Chapter 9
NINE
FIONA
I decide two things very quickly.
One: Chase Callahan can cook.
Two: If this is how he feeds people he’s trying to protect, Haven 7 might be the most dangerous place for my waistline in the continental United States.
The cabin smells like butter, garlic, and something smoky and rich that makes my stomach growl loud enough to be rude. I hover at the counter, freshly showered and wearing the softest T-shirt I own, trying not to look like a rat who just discovered fine dining.
He plates the steaks with quiet confidence, adds roasted potatoes and asparagus, then sets everything down like he’s presenting on a cooking show I would absolutely binge-watch.
“Okay,” I say, eyeing my plate. “If this is poison, I just want you to know I’ll haunt you very aggressively.”
He smirks. “You’ll be too busy asking for seconds.”
I take one bite. And nearly close my eyes in a religious experience. “Oh,” I whisper. “Oh wow. This is… illegal. This should be regulated.”
“Told you,” he says, sitting across from me.
I chew, swallow, then immediately take another bite. “If you ever get tired of saving people, you could just open a steakhouse and rule the world.”
“Pass,” he says. “Too many people.”
We eat in a comfortable silence for a minute. The fire crackles. The wind brushes the windows. It feels… normal. Which is still weird to me. Normal is something I haven’t had in a while.
He watches me over his glass of water. Not in a creepy way. In a quiet, attentive way that makes me suddenly aware of how I’m sitting, how I’m holding my fork, how I keep tucking my hair behind my ear and then forgetting I already did it.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
My stomach tightens. “Depends. Is it about my tragic relationship choices?”
“Maybe later,” he says. “What did you actually hear? From your ex.”
I set my fork down slowly. The room doesn’t change. The fire doesn’t go out. But something inside me braces like I’m about to step into cold water. “I didn’t mean to hear it,” I say. “He was in the other room on the phone. He thought I was asleep.”
Chase doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.
“He was talking about moving girls through Timber Creek,” I continue quietly. “About how it was ‘quiet’ here. Easy. About buyers coming in from out of state. About a ring. A trafficking ring.”
His jaw tightens, but he stays silent.
“I didn’t hear names. Or dates. Just… enough to know it wasn’t a joke. Or a business thing. Or anything that could be explained away.” I swallow. “When I went into the room, he stopped talking. And the look he gave me…” I shake my head. “That’s when I knew I wasn’t safe anymore.”
Chase’s eyes are dark now. Focused. Controlled. “Did he know you heard?” he asks.
“I think he suspected,” I say. “He started watching me. Checking my phone. Asking where I was going. Then I saw that car. The same one. Three times.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s filing this away into a mental map of threats. “That’s enough to be worried,” he says. “You did the right thing coming here.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “My brother doesn’t think I’m overreacting?”
“Gavin thinks in worst-case scenarios,” he says. “Which means he’ll take this seriously.”
He picks up his phone and types quickly, then sets it down.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“That you overheard talk of a trafficking ring using Timber Creek as a route. And that your ex is likely connected.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t want to be the reason your lives get complicated.”
He looks at me like that’s the strangest thing he’s ever heard. “Fiona, this is literally our job.”
“Still,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring trouble to your door.”
He holds my gaze. “Trouble finds us. You just gave it a name.”
We finish dinner, and I insist on helping clean up, which turns into him washing and me drying because he says I’ll “break something important,” and honestly? Fair.
When the kitchen’s done, he leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “Want to learn something?” he asks.
“Like… how to cook a steak without selling my soul?”
He huffs a laugh. “Self-defense.”
My stomach flips. “You think I need it?”
“I think everyone should have it,” he says. “And I think it’ll help you feel a little more in control.”
I consider that. Then nod. “Okay. But if you throw me across the room, I’m suing.”
“Deal,” he says. “We’ll start simple.”
We move to the open space near the fireplace. He shows me how to stand, how to keep my balance, how to shift my weight.
“Rule one,” he says, stepping closer, “you don’t wait for someone to be gentle with you. You create space and you get away.” He demonstrates a basic wrist escape, his hands warm and firm around mine. “Twist here. Step back. Use your body, not just your arms.”
I try it. Fail. Try again. “Like this?” I ask.
“Almost,” he says, adjusting my stance. His hands are on my hips now, guiding me. My breath stutters, and I hate that my body notices before my brain does.
“Okay,” I say, a little breathless. “Now you’re just showing off.”
“Focus,” he says, but his voice is lower too.
We run through it again. Then a shoulder break. Then how to use an elbow.
“Again,” he says.
I swing. He blocks easily.
“Again.”
I try harder. He catches my wrist and pulls me in just enough that I have to step closer to keep my balance. We’re suddenly… very close. Too close. I can feel his breath. The heat of him. The way his hands are steady on my arms, like he’s anchoring me.
The room feels smaller. My heart is loud.
“You’re doing good,” he says quietly.
“Don’t encourage me,” I whisper. “I’ll get cocky.”
His mouth twitches. “Already did.”
I try to step back. He doesn’t stop me. But the space between us doesn’t feel like enough. This isn’t training anymore. This is tension. Thick and charged and very, very dangerous.
My pulse races. “Chase…”
He meets my eyes. “Yeah?”
“I think we should stop.”
He nods immediately and steps back, giving me space like he promised he would. We stand there for a second, both of us breathing a little too fast.
“Good call,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree, even though part of me absolutely does not agree.
I tuck my hair behind my ear and laugh nervously. “So. Uh. Turns out self-defense is… intense.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It can be.”
We don’t say what we’re both thinking. But it’s there. In the quiet. In the way he looks at me like he’s holding something back. In the way I’m suddenly very aware that being safe with someone can feel a lot like wanting them.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.