Chapter 10
Ellie
Wyatt’s hand is still wrapped around Graham’s when Graham leans in and says something I can’t hear.
I don’t need to.
I can read it on Graham’s face—the calm cruelty, the private satisfaction, the way he thinks he can smile his way through anything because the town loves a man in a suit who speaks in “reasonable” tones.
Wyatt’s posture changes. It’s subtle if you don’t know him. If you don’t know what a firefighter looks like right before he walks into flames.
But I know.
His shoulders lock. His jaw hardens. His eyes go darker, colder, like a switch flips from husband to threat.
My fingers are still curled around Wyatt’s forearm behind his back, and I tighten them without meaning to.
Wyatt releases Graham’s hand slowly. Too slowly. Like he’s deciding whether to break something.
Graham steps back with that polished grin. “Anyway,” he says, loud enough for the shop to hear, “Ellie. We should talk privately.”
I laugh once, sharp and ugly. “No.”
Graham’s brows lift with that fake surprise he does so well. “Sweetheart—”
Wyatt moves before I can speak. One step, and he’s closer. Not threatening on paper. Not in court. But in real life, in a small-town chocolate shop with witnesses and air that suddenly feels too thin.
“Don’t call her that,” Wyatt says, voice flat.
Graham’s smile stays in place. “I’ve called her that for years.”
Wyatt doesn’t blink. “Not anymore.”
Levi, the menace, is leaning against a shelf like he paid for front-row seats. Sadie stands near the doorway, arms crossed, expression calm but eyes sharp like she’s clocking every move Graham makes.
Graham’s gaze flicks to the flannel on my body, then to the way I’m behind Wyatt, and something in his face tightens—just for a second. The mask slips. Possession flashes.
Then the mask comes back.
“You’re playing house,” Graham says smoothly. “This is… cute. But you know she’ll come back. She always does.”
Heat crawls up my neck. My hands ball into fists inside the oversized sleeves. “I didn’t ‘always’ come back. I stayed too long.”
Graham’s eyes narrow slightly. “Ellie. Be careful.”
Wyatt’s head turns a fraction toward me, like he’s checking if I’m still breathing.
I am.
Barely.
Wyatt faces Graham again. “You’re done here.”
Graham lets out a soft chuckle. “Is that a threat?”
Wyatt’s mouth doesn’t move. “It’s a promise.”
The words hit me low in the belly. Not because I’m impressed by posturing. Because Wyatt doesn’t posture. He means what he says, and the certainty in him is terrifying and… something else. Something that makes my pulse jump in places it shouldn’t.
Graham’s gaze flicks to the front of the shop, where the window faces Main Street. He knows eyes are on us. He knows Margie Warner and Mrs. Hargrove are probably vibrating with gossip across the street.
So he plays the gentleman.
He smooths his suit jacket. “I’m here to offer a solution,” he says, louder now, performing. “Ellie’s accounts are in default. The bank has procedures. I can help her if she’d just—”
“If I’d just what?” I snap. “Come beg?”
Graham’s smile tightens. “Come be reasonable.”
Wyatt’s hand slides behind him, palm brushing my hip through the flannel like a silent warning to stay back. It’s not a grab. It’s not force. It’s control.
My skin lights up anyway.
I hate myself for it.
Graham’s gaze drops to Wyatt’s hand placement, then lifts again. “This is getting inappropriate,” he says, voice smooth. “I’ll let you two… do whatever this is. But Ellie, we’ll talk soon.”
“No,” I say, voice steady now. “We won’t.”
Graham’s eyes go hard, finally. “You’re making a mistake.”
Wyatt’s voice cuts in, quiet and lethal. “Leave.”
Graham holds Wyatt’s stare for a beat too long, like he’s trying to measure him. Then he glances at me one last time—like I’m property he temporarily misplaced—and turns toward the door.
“See you soon, sweetheart,” he tosses over his shoulder, just to see if he can still make me flinch.
Wyatt steps forward so fast Levi actually straightens like he might have to intervene. Sadie’s hand shifts, like she’s ready to do something messy.
But Wyatt stops himself.
Barely.
Graham leaves with a smile that isn’t a smile.
The bell jingles behind him like a joke.
The second the door closes, I exhale and realize my whole body is shaking.
Levi lets out a low whistle. “That man is… punchable.”
Sadie’s gaze stays on me. “You okay?”
I swallow. “I’m fine.”
Sadie’s eyes narrow. “Stop saying that.”
Wyatt doesn’t look at me yet. He looks at Levi. “Get out.”
Levi blinks. “Excuse me?”
Wyatt’s voice stays calm. “Now.”
Levi opens his mouth, probably to joke, but Sadie grabs his sleeve and tugs. “Come on. Let them.”
Levi points at me as he backs toward the door. “For the record, Ellie, if you need someone to bury a body—”
“Levi,” Sadie warns.
He grins. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Then they’re gone, and the shop is suddenly too quiet.
Wyatt turns toward me slowly.
His eyes hit my face and something in him shifts again—tension, fury, restraint so tight it looks like pain.
“Come here,” he says.
I lift my chin. “Don’t order me around.”
His gaze drags down my body, then back up. “I’m ordering you around.”
My pulse jumps. My throat tightens. “Wyatt—”
He takes one step closer. “Ellie.”
The way he says my name makes it feel like a hand at the back of my neck.
I try to keep my voice sharp. “I handled it.”
“You didn’t,” he says. “You survived it.”
Anger flashes. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me sound weak.”
His eyes harden. “I’m not making you anything. He did.”
The words land like a hit to the chest. My breath catches. I look away because if I keep looking at Wyatt, the dam breaks.
Wyatt’s hand catches my chin, turning my face back to his. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just… inevitable.
