Chapter 10
The decision to whisk Sasha away from the glaring spotlight of LA wasn”t an easy one, but it was necessary. With the paparazzi hounding her every move and the stalker”s threats looming over her like a thundercloud, I knew we had to find a place where she could breathe, where she could feel safe. Pine Haven, with its rustic charm and off-the-beaten-path location, seemed like the perfect sanctuary.
Los Angeles shrinks in the rearview mirror, its chaos surrendering to the tranquil darkness of the open road. The stars seem brighter out here, away from the city”s smog and smoke—distant yet piercing. It feels like they”re spotlighting my every flaw, every crack in my defenses. Sasha fidgets in the passenger seat, her gaze flitting between me and the landscape blurring past.
”So, this is what freedom feels like?” she teases, breaking the silence that”s settled between us like an unwelcome third passenger.
I chuckle, keeping my eyes on the road. ”If by freedom you mean escaping a glittering cage for a quiet one, then yeah, sure.”
Her laughter is light, a stark contrast to the heavy tension that”s been building since we left her mansion. I can tell she”s trying to make this easier—on both of us. But old habits die hard, and I”m a master at building walls.
The sports car”s engine hums a steady bass line beneath our dialogue—a soothing backdrop to our uneasy duet. The leather of the steering wheel is cool under my palms, and I relish its firmness, a reminder of control in a situation where I feel anything but.
”Ever miss it?” she asks suddenly. ”Military life?”
I glance at her profile silhouetted by the dashboard”s glow. ”Miss it? Can”t say I do.”
She studies me with those perceptive eyes. ”But there”s got to be something you miss about... before.”
I keep my response noncommittal. ”Before was another life.”
She nods slowly, absorbing my words—or lack thereof—like she”s piecing together a puzzle only she can see.
The silence stretches again, but it”s different now—charged. I sense her curiosity gnawing at her restraint; it”s palpable even as she sits quietly by my side.
Sasha shifts in her seat, her voice softer when she speaks again. ”I”m not trying to pry... I just... You are trying to save me, to keep me safe. And all I know about you could fit on one side of a business card.”
I give a smile that doesn”t quite reach my eyes. ”Well, that”s all there is to know.”
Bullshit.
The dashboard illuminates her frown as she turns away, gazing out into the darkness beyond the window. I can tell she doesn”t buy it—not for a second.
A quiet voice inside me whispers that maybe it wouldn”t be so bad to let someone in again—to share the pieces of myself I”ve kept locked away for too long. But old fears are stubborn beasts.
We ride in silence for a while longer, the miles ticking away beneath us like seconds on a time bomb—one neither of us knows how to defuse yet.
The night wraps around the car like a shroud, and the hum of the engine is the only thing filling the silence. It”s a kind of quiet that makes you think too much, or maybe just enough.
”Do you ever feel like your life”s one big performance?” Sasha”s voice cuts through the stillness, a little too loud in the confined space. She chuckles, but there”s a tremor in it that speaks of something raw. ”I mean, here I am, Sasha the pop star, but sometimes I don”t even know who that is.”
I steal a glance at her. ”We all wear masks, don”t we?”
She nods, staring into the dark like it”s got answers. ”When I was a kid, I had this crippling stage fright. Would puke before every recital. My mom thought I”d never make it.”
I smirk, easing my grip on the wheel. ”Look at you now.”
”Yeah.” She laughs, a real one this time. ”Turns out throwing up is a hell of a motivator.”
The tension between us lightens for a moment, and something in me wants to keep that feeling going.
”I had my own stage once,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her head snaps toward me. ”Yeah?”
”Field ops. The stakes were... shit, they were life or death.” The words are out now, and there’s no pulling them back.
Her eyes are wide in the dim light, reflecting stars that have no business being this close to earth. ”What happened?”
I can feel the weight of her gaze as heavy as my own heartbeat. It”s been years since I talked about it—to anyone.
”Operation went south,” I say with a tightness in my chest. ”Good men died—men under my command.”
She doesn”t say anything for a moment, just letting the silence sit heavily between us.
”I”m sorry,” she whispers finally.
It”s simple, and maybe it shouldn”t mean much, but it does.
”Derek got out with me,” I continue, the words feeling like boulders rolling off my tongue. ”Carries his own scars.”
Sasha reaches out then hesitates, her hand hanging in the air before she pulls back. ”You”re not alone in this.”
I want to believe her; part of me does. But there”s another part that wonders if letting someone see the cracks is just inviting them to fall into the chasm with me.
”I know,” I manage to say. And for now, that has to be enough.
The engine”s low growl cuts out as I pull the car to the side of the road, the tires crunching over gravel. I stare out into the darkness, pretending I need to stretch my legs. The truth is, I”m running from something much scarier than any physical threat.
”What”s up?” Sasha”s voice is tinged with concern, slicing through the silence that wraps around us like a thick fog.
”Just needed a break,” I lie smoothly, but there”s a tremor in my hands that betrays me.
I step out of the car and lean against the hood, feeling its residual warmth. Above us, the sky is an inky canvas dotted with stars. It”s too beautiful, too vast—it makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.
What if she sees me as broken? The thought echoes in my head like a haunting refrain.
I can”t look at her yet. Can”t face those searching eyes that might just unravel me completely.
”Everything okay?” Sasha joins me outside, her presence a reminder of why I”m fighting this internal battle.
