Instead of sparking my anger, the memory makes my chest tighten with a strange, unfamiliar warmth. It terrifies me more than the Syndicate does.
"Get it together, Stella," I whisper to the empty room.
I need control. I need my autonomy back. Determined to slide back into "reporter mode," I throw off the luxury linens and stand up. I grab my hairbrush, aggressively pulling it through my tangled chestnut locks until they're smooth, and then tightly tether it all back into my practical, signature braid. I pull the strands, securing the hair tie like I’m securing my armor.
The moment the braid is set, I feel my spine stiffen. The reporter is back.
Just then, a rich, dark scent wafts into the room from downstairs. Coffee. Freshly brewed, strong, and calling my name.
Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and venture out into the hallway, following the aroma downstairs to confront my captor-turned-protector.
4
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 justseeher fear, I fuckingfeltit 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 justanother 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’smine. 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 theColorado Free Pressas 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 nottrying 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 unlikesomepeople, 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’tknowthat 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 grumpyattitude 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 whodidn’tteach me that lesson," she snaps, though her bravado is fraying at the edges. “But that’s just my professional opinion as a journalist.”