“Tell me,” he says.
I swallow hard. “Tell you what.”
“The truth,” he replies. “No more minimizing. No more ‘I’m fine.’”
I laugh once, brittle. “You want the truth? The truth is I’m standing in my own shop wearing your shirt because my ex locked me out of my life.”
Wyatt’s jaw tightens. “Keep going.”
My throat burns. “The truth is he didn’t just… finance my shop. He owned the air around it. He made every ‘help’ feel like a debt. He kept me grateful and small.”
Wyatt’s eyes go darker.
I shove my chin out of his hand, because I need space to speak. “He wasn’t just a boyfriend.”
Wyatt’s gaze pins me. “What was he?”
“A leash,” I say, and the word tastes like humiliation. “He was… a leash I let myself wear because I thought it was normal. Because my family taught me that being taken care of is the same as being loved.”
Wyatt’s nostrils flare slightly. His hands curl at his sides.
“And now?” he asks.
I swallow hard. “Now he’s tightening it because I slipped out.”
Wyatt steps closer again, so close my back hits the edge of the display counter. The candy case is behind me, full of truffles I’m not even sure I’m allowed to sell, and Wyatt is in front of me like a wall.
“You’re not going back,” he says.
I let out a shaky breath that turns into anger because fear is exhausting. “I don’t want to. But I’m terrified.”
Wyatt’s eyes flicker. “Of what?”
I laugh again, but this time it cracks. “Of losing everything. Of my dream dying because a man with a tie decided to punish me. Of having to go home and listen to my mother say, ‘I told you so,’ and my father looking at me like I proved him right.”
Wyatt’s jaw clenches hard.
I force the next words out. “Of crawling back to Graham because at least then I’d still have a roof and a key to my own shop.”
Silence drops.
Wyatt doesn’t move. He just looks at me like he’s seeing blood.
Then his voice goes low. “He doesn’t get you back.”
My breath catches.
I try to scoff. “Wyatt—”
“He doesn’t,” Wyatt repeats, louder now, and the restraint in him snaps just enough that it changes the temperature in the room. “Not with money. Not with fear. Not with a smile.”
I shake my head, throat tight. “You can’t—”
Wyatt’s hand lands on my waist, fingers spreading over the flannel like he’s claiming territory. His other hand cups the back of my neck, steadying me, holding me.
“You want to know what you can do?” he says, voice rough. “You can stop thinking you have to earn your right to exist.”
My pulse hammers.
Wyatt leans in, not touching my mouth yet, hovering close enough that I feel his breath on my lips. It’s torture. It’s control.
“You want a shield?” he murmurs. “Then let me be it.”
I swallow, voice barely there. “This is still a deal.”
Wyatt’s mouth tilts, dark. “We can call it whatever you need to sleep.”
Then he kisses me.
It isn’t gentle.
It isn’t tentative.
It’s a claim—hot, steady, unfiltered. Like he’s been holding back for years and decided he’s done pretending.
His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me in until there’s no space left to breathe, and I hate how fast I melt into him.
I hate how my fingers grab his shirt like I’m afraid he’ll disappear.
Wyatt’s kiss deepens, slow and devouring, and the world narrows to heat and breath and the hard line of his body against mine. I make a sound I don’t recognize—half protest, half surrender—and Wyatt answers it with a low growl that vibrates against my mouth.
I should push him away.
I should remember Wade.
I should remember this is “temporary.”
Instead, I tilt my head and kiss him back like I’m starving.
Wyatt’s hand slides up the back of my neck into my hair, fingers tangling, controlling the angle like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. His mouth moves against mine like he’s writing a rule I can’t break.
When he pulls back, it’s only an inch. Close enough that his lips still brush mine when he speaks.
“Tell me you’re going back to him,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me, and I’ll let you.”
My breath comes out shaky. “I’m not.”
Wyatt’s eyes flash. “Say it again.”
“I’m not,” I repeat, and my voice is stronger now. “I’m not going back.”
Wyatt kisses me again, shorter this time, like punctuation.
Then a siren blares in the distance.
For half a second, it doesn’t register.
Then it does—because the sound cuts through everything in Devil’s Peak. It’s the sound of emergency. The sound that owns Wyatt more than I ever could.
Wyatt goes still.
His head turns toward the station radio on his belt like he can hear it before it speaks.
A crackle.
Then dispatch: “Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue—structure fire. Possible occupants. Respond.”
Wyatt’s whole body shifts. Duty snaps into place like armor.
He looks at me, jaw tight, eyes still dark from the kiss, and something like frustration flickers across his face—like he wants to stay and tear the world apart for me, but he’s wired to run toward the flames.
“I have to go,” he says.
My throat tightens. “Wyatt—”
He grips my face gently—too gently for how hard he is everywhere else. “You stay inside. You lock the doors. You don’t open for anyone.”
My pulse spikes again. “You’re leaving me alone.”
His eyes harden. “Not unprotected. Call Wade—”
“He left this morning for Sacramento.”
“Call Captain—or Levi—they know what’s been going on.”
“I don’t want—” My voice catches. “I don’t want him here.”
Wyatt’s gaze goes lethal. “He won’t touch you.”
He kisses my forehead—brief, controlled, like a promise he can carry into fire.
Then he steps back, already moving, grabbing his phone, his keys, his jacket.
The bell over the door jingles as he strides out.
And suddenly I’m standing in my shop, wearing Wyatt’s shirt, lips swollen from his kiss, heart hammering in my chest—alone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket like a threat waking up.
I pull it out with shaking fingers, already knowing I shouldn’t.
The screen lights up.
No name.
No number.
Just a notification.
And the sick realization that the call didn’t just pull Wyatt away.
It pulled the only wall between me and Graham.