I drag in a deep breath of night air, trying to steady myself. Can I risk showing her my darkest moments?
Her hand hovers near my arm, not touching but offering silent support. How can she stand there and look at me like I”m someone worth holding onto?
I force myself to meet her gaze, searching for a sign of revulsion or pity. Instead, all I see is warmth and... understanding?
”I don”t want you to think less of me,” I admit with a rawness that feels like it”s tearing something inside.
She shakes her head slowly. ”Axel, sharing your pain doesn”t make you weak—it makes you human.”
It”s as if she”s given me permission to shed a layer of armor I didn”t even realize I was wearing. The relief is immediate and terrifying all at once.
Her fingers finally bridge the gap between us, resting lightly on my forearm. ”We”ve all got scars,” she says softly. ”They don’t make up who we are; they”re just part of our story.”
In this quiet stretch of road under the watchful eye of the cosmos, something shifts within me—a tectonic plate of emotion that”s been locked in place for too long.
I nod, allowing her words to sink in and soothe the turmoil that”s been raging inside me since... well, since forever it seems.
We don”t speak as we climb back into the car; words are superfluous now. But as we continue our journey toward Pine Haven, there”s a silent agreement hanging in the air between us—an unspoken vow that from here on out, we face our vulnerabilities together.
The world outside is a shadow play, trees and road signs flitting by in the periphery of our makeshift sanctuary. I lean back against the leather seat, feeling its firmness against my spine. Sasha”s presence beside me is a silent anchor in the dark sea of my own thoughts.
She”s quiet for a moment, and I can almost hear her organizing her words, arranging them like soldiers before a battle.
”Strength isn”t just about holding up walls, Axel. It”s about letting them down too,” she says, her voice steady but gentle. ”And vulnerability... that”s the bravest thing of all.”
I draw in a deep breath, her words slicing through years of conditioning—years of believing that to reveal is to risk destruction.
”I guess I”ve always seen strength as a way to protect—not just others, but myself,” I confess, staring straight ahead. ”But it gets... lonely behind those walls.”
I feel her gaze on me, patient and unwavering.
”Yeah,” she whispers. ”It does.”
We sit in the silence that follows, and it wraps around us like a comforting blanket rather than an oppressive fog. The night presses close against the windows of the car, but inside this space, there”s an odd sense of safety.
Taking a deep breath, I feel the words bubbling up from somewhere deep inside—a place I”ve kept locked away for too long.
”It wasn”t just any operation,” I start, my voice barely above the hum of the idling engine. ”We were ambushed—and I... I lost good men. Derek was the only reason I made it out alive.”
There”s pain in those words, and reverence too—for Derek, for those we left behind. The darkness feels heavier now, filled with ghosts of my past that cling to me like a second skin.
”That mission, it changed everything,” I continue, my throat tight with emotion. ”I was broken, Sasha. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. I felt like a failure, like I didn”t deserve anything good in my life. And that included you.”
I feel her hand tighten around mine, a silent encouragement to keep going.
”I wanted to reach out to you, to explain why I disappeared. But I couldn”t. I felt unworthy, like you deserved someone better, someone whole. I thought you were better off without me.”
The words hang heavy in the air, a confession that”s been weighing on my soul for far too long. I risk a glance at Sasha, expecting to see hurt or anger in her eyes. But instead, I find understanding and a softness that nearly undoes me.
”Axel,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. ”I never blamed you for not coming back. I knew, deep down, that you had your reasons. But I wish you had given me a chance to be there for you, to help you carry that burden.”
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. ”I know that now. But back then, I was too lost in my own pain to see it. I thought I was protecting you by staying away.”
Sasha”s fingers intertwine with mine, a gesture of comfort and connection. ”We”ve both been through so much, Axel. But we”re here now, together. And that”s what matters.”
Her words wash over me like a balm, soothing the ache that”s been residing in my chest for so long. She”s right. We can”t change the past, but we can choose how we move forward.
”Axel,” she says softly, ”showing me this side of you doesn”t make you any less of a man. If anything, it makes me respect you more.”
Her words aren”t just empty reassurances; they”re lifelines thrown into turbulent waters. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I consider grabbing hold.
In the thick of my emotions, and seeing the look of acceptance in her eyes, I drop my guard even further—maybe too far. Holding her gaze, I lean forward and meet her lips with mine. It’s not the frenzied passion of our night together year ago, but my desperate attempt to communicate the depth of my appreciation for everything she is.
I’m surprised when she matches my kiss with equal fervor, and we reach for each other, trying to pull the torn bits of our beings back together. One of her hands hooks behind my neck, pulling me closer, while the other roams over my chest and around my shoulder. I settle my hands on the curve of her hips, desperately wishing to close the distance between us.
And then, I remember myself—remember my mission. Even on a road in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, danger could be lurking in the shadows. I still have no idea what this stalker is really capable of, and lapses like this… those are what get people killed.
So I pull away, and Sasha looks at me with a mixture of confusion and disappointment. “We can’t,” I say, “Not here, and not now.” She nods, looking down at her hands folded in her lap.
As we pull back onto the road and Pine Haven draws closer with every mile we conquer together, something unspoken yet palpable fills the space between us. The silence isn”t awkward anymore—it”s shared; it”s ours.
It”s in this quiet understanding that we continue our journey—not just toward safety or refuge—but toward something resembling hope—a chance to heal wounds both seen and unseen.