He stopped just outside my door.
I went still all over. As if stillness made me invisible.
A long second stretched and stretched, thin as a thread and twice as dangerous. I could hear him not-knocking. I could hear him choosing.
Then his boots moved on. The quiet swallowed him, and the soft metallic click of a lock turning—Room 4. I exhaled, disappointed and relieved.
“Goodnight,” I whispered to the ceiling, to my traitorous body, to the man down the hall who didn’t know he’d already gotten under my skin.
8
GIDEON
The Ducati Panigale V4 SP2 purred beneath me like a caged animal finally let loose, its carbon-fiber frame slicing through the humid night air as I guided it down the narrow road toward the inn.
Elias had pulled it from the depths of that endless garage—a masterpiece of engineering, matte black with red accents that caught the moonlight just enough to hint at the power humming inside. Over two hundred horsepower, lightweight as a feather compared to the beasts I'd ridden in the field, but built for precision and speed. It suited me down to the bone: silent when it needed to be, explosive when pushed.
The wind whipped past, carrying the salt of the marsh and the faint echo of the ocean beyond the dunes. Charleston faded in the mirrors, Dominion Hall's opulence already feeling like a dream I hadn't asked for.
I eased off the throttle as the Bradford Inn came into view, its faded blue silhouette rising against the dark like a weary sentinel. No lights in the windows, no glow from the porch. Theplace was asleep, shutters drawn tight against the breeze that rustled the sea oats.
Disappointment settled in my chest, heavier than it had any right to be. I'd pictured Hazel still up—maybe in the foyer with her notebook, scratching out lists under the chandelier's fractured light, or on the porch breathing in the night like she was trying to make sense of it. But the inn stood quiet, only a faint gleam from what might've been Maude's apartment out back.
I killed the engine, the sudden silence rushing in thick and complete.
Swinging off the bike, I wheeled it to the side of the house, leaning it careful against a column so the kickstand wouldn't sink into the soft sand. Boots crunched on the gravel as I headed for the front door. It gave with a gentle push, the bell above tinkling soft, almost apologetic.
The foyer smelled the same—lemon polish layered over salt air, with a lingering trace of dinner: shrimp and rice, her plate across from mine, half-eaten while those green eyes flicked up to meet mine too often.
I moved through the shadows, pack slung easy over one shoulder, up the stairs that creaked no matter how deliberately I placed each step.
The hallway stretched dim and narrow, moonlight spilling through a high window at the far end to paint silver edges on the wallpaper vines. Her door was there, at the opposite end from mine. I paused outside it, the wood cool under my palm as I rested it flat against the panel.
Knock. Just once.
Or hell, break it down—splinter the frame, step inside, find her in the dark and see if that spark from dinner ignited into something we couldn't walk away from. The thought surged hot and unbidden, my knuckles whitening against the grain.
No. Couldn't. She was the owner here, this her world, me just a guest with orders I hadn't even begun to understand. One wall away, and already she had me unraveling.
I forced my hand down, stepped back, and let the silence swallow the urge.
My own door opened quiet. I dropped the pack by the dresser and flicked on the lamp, its soft yellow glow chasing the shadows into the corners. The room felt smaller now, simpler: the bed with its faded quilt, the wooden chair in the corner, the window cracked open to let in the low hum of the marsh.
I headed to the en-suite bath, trying to shake her from my head with routine. Brushed my teeth slow, the mint sharp on my tongue, staring at my reflection in the mirror—beard a little wild from the ride, eyes shadowed deeper than the flight alone could account for. Prepped for bed next: unpacked the pack methodical, clothes folded neat on the chair, boots lined up by the door like soldiers at rest. Stripped down to my boxer briefs, the cotton cool against heated skin.
A second thought crept in as I stood there, the air thick with salt and something restless.
Why bother?
I shucked the briefs, too, let them drop, and climbed naked into the sheets. The fabric rasped soft against me, a reminder of how long it'd been since anything had touched like this—intentional, unhurried. The bed creaked as I settled back, arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling where cracks spidered like veins in old marble. A couple creaky walls separated me from her. That's all. Close enough to hear a sigh if the night was still, far enough to keep the line intact.
Why her?
Why now?
I'd crossed paths with women in worse places—dusty bars on base, fleeting nights in villages where tomorrow wasn't promised—and never once let it linger.
But Hazel ... was it the hair, those wild red curls that escaped her bun like they refused to be tamed? The eyes, green and piercing, shifting like forest light? The body, curves that promised yield under all that control?
