Page 17

17

HONOR

Morning comes way too soon. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to last night. While I nurse Laramie, she’s blissfully oblivious to the storm of thoughts in my head, and the pulses that still persist in between my legs.

“Yeah, we’re even now,” I whisper with a giggle, brushing her tiny cheek.

She coos, and I swear she’s saying something like, Chase is my hero.

“All right, I’ll let you get away with that.”

Because, let’s be real, he earned it. Chase gave both Laramie and me the first restful night in days. And more.

Yes, he gave me more, all right. The sensation lingers, a constant memory of his skilled oral pleasuring. I must admit, no one has ever brought me to sleep like that. There’s never been a better time to be a woman than when Chase Samson is around—there, I said it. Shamefully, but still.

Even Laramie, my usually demanding little dictator, is so content she falls back asleep right after her feed. Blissful baby, blissful me.

With her settled, I head out to find the man behind this newfound heaven. He’s not in the kitchen, which is mildly disappointing—where’s breakfast? Shouldn’t my guardian angel at least make pancakes?

Second most likely place? The gym.

Sure enough, there he is—not pumping iron but pounding away on a treadmill, running like a man who just robbed a bank. I blink, half-expecting sparks to fly from the poor machine. I mean, how does it not just give up under all that weight and speed? Forget pancakes—this might be the breakfast show I didn’t know I needed.

He spots me instantly, tilting his head like a hawk catching a clueless rabbit. Caught gawking, I pretend to inspect a fascinating spot on the floor. This is his fault. Who wears a singlet and shorts, looking like an ancient god decided to moonlight as a personal trainer?

It’s almost unfair—the way his shoulders flex as he wipes his face with a towel, the faint sheen on his arms catching the light just right. And those thighs… Shame on me . But seriously, they’re like tree trunks wrapped in sin. Sure, he lifts weights, but I’d bet my coffee budget they’re equally good at… lifting spirits.

If he told me he was the poster boy for ‘Thighs and Lies Monthly’ I’d ask for a subscription.

“Morning!” he greets.

His pushed-to-the-limit voice should blend with the rhythmic slide of the treadmill belt, but somehow my ears latch onto it. It stirs up thoughts it shouldn’t—bed, sex, orgasm.

“You look like a horse hauling a carriage ridden by Marcus Aurelius,” I blurt.

He raises an eyebrow, then glances at himself in the mirror. “Do I?” He smirks, stepping off the machine. “And you look like someone who’s had a fine sleep.”

I narrow my eyes at him, wordlessly reminding him exactly who’s to blame for that. His grin widens, and he lets out a few post-run huffs before grabbing a water bottle and taking a long sip. The way his throat moves— yeah, focus, Honor .

“Maybe I should make breakfast, you know, to replenish all that energy you just burned?” I offer, figuring it’s high time I contribute.

“Too late, my dear. Already beat you to it,” he says, a glint in his eye as he effortlessly throws out ‘my dear.’ I decide to let it slide—for now.

“Oh?” I try not to sound too impressed.

He motions me to follow him to the kitchen, and there they are—pancakes, neatly covered, waiting on the counter like a gift from the breakfast gods. My earlier thought flashes back.

“Damn, my guardian angel delivers,” I mutter under my breath.

Maybe the smell of those hidden morning discs had subconsciously planted the idea of pancakes in my mind—you know, the way subtle things in your environment nudge you toward a conclusion. No psychic powers at play here.

“Did you say something?” he asks, grabbing a bowl of berries and setting them beside the stack.

“Nope.”

He doesn’t press, instead asking, “Syrup or honey?”

“Honey,” I say quickly.

“Honey it is,” he replies, his voice dipping just enough to make me wonder if the word is suddenly loaded. Of course, he doesn’t stop there—he even pours me a glass of orange juice to round it all out.

I glance at him, equal parts guilty and grudgingly impressed. “Thanks, Chase.”

He grins, like making pancakes is just part of his superhero repertoire. “Don’t mention it.”

I sip the orange juice, savoring the sweetness as Chase disappears into the shower.

I take a bite of the pancake. My God! Lucky for me he’s not here, or he’d be soaking up my astonishment like honey sinking into the cake.

Not long after, Chase reappears, freshly showered, dressed in a shirt and pants, and smelling like a god from Olympus—whatever that’s supposed to smell like. Honestly, though, it’s perfect: subtle, yet unmistakably masculine.

He sits across me, slapping a stack of pancakes onto his plate before digging in. “How is it?” he asks with a nod toward my plate.

“Not bad. Your own batter?” I ask, arching a brow.

He smirks. “Do I look like the kind of guy who settles for supermarket pre-mades?”

I squint at him, playing along. “You mean, the kind of guy who buys a fancy box mix and calls it gourmet?”

