay. I had to get control of the conversation—of myself.
I arched a brow. “Do you have a girlfriend, Mister Twenty Questions?”
“Oh yeah,” he scoffed. “The girls are lined up for a mentally deficient unemployed former jarhead without a driver’s license.”
“You forgot concealed carry.”
“Thanks.”
“Can we drop this please? I don’t want to talk about my ex. And I don’t want to talk about your romantic past right now either, if I’m being honest.” Because everyone in town knew the Steele brothers’ reputation with women. Love them and leave them.
Lots of them.