Chapter 11
The wheels of the car crunch over gravel, and the dense canopy of Pine Haven trees parts to reveal the safe house. It”s nothing like my LA mansion. It”s all sleek lines and expansive windows, nestled like it”s grown right out of the forest floor.
”Damn, Axel, compensating for something with this fortress?” My tone is light, but I”m already cataloging the nearest exits and wondering how sound carries in the vast silence around us.
He chuckles, a low rumble that seems at home among the whispering pines. ”Just like to keep my guests comfortable,” he says, shooting me a look that”s all business despite the humor in his voice.
I step out of the car and my boots sink slightly into the earth, rich with pine needles. The air is crisp, almost biting compared to the smog-laced breeze of LA. It’s disconcerting, this quiet. There are no distant sirens and no constant hum of traffic—just nature”s breath and our own.
I wrap my arms around myself, not just from the chill but from a sudden vulnerability that grips me. This isn”t just a change of scenery; it”s like stepping onto another planet where my voice could get lost in all this space.
Axel”s already by my side, his presence solid and reassuring. He notices my shiver. ”Cold?” he asks, though it sounds more like a statement than a question.
”Just not used to all this...” I gesture to the endless trees and sky. ”...stillness.”
He nods, understanding without needing more words. ”It grows on you. The silence isn”t empty—it”s full of life if you listen.”
I snort, but it”s edged with real curiosity. ”Spoken like a true hermit. Do you talk to squirrels for fun here?”
A smirk tugs at his lips as he grabs our bags from the trunk. ”Only on Tuesdays.”
I follow him up the steps to the house, still wrapped up in my own arms. Inside, it’s warmth and soft light against cool shadows—the outside world held at bay by walls of glass.
”This is... nice,” I admit grudgingly as we step into the living room where minimalistic furniture complements the space without cluttering it.
”Nice?” He raises an eyebrow as he sets down our luggage. ”That”s one word for it.”
I roll my eyes but can”t suppress a smile. ”Okay, it”s impressive. You”ve got taste—I”ll give you that.”
Axel moves past me to secure each entry point methodically, his movements practiced and precise. I watch him for a moment before turning back to take in every inch of this new sanctuary.
”So why here?” I ask when he finishes his sweep and stands, looking almost as if he belongs amid this serenity—a stark contrast to his usual intense demeanor.
He leans against a wall, arms folded across his chest as he regards me with those deep blue eyes that don”t miss much. ”Peace,” he says simply. ”After everything... I needed somewhere that wasn”t tainted by past mistakes or regrets.”
His words hang between us, and in this moment of honesty, something shifts imperceptibly in the space we occupy together.
”You”re full of surprises, Creed.” My voice is softer now as I move closer to where he stands sentinel by the window.
I”m struck by how much the safe house doesn”t suck. With a name like ”safe house,” you”d expect some bunker-vibe, but this place is straight out of a modern architecture magazine, all sharp angles and gleaming surfaces that somehow don”t clash with the forest hugging it like a protective bear.
“You know, when you said “safe house,” my mind went to a cabin with a stockpile of baked beans, not… whatever the hell this James Bond chic is,” I say with a laugh.
He smirks at me from where he stands by the kitchen island—a slab of marble so pristine I feel like my eyes are dirtying it. ”I aim to impress. And for the record, there are no baked beans here. Only gourmet shit.”
I can”t help but laugh. ”Gourmet shit? Got it. No wonder you”re single, with lines like that.”
He gives me a mock wounded look before heading to the fridge and pulling out ingredients. ”How about I make us dinner? Unless you”re too high-maintenance for my cooking.”
I cross my arms and lean against the cool glass wall, raising an eyebrow at him. ”Challenge accepted. But if I end up with food poisoning, you”re nursing me back to health.”
The evening slips into comfortable domesticity as we chop and sauté together in silence punctuated by the occasional barb or burst of laughter. The kitchen smells like garlic and basil—homey and grounding—and for a moment, I forget about stalkers and threats.
We eat at a small table by the window overlooking the forest, which has turned from friend to shadowy watcher as night falls. It”s during these quiet moments, when he talks about his time overseas or listens to my dreams of selling out Madison Square Garden, that I start seeing him less like an impenetrable fortress and more like... well, a man.
”Ever think about settling down?” I ask between bites of pasta so good it”s almost indecent.
Axel”s hand pauses midair. ”Hadn”t crossed my mind recently,” he admits after a moment. ”What about you? Ready to trade screaming fans for screaming kids?”
I snort, nearly choking on my water. ”Hell no. Kids can”t afford concert tickets.”
But later, as we walk through the small town under a blanket of stars so thick it feels like we could reach up and grab them, something inside me twinges—like an old injury reminding me it”s still there. It”s not just Axel”s broad shoulders blocking out the chill or his attentive gaze that seems to see right through me; it”s this feeling of safety he wraps around me without even trying.
We stop by an old oak tree in the center of town square, its gnarled branches stretching toward heaven. He leans back against it and looks down at me with something that feels dangerously close to tenderness.
”You good?” he asks quietly.
”Yeah,” I breathe out, realizing that for the first time in a long while, I actually mean it.
In Pine Haven”s tranquil embrace, with Axel by my side and our pasts spread out between us like breadcrumbs leading back to who we used to be—I feel myself changing. Not into someone else entirely but into someone who can maybe trust again, someone who can admit that independence doesn”t always mean going it alone.
And damn if that isn”t scarier than any stalker lurking in the shadows.
We”re strolling down the main street of Pine Haven, Axel and I, and I swear every brick and flower pot is straight out of a Hallmark movie. I half expect someone to jump out with a camera crew and tell me I”m on one of those feel-good reality shows.
