4. Easton
EASTON
The cold, bitter taste of my black coffee is the only thing keeping my focus sharp as I scan the security monitors. The kitchen is dead quiet, the hum of servers the only company I’ve had since finding Stella the hallway last night.
I still have the phantom feeling of her against me.
She was trembling, pale, and carrying the kind of haunted, hollow fear that only someone with a trauma-filled past truly recognizes.
I have no idea what her nightmare was about, nor the panic attack that preceded it, and it kills me.
In my world, information is power. I guess that’s true of Stella’s world as well, which is part of why she’s so good at guarding her secrets.
After last night, I’m more determined than ever to get the truth.
I didn’t just see her fear, I fucking felt it with my entire being.
It was so much more than the physical manifestation of anxiety.
When I held Stella in my arms and she gripped my shirt in her fists, a piece of my heart cracked and fell away.
Soon, my Stella will know I’m never leaving her side.
It took everything in me not to scoop her up and lock her away in the safety of my own bed and shield her from the world, but I know how she’s wired. If I demanded answers, I’d be just another person trying to control her, and she’d bolt. I have to let her come to me.
The soft tread of feet on the floorboards has me snapping my head toward the hallway.
When Stella walks in, I notice she’s pulled her light brown hair back into that tight, utilitarian braid again, the one that says she means serious business and drives me absolutely insane.
She looks fierce, defiant, and breathtakingly beautiful.
After seeing her tears and terror last night, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but of course, she has her armor securely in place.
While I understand, I hope soon she feels safe enough to be vulnerable with me all the time.
My gaze meets hers as she takes a few steps closer.
A kaleidoscope of emotions swirl beneath the surface of her emerald eyes.
It’s part anxiety and part embarrassment, but mostly, it’s the look of someone trying to distance themselves after sharing too much.
I get it, but I don’t want this morning to be one step forward, two steps back.
As Stella moves closer, I notice she’s wearing a pair of my sweatpants and a t-shirt she’s knotted on the side because it’s far too wide and long for her short frame.
Seeing her in my clothes ignites something undeniable deep in my chest. She’s wrapped up in the same fabric that’s touched my skin a thousand times, and fuck if that doesn’t make my dick twitch.
A primal, possessive certainty settles deep in my bones: she’s mine. My wife. The mother of my children. The one I’m going to grow older with and make a lifetime of happy memories neither one of us thought we’d have.
"Coffee," she says, her tone crisp and professional, though her green eyes are still wary. "And my files. I'm going to the Colorado Free Press as soon as I finish my proposal packet."
I don't even look at the monitors as I stand up. I loom over the island, letting her feel the full weight of my presence. I’m not trying to intimidate her, I’m simply letting her know how serious I am. "That's not happening."
"Excuse me?" she bristles, that sharp tongue of hers already firing.
"I don't remember asking for your permission, and I certainly don't recall signing up to be your prisoner.” Her brilliant emerald eyes spark with a challenge I’m all too ready to take head on.
“I have a job to do, Easton,” Stella continues.
“And unlike some people, I don't let a little fear stop me from delivering the truth. "
I fight the urge to smirk. It’s been over a decade since the last time I felt the corners of my mouth twitch in genuine amusement, but her fire is infectious. She’s especially adorable when she delivers a line she’s particularly proud of.
It takes a considerable amount of effort, but I force my face back into a hard, cynical mask. "You have a death wish," I growl. "The Syndicate knows you’re the one holding the final piece of evidence. You walk into that newsroom, you’re walking into a target zone.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” she counters, resting her hands on her hips. Her rounded, soft hips that I long to sink my fingers into while I bounce her on top of me… shit, get it together!
“Your life at the newspaper is on hold until further notice, Stella. You aren’t going anywhere.
" I cross my arms over my chest and watch her silently fuming across the kitchen island. She tilts her head up as if praying for the right words to fall from the sky. Or, more likely, she’s praying for the engine of a plane to crash through the roof and squash me.
