Chapter Eight
Myles
I should’ve told her.
That thought’s been burning a hole through me ever since I saw her with my phone, ever since she looked at me like I was the monster everyone says I am.
I knew this moment would come—hell, I thought I was prepared for it.
But nothing prepared me for the hurt in her eyes.
Nothing prepared me for the pain that tore through me at the sight of her tears.
I should’ve told her the truth from the beginning. Told her that I was the one trailing her steps at night, leaving those roses, making sure no one touched what was mine. I should’ve given her a choice. But I didn’t, and now I see the disgust in her eyes every time I close mine.
Fuck.
I walk the dark stretch of road away from the house, duffel in hand, my boots crunching on gravel, chest tight with a rage I can’t aim at anyone but myself.
I’ve faced war, watched men bleed out in the sand, taken lives without hesitation, but nothing compares to the wreckage in my chest from hearing Paris ask me to leave.
I should probably do as she asked—leave her life and never appear before her again. She deserves better. Not a man ruined beyond redemption.
But even though I know all that, I can’t bring myself to leave. Not without her.
Paris belongs with me. She just doesn’t realize it yet. And until she’s ready to listen, there’s only one thing I can do—go back to watching her from the shadows. Like before.
I veer off the main road, circling wide around her family’s property.
Old instincts kick in without thought. I scan perimeters, count exits, track the blind spots a man could use to slip through.
I note the loose boards on the back fence, the tree line that runs close enough to give me cover.
The place is safe, but safe isn’t good enough.
Not when it comes to my girl.
I find my spot on a rise overlooking the farmhouse. From here, I’ve got a perfect view of the front porch, the living room windows, the driveway where that old truck sits. I crouch low, settle against the trunk of an oak, and check my line of sight.
Perfect.
I grab my binoculars from my duffel, hold them up to my face and sweep the yard, the roofline, every shadow that could hold a threat. My weapon sits ready at my side, my finger brushing the grip out of habit.
The night settles heavily around me, the cold biting through my jacket, but I barely feel it. My eyes are fixed on the living room window, the flicker of firelight casting shapes I know too well.
Paris.
She’s curled up on the armchair nearest the fireplace, knees pulled to her chest, a blanket draped carelessly around her shoulders. Her hair catches the light, silver strands glowing like spun glass. She looks soft, fragile.
And then there’s Danny Meyers, slouched on the sofa across from her, too close to the fire, too close to her. He leans in when he talks, like every word needs to invade her space, his hand gesturing just enough to show he’s comfortable. Too comfortable.
I’ve seen men like him before. On deployments. On city streets. In bars where the lighting hides their teeth. Slick charm covering rot underneath.
Danny’s clothes are sharp but careless, designer jacket with frayed cuffs, shoes scuffed like he doesn’t care.
His hair is styled, but it’s the kind of styling that screams effort disguised as casual.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. That’s what sets me off the most. His eyes are restless.
Scanning. Calculating. Like a man who’s always working an angle.
He laughs at something she says, and the sight makes my skin crawl. She laughs too, but it’s softer, polite. She doesn’t notice the way his gaze lingers on her a second too long, drops to her mouth, her legs under that blanket. But I do.
My fists clench, knuckles cracking against the bark at my back.
It isn’t jealousy—though Christ, I could tear the window apart with my bare hands just to get him away from her. It’s instinct. That crawling awareness I’ve carried since I was in the army. Danny Meyers is wrong. Too slick, too empty. A man without a core.
And Paris? She’s so soft. So unsuspecting.
The firelight paints her face in gold, and I swear I can see her shiver even from here. Not from the cold. From something else.
My grip tightens around the binoculars. If he so much as shifts too close, if he tries to touch her, I’ll end him before he knows what hit him.
Paris may not want me in that house. But she doesn’t get a choice in this.
Because the one thing my instincts are screaming is this: Danny Meyers is not safe.
And no one touches what’s mine.