”Christ, do people here actually live like this, or is it just for show?” I mutter, peering into a bakery window at the mountain of pastries that could give my LA diet a run for its money.
Axel grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that does things to me I don”t want to analyze right now. ”Welcome to small-town charm. No smog, no traffic jams—just pie contests and probably a knitting club.”
I snort, but it”s not without affection for this place that”s slowly seeping into my bones. ”Just what I need. Trade in my mic for an apron and rolling pin.”
He nudges me with his elbow. ”I bet you”d rock the hell out of a pie crust.”
I”m about to retort when we”re interrupted by a voice as commanding as it is warm.
”You two must be new around here.” The woman stepping forward has a no-nonsense vibe about her, like she could wrestle a bear but would rather offer it tea first.
Axel straightens slightly, always the protector, but there”s respect in his stance. ”Sheriff Thompson, I presume?”
She nods, extending her hand. ”Grace Thompson. And you”re Axel Creed.” Her gaze shifts to me, appraising but not unkind. ”And you must be Sasha Cruz.”
I take her hand, firm and sure in mine. ”Guilty as charged,” I say with a smile that feels surprisingly genuine.
Sheriff Thompson’s eyes hold mine for an extra beat before she nods. ”Heard you might be coming our way. Anything we can do to help while you”re here?”
Axel answers before I can. ”Just keeping an eye out would be great, Sheriff.”
She tips her hat back slightly, looking up at the sky as if she”s reading it like a newspaper. ”Well then, consider it done.” Then her eyes are back on me, sharp but kind. ”And Sasha,” she says with a conspiratorial lean that has me intrigued, ”if you ever get tired of Axel”s cooking, come on by the station. We do a mean potluck every Thursday.”
My laughter bursts out of me like it hasn”t in too long—a sound that feels like sunshine breaking through clouds.
”Potluck? Shit, Sheriff,” I tease back, winking at Axel whose eyebrows are now somewhere near his hairline from surprise at my language or my sudden camaraderie with Grace Thompson—hard to tell which. ”I”ll bring the... uh... What doesn”t require actual cooking?”
She chuckles, deep and hearty. ”We”ve got plates and forks covered—but how about your company?”
My smile sticks as she walks away because damn if this town isn”t doing weird things to my heart.
Axel watches me closely; there”s something like wonder in his eyes now.
”What?” I ask self-consciously.
He shakes his head slightly as if he can”t quite believe what he”s seeing. ”Nothing,” he says softly before motioning down the street. ”Come on, Sunshine—let’s see what other kinds of trouble we can get into.”
I”m sprawledon a chaise longue, one of those fancy pieces of furniture that”s a pain in the ass to pronounce. ”Enjoying yourself?” Axel asks, a smirk on his face as he catches me trying to pronounce ”chaise longue” under my breath.
”It”s like a museum in here. If I sneeze, I feel like I”ll blow over a thousand-dollar vase or something,” I reply, letting my gaze wander over the impeccably tidy space.
He chuckles and takes a seat across from me, all casual grace and easy power. ”You won”t find any vases here. And it”s pronounced ”shayz long,” by the way.”
”Show-off,” I shoot back, but my heart isn”t in it. Instead, it”s busy doing somersaults because of the man sitting across from me—Axel Creed, with his military-grade biceps and eyes you could drown in.
I wrap my arms around myself, not from the cold but from the realization that I”m contemplating letting Axel Creed into my life again—not just as my bodyguard. The thought terrifies me as much as it thrills me.
I”ve always been Miss Independent. Sasha Cruz doesn”t need anyone... Except maybe now I do. And that pisses me off more than any stalker ever could.
Axel”s watching me; I can feel his gaze heavy on my skin. ”What”s going on in that head of yours?” he asks softly.
I meet his eyes and it’s like looking into a mirror reflecting all my fears and wants. ”Just wondering how many times you can get your heart stomped on before it just... stops working,” I say with more honesty than I intend.
His brow furrows with concern. ”You think that”s what this is? Me stomping on your heart?”
”No,” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. ”It”s just... Axel, I”ve worked so hard to build this life where I don”t have to rely on anyone else. And here you are, making me want to give up that control.”
He leans forward now, elbows on his knees, all earnestness and intensity. “Sasha,” he says quietly but firmly, “wanting someone to have your back doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. Isn’t that what you told me?”
My throat tightens. Damn him for making sense. It”s not just about needing protection from some psycho stalker; it’s about wanting to feel safe in someone’s arms—to share burdens that have been mine alone for too long.
I stand abruptly, restless energy coursing through me as I pace before the vast windows looking out into the dark forest beyond.
”Sasha?” Axel calls out to me again.
I turn back to him, my silhouette casting long shadows on the hardwood floor. ”I”m not good at this,” I confess, the words barely more than a whisper lost in the vastness of the room and the moment between us. ”I”m not good at needing people.”
He rises too now, closing the distance between us until we”re standing face-to-face—two people caught in an intricate dance of desire and defense.
”Sasha,” he repeats my name like it’s some kind of anchor keeping him steady in turbulent waters. ”You don”t have to be good at it. You just have to be you—that”s more than enough.”
”I want to believe that,” I tell him softly, tracing patterns on the glass with my fingertip—a distraction from the raw honesty in his eyes.
”You can start by believing in us,” he says gently, his hand covering mine against the cold windowpane—a gesture so tender it fractures something inside me.
And God help me—I”m ready to dive into whatever this is headfirst, because Axel Creed might just be worth every risk.