His smirk falters just enough to give him away. “Well… it’s pre-made batter, but from a specialty shop.”

I snort, pointing my fork at him. “So basically, you outsourced your culinary expertise.”

“Delegated,” he corrects, leaning back like he just won the argument.

We’re both laughing when his phone rings, slicing through the moment like an unwelcome guest.

Chase grabs it and steps into the other room. The faint murmur of his voice carries back, nothing like the laid-back man who was just joking about honey and batter. When he returns, the lightness is gone. There’s a tension in his eyes that pulls me upright.

“What is it?” I ask, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“Mira Stone is bringing the big gun,” he says grimly.

“You mean…” My breath catches.

“Yeah.” He pauses, his gaze locking with mine. “Damon’s with her. They’re at the Red Mark office. I need to get there now.”

The name feels like a punch to the gut, robbing me of the warmth I’d just started to let myself feel. My fork clatters to the table as I stand and follow him into his bedroom like a panicked duckling.

“I’m coming with you,” I say, hovering in the doorway as he grabs a tie from his closet.

“No.” Chase shakes his head, slipping the tie on as he walks, not even glancing at a mirror. “You stay here with Laramie. I’ll send Hux to keep an eye on you.”

I narrow my eyes. “So, what? I just sit here and wait?”

His lips twitch into a faint smile as he reaches for the jacket draped over his study chair. “You can thank him yourself.” He shrugs it on, the tension doing nothing to drop his irresistibility score—not that he’d ever need a filter for it. “Maybe even pick up a thing or two.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Can’t wait for the life lessons.”

Chase chuckles but doesn’t linger. He’s pulling gear together with the kind of precision that makes me realize just how serious this is.

“Be careful, Chase.” My voice betrays more emotion than I intend. It’s not just about needing him anymore. I don’t want him hurt—not for me, not for anyone.

He pauses, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder. I can feel the unspoken words between us. He leans in slightly, like he might kiss the top of my head, but he doesn’t. That restraint of his—it’s maddening and admirable all at once.

“Don’t open the door for anyone,” he warns. “If they don’t know the code, they’re not coming in. Understood?”

I nod. “So, Huxley knows the code?”

“Yeah. He does.” Chase grabs his keys. “Don’t be alarmed by the scar on his face. He’s as gentle as a Red Mark can be.”

“Got it,” I say again, and just like that, he’s gone. The quiet he leaves behind feels heavier than I expected.

I pick up my phone and call Oakley. It’s partly to check in on how he’s doing, but also to make sure nothing out of the ordinary is happening on his end.

“Hey, Oak,” I say when he picks up. “How is it going?”

“Yeah, I’m solid,” he says, his tone light and casual—a far cry from the angry kid who bolted with Rollo. “Ethan’s chill, you know? And his brother, Noah—he’s my age. We’ve been kicking it.”

“That’s good to hear,” I say, encouraged by his tone. “And Ethan’s parents?”

“Mark and Ivy? They’re solid. Ivy’s strict, but it’s not, like, over the top or anything. And Mark? He’s super chill, easy to talk to. And the llamas? Seriously, who has llamas? When Ethan said ‘farm,’ I was thinking cows and horses.”

I shake my head, imagining his confusion.

“Oh, and their dog, Jasper,” he continues, sounding more animated. “He’s a Great Dane—totally wild but, like, the best dog ever. Honor, I’m not kidding. He’s massive! Like, the size of a freaking horse.”

“A Great Dane on a llama farm?” I chuckle. “That sounds like a recipe for chaos.”

“It is, but it’s fun. The llamas don’t even care about Jasper; they just do their thing.”

“Sounds like I’m missing out on all the action. Though, I’m not exactly dying to wrestle with manure and llama spit,” I say.

He laughs, a bright, confident sound. “City life’s got you all cushy, Katniss!”

So he has caught up. But something stirs in the back of my mind. Not Katniss, but a name he mentioned earlier.

“Wait a second,” I say. “Ethan’s mom—her name’s Ivy?”

“Uh-huh. She used to be some politician. That’s what Ethan said. But, like, she’s cool,” he adds, as if making sure I don’t judge her too harshly.

I tilt my head, and then it clicks. Ivy Forbes, now Ivy Connor. The former attorney general of Montana.

Pride swells in my chest. “You’ve got some pretty incredible people looking out for you.”

“They’re just normal, you know? And Noah’s been teaching me this card game— Magic: The Gathering . Have you heard of it?”

That’s exactly how a thirteen-year-old boy should sound—happy, carefree, safe. I grin to myself. “No, but it sounds like you’re having a blast.”

My worries about Oakley ease, but Chase is a different story. He’s out there, about to face the one man that may be capable of hurting him: Damon Stone.