POV Noelle
"If you're gonna keep staring at me like you want to put a bullet in my head, just get it over with," I mutter as I strut past Owen on the stairs, deliberately swaying my hips like nothing in me is still aching from last night.
My voice is steady. My legs aren't. And I hate that he can probably tell.
Owen's been glaring at me since breakfast. Since I bit into a croissant like my mouth hadn't been moaning his name hours earlier. Since I smoothed down my dress like I hadn't begged for his touch under the dashboard of his stupid car.
I don't look at him as I pass. Can't.
Because one look at those storm-dark eyes and I'll forget how to breathe again. Forget how to pretend I'm the same person I was yesterday morning.
I may look calm from the outside, perfect and prim like the good little daddy's girl I pretend to be, but inside?
Inside I'm cracked wide open like a fucking geode.
His hands had been on me. In me. I'd come apart completely, and he'd watched every second like he was memorizing it for later. The way he'd kissed me like he wanted to destroy me.
The way his voice had dropped when he called me Angel. The way he'd said I was his.
Christ. Even thinking about it makes my pulse spike.
This wasn't supposed to happen, not this feeling to him. He's my bodyguard. A man paid to protect me, not corrupt me.
But now I understand why Eve bit the apple.
It wasn't about temptation—it was about inevitability. She tasted it and knew nothing else would ever compare.
That's what Owen is. Danger dressed in discipline, chaos hidden behind bulletproof control. And I want more. Even if it means getting burned.
Especially if it means getting burned.
"I'm just doing my job," he grunts, trailing behind me like a shadow that hates its sun.
"Blah blah blah," I mumble under my breath, too emotionally exhausted to pretend I'm unaffected.
The thing is, I can feel him behind me. Feel the weight of his presence like gravity pulling me backward. Every step down these stairs is an exercise in not turning around and demanding answers to questions I'm not brave enough to ask.
Did it mean anything? Do you regret it? Are you going to pretend it never happened?
He opens the car door without a word, the tension between us sharp enough to cut glass. I slide into the passenger seat like nothing has changed, even though everything has.
The leather still smells like my perfume. The center console still holds the ghost of what we did.
The drive to the shelter is quiet except for the static hum of the radio and my own stupid, spiraling thoughts.
Owen keeps both hands on the wheel like touching anything else might contaminate him. Doesn't look at me once. Doesn't speak.
Just exists in this bubble of professional distance that feels like a slap after last night's intimacy.
What if he regrets it? What if I crossed a line I wasn't even supposed to see?
The possibility sits in my stomach like a stone, heavy and cold and absolutely fucking unbearable.
At the shelter, he pulls up and parks directly in front of the door like always. I hate that.
Hate that he never drops me off at the corner like a normal driver. Hate that he always has to be the last thing I see before walking in, the first thing I see when I come out.
Hate that it makes me feel too protected. Too cared for.
Like maybe this is more than a job for him too.
Zara's already waiting with two mismatched socks and a pen stuck in her hair like some kind of academic antenna. She grins and pulls me into the building like I'm the cool older sister she never got.
"Today we're doing essay writing," I announce, flopping onto the floor beside her small table. "Try not to cry."
She giggles and plops down beside me. "You always make it fun though."
"Lies and slander," I say, flipping open her workbook. "What's the topic again?"
"Why I'd survive a zombie apocalypse," she says proudly.
I snort. "Obviously, because you'd have me as your sidekick."
We get lost in scribbles and arguments about whether you can train zombies like dogs. I correct her grammar, circle her run-on sentences, and praise the hell out of her sarcasm.
For forty-five minutes, I almost forget about the disaster that is my emotional life.
Almost.
But then Zara peeks through the window and whispers, "Hey... is that man your boyfriend?"
"What?" I blink, following her gaze.
She nods toward the car where Owen sits like a statue carved from shadows.
"The one who always drops you off and picks you up. He looks like someone's boyfriend. Big. Strong. Protective. Plus he stares at you like you're gonna disappear."
I roll my eyes. "Does he look like my boyfriend?"
"Yes," she says with the confidence of someone who hasn't learned that life is complicated yet. "In a grumpy action-movie hero kind of way."
I stare at her, then burst out laughing. "God, no. He's my—"
Bodyguard. Obsession. Mistake. Salvation.
"—he's just here to keep me from dying. That's it."
Zara gives me a look like she's not buying it, but she doesn't push. Smart kid.
How do you explain to a twelve-year-old that your father hired a man to protect your body and you handed him your soul instead?
When our session ends, I walk back outside and find Owen leaning against the car exactly where I left him. His jaw clenches when he sees me—not anger, exactly, but something darker. Hungrier.
A look that makes my pulse spike and my thighs squeeze together on instinct.
The drive home is even quieter than the drive here. Tighter. Like the air itself is holding its breath.
I spend the entire twenty minutes cataloging every micro-expression on his face, every shift in his posture, looking for clues about what he's thinking.
Does he want to talk about it? Does he want to pretend it never happened? Does he want to do it again?
Because I do.
Want to do it again. Want to do more. Want to find out what other sounds I can make him pull from my throat.
When we reach the house, I step out of the car and brace myself to pretend again. To be normal. To act like I wasn't completely unraveled in the front seat of this same vehicle less than twenty-four hours ago.
I climb the front steps, key in hand, breath shallow and uneven.
And then I freeze.
The air has changed. The house feels different. Colder. Still. Wrong.
A chill runs up my spine that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with survival instincts I've inherited from years of being Michael Morris's daughter.
He's home.
My father is home.