I shook my head, barely breathing. “You don’t mean that.”
The words came out sharper than I intended, but the truth clawed its way out with them.I was the daughter of the criminal. The outcast. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, I couldn’t, and coming back home was just a bitter reminder.The whispers, the stares, the pity, they all said the same thing:Bellerose blood doesn’t change.
“I do, Harmony,” he said quietly, his voice breaking through my thoughts. “You just don’t see what I see.”
My chest tightened. “And what’s that?”
“Someone who’s spent her whole life trying to make up for something that was never her fault.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Someone I’ve been trying not to see for years.”
The words pulled something fierce and unsteady from inside me, and all the anger, fear, and longing tangled together until I couldn’t tell one from the other. “You’re going to make this harder than it already is.”
His mouth curved, soft but certain. “Then let me make it worth it.”
The air thickened between us, heavy with everything we hadn’t said.
He stepped forward, and suddenly the distance between us disappeared. His mouth brushed mine, tentative at first, then sure, like he’d spent years memorizing the shape of this moment. I felt the rough scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath, the way his hand cupped the side of my neck, as though he could anchor me there. The kiss deepened before I could stop it. Heat surged through me, wild and familiar, the kind that started low in my stomach and spread everywhere at once. The envelope slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a soft whisper. His fingers found the small of my back, drawing me closer until the world blurred around us.
When we finally broke apart, my chest ached from holding my breath.
“This is a bad idea,” I said, my breaths coming fast. My heart beating erratically.
“Probably.” His forehead rested against mine. “Doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
I closed my eyes, trying to catch my balance. “You don’t get it. Every time I let someone close, they end up hurt. My father made sure of that.”
“I’m not scared of your father,” Eric stated, standing so close I felt his breath warm against my lips.
“You should be.”
He smiled faintly. “You forget who my dad is. I grew up in a house where justice was dinner conversation. You think Marcel Bellerose scares me?”
The tension broke with the smallest sound—half laugh, half sob. “You always think you can fix everything.”
“Not everything.” His voice softened. “Just the parts that matter.”
He brushed his thumb over my lower lip, a touch so gentle it almost hurt. “Harmony…”
The sound of my name on his lips did something to me I couldn’t name. I wanted to stay in that quiet stolen warmth, but the knock at the door came sharp and sudden. We froze.
Eric’s body went taut. “Stay here.”
I reached for his arm. “It’s probably Sandy. . .”
But he was already moving, crossing the room in three long strides. When he opened the door, Becket stood on the other side, coat unbuttoned, expression grim.
“Perfect timing,” Eric muttered.
Becket’s eyes swept the room, landing on me, then on the envelope on the floor. “Something happen?”
Eric handed him the photo without a word.
Becket’s expression hardened. “Where did you get this?”
“It was left by the door,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady as I looked between them. “They must have known I spent the night here. They’re watching me.”
Becket took the photo from Eric’s hand and studied it carefully, not rushing, not reacting. His jaw tightened once, controlled. “The phrasing matches the earlier messages,” he said, then looked up at me. “But this is escalation.”
My stomach turned.
