Chapter 18 Chase
EIGHTEEN
CHASE
Fiona is standing in the middle of my kitchen like she’s auditioning for the role of Domestic Disaster Princess.
There’s flour in her hair. On her cheek. On the front of my shirt where she tried to “help” by hugging me like a flour bomb. Her eyes are wide and guilty and adorable, and I’ve seen men walk into a burning building with less fear than she has right now staring at that pan of ruined eggs.
I should be annoyed. However, I’m not. Instead, I’m… done for.
“You’re smiling,” she accuses, hands on her hips, like she’s caught me committing a crime.
“I’m not,” I lie.
She points at my face. “That’s a smile.”
I glance down at the plate I’m making—real eggs, real toast, the kind of breakfast that won’t require the fire department—and I realize my chest feels light. Like something in me that’s been locked up for years is finally breathing.
Because she’s here.
Because she’s safe.
Because she’s mine—not in the possessive way I’d never say out loud, but in the way my soul has apparently decided she matters more than my own peace.
I set the plate down and turn to her. She’s watching me carefully now, like she can sense a shift. Like she’s waiting for me to say something that could change the air between us. I don’t want to scare her. But I’m tired of holding the truth behind my teeth like it’s something dangerous.
“Fiona,” I say, voice low.
“Yeah?” she answers, trying to sound casual, but failing. Her fingers go to her hair—tucking it behind her ear, then forgetting and doing it again.
I step closer, close enough that she has to lift her chin to look at me. Close enough that I can see the tiny freckles across her nose and the way her pupils widen when my attention is on her. “I’m all in,” I tell her.
Her breath catches. “Chase—”
“No,” I say gently. “Let me finish.”
I take her hands. Her palms are warm. Slightly damp. She’s nervous. Pretending not to be. That’s her thing.
“I know this isn’t simple,” I continue. “I know you’ve got a life off this mountain. A job. A home. People. You might want to go back when this is done.”
Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow emotions.
“And if you do,” I say, “I’ll go with you.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“I’m not saying tomorrow,” I add quickly. “I’m not saying I’m quitting Haven 7 in five minutes and buying a condo downtown.”
She lets out a shaky laugh that sounds half-disbelieving, half-relieved.
“I’m saying… if this ends and you want to go home, and you want me there…” I hold her gaze. “I’ll do it. I’d do anything for you.” The words land between us like a vow.
Fiona’s lips part. Her eyes shine. For a second, she looks like she’s about to step into it—into me, into this, into whatever we’re becoming.
And God help me, I want her to. I want her to say yes. I want her to choose me without fear.
She swallows, voice small. “Chase… I—”
My phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
Then again—sharp, insistent, the kind of alert that slices right through a moment and turns it into ash.
Silas.
My stomach drops before I even look. I glance at the preview:
SILAS: ALERT. THREE WOMEN KIDNAPPED IN TIMBER CREEK. POSSIBLE MARCUS CONNECTION. MEET NOW.
Everything in me goes cold.
Fiona sees my face change and stiffens. “What is it?”
I swallow hard. “Silas. Three women were taken.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah,” I say, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
The moment we were having—our almost-future, our almost-confession—doesn’t disappear. It just… gets shoved into a drawer we’ll have to open later, if we survive today.
I force my voice steady. “Eat. We need fuel.”
She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Chase—”
“Fiona.” I step closer, palms bracketing her face for a brief second, grounding her. “Look at me.”
She does.
“You are safe,” I tell her. “Right now, you are safe. The compound is locked down. Harper and Kayley will stay with the babies. Gavin will have someone with you at all times.”
Her voice trembles. “You’re going out there.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s because of me,” she whispers, guilt already crawling up her spine.
“No,” I say firmly. “This is because of them. Because men like Marcus and Renshaw think they can take what they want and disappear into the dark.”
My thumb brushes her cheek. “You are not the reason bad men exist.”
She nods, blinking hard. “Okay.”
We eat fast—too fast. The food tastes like urgency. Like adrenaline. I swallow coffee like it’s armor. When we’re done, I stand and start moving with purpose—grabbing my jacket, checking my sidearm, mentally ticking through what we’ll need.
Fiona watches me, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold her body together. “I hate this,” she says quietly.
I step in close, press my forehead to hers for one brief second. “Me too.” Then I pull back and force my voice into a lighter register, because she needs something to hold onto. “But you know what I’m really good at?”
She sniffs. “Being annoying?”
“That too,” I say. “But I’m really good at bringing people home.”
Her eyes shine again. “Chase…”
“I meant what I said,” I add, low. “We’ll talk about it. After.”
She nods, like she’s storing the words somewhere safe.
I guide her toward the door. “Come on. Meeting room.”
We step outside into the bright morning air. Haven 7 is already shifting. Radios crackle. Boots thud. Men move with purpose across the yard like a machine locking into place.
As we walk toward the meeting house, I see Gavin striding across the compound, face carved from stone. Rafe is with him. Thorne is already checking the perimeter. Boyd’s grabbing gear. Eli’s heading toward the med station.
Silas is at the door, phone in hand, eyes hard. “We’re on,” he says as we approach. “Three women. One from the diner. Two from the gas station.”
Fiona’s face goes pale.
My jaw clenches. I step slightly in front of her without thinking, protective instinct flaring. Then I look at Silas. “Tell me everything,” I say.
Because whatever Marcus started? We’re ending it. Today.