"You don't get to decide that for me!" she shouts, finally breaking. Stella’s face heats with indignation, passion, and the grit of someone who has fought for scraps her whole life.
She tries to shoulder past me, but I shift, cutting off her exit.
"You think because you have a fancy security system and a grumpy attitude that you can just boss me around? I survived foster care, Easton. Which means I’ve handled my fair share of bad guys. "
Her comment hits me square in the chest. I need to know what made her this way and why she thinks she has to take on the world alone. "Who taught you that?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave, losing some of its edge.
“Taught me what? How to throw a punch and take one right back?”
My stomach twists with every new detail about Stella’s upbringing. Someone taught her how to take a punch? They laid hands on her enough times that she learned to fight back with her fists? Jesus Christ.
"No,” I answer calmly. “Who taught you that asking for help was a weakness?"
The sassy, sarcastic side of her comes out in an attempt to build another wall.
She rolls her eyes at me, looking almost bored when she answers.
"Oh, I don’t know, maybe it was a former foster mother who punished me for going to the school nurse since that reflected poorly on her.
Or possibly the cops when they responded to the desperate call of a twelve-year-old girl, only to side with my foster dad and reprimand me for wasting everyone’s time.
The better question to ask is who didn’t teach me that lesson," she snaps, though her bravado is fraying at the edges. “But that’s just my professional opinion as a journalist.”
“Stella, I had no idea…”
“Nor should you,” she’s quick to add. I can tell my brave yet broken angel didn’t intend to tell me all of that, but I’m thankful for every crumb of her story I can get “I… I wasn’t supposed to… just forget I said anything, okay?”
“I can’t. I won’t,” I vow. I want to say a million things, like how I’ll snap the neck of every person who hurt her, lied to her, or ignored her cries for help.
I don’t give a fuck if they’re law enforcement.
However, I reel in my possessive thoughts and tuck them away for when the immediate threat has passed.
Stella sighs heavily, as if already exhausted of our argument. "Look, I don't need a guardian, Easton. I need my files."
She tries to dart past me again, and this time, I move faster. I catch her, my hands sweeping up to pin her against the granite counter, trapping her between the stone and my body.
I tower over her, our gazes locked. Her nostrils flare and her jaw tightens, and for a moment I think the little spitfire might headbutt me. Stella huffs out a frustrated breath, but doesn’t try to escape.
The sudden proximity makes the air in the kitchen turn thick and heavy with the scent of coffee and an undeniable, scorching current of sexual tension. She goes rigid, her breath hitching as she looks up at me. That defiant mask of hers is finally starting to crack under my stare.
Her eyes widen, searching mine, and I see the exact moment her resolve wavers. Stella’s stubbornness melts into something raw and vulnerable, though I know she’d never admit it. My girl wants to be taken care of, she wants to be able to trust me, but she doesn’t know how.
I get it. Fuck, do I get it. There’s a reason I clawed my way up from the depths of poverty and started my own company with the sole purpose of protecting people, and it sure as hell isn’t because life was great and I trusted authority figures.
This fragile moment is suspended in time as I figure out what to say. When I lean down, my voice is a dark rumble near her ear. "I’m the only reason you’re still breathing. You’re going to stay right here, under my eye, until I say it’s safe."
The silence stretches, taut and electric. She looks ready to fight, ready to bite, but I see the way she’s leaning into me, despite herself. Her head tilts back, revealing the sensitive skin of her neck. Without thinking, brush my nose and lips over her pulsepoint, followed by my scratchy beard.
She trembles at the tickling sensation, and I groan internally at how sweet her surrender is going to be. I’m just about to push a little further, to see if I can get her to admit she’s not as invincible as she pretends, when—
CRACK.
The high-pitched, jarring chirp of the comms system cuts through the tension like a blade. Miller’s voice comes through, clipped and frantic.
"Easton, we've got a problem. Syndicate scouts just flagged a vehicle registered near Stella's apartment. It’s a sweep team. The countdown has officially begun.”