NOVA
I 'm still alive.
The thought circles through my mind as the private jet reaches cruising altitude. Six hours ago, there was a man with a knife in my kitchen. A man who has been watching me for months. A man who wrote "Soon" on my mirror in blood.
And yet here I am, thirty thousand feet in the air, breathing. Living.
All because of the mountain of a man sitting across from me.
Finn McKenna doesn't look like a savior. He looks lethal. The kind of man mothers warn their daughters about. He’s six feet something of solid muscle with dark hair cut military short, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes so intensely blue they remind me of Montana skies in the tourism commercials.
I wonder if the skies where we're going will match his eyes.
"You should try to sleep," he says, his voice rough and low. "It's going to be a long day."
"I haven't really slept in months." The admission slips out before I can stop it. Something about his steady gaze makes me want to tell the truth.
He studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to fidget under his scrutiny. I'm used to being stared at. Photographers, fans, directors, producers. My entire adult life has been spent under constant observation.
But no one has ever looked at me the way Finn McKenna does. Like he's seeing past the makeup, past the fame, past the carefully constructed image. Like he's seeing me.
It's terrifying.
"I'll keep watch," he says finally. "You can sleep."
"Just like that? You'll keep watch so, I should feel safe enough to sleep?"
"Yes."
The simplicity of his answer catches me off guard. No flowery promises, no exaggerated claims of protection. Just a single word, delivered with absolute certainty.
"Has anyone ever told you that you don't exactly have a way with words, Mr. McKenna?"
Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. "Everyone who's ever met me."
"And yet somehow you were the CIA's top extraction specialist for a decade."
His eyes narrow slightly. "How do you know that?"
I should probably be more careful about revealing how much I know about him. But something about nearly being murdered in my own home this morning has left me without my usual filters.
"When someone starts leaving you messages in blood, you do your research on who might be able to keep you alive."
"And you landed on me." He says, less of a question.
"Your name came up in certain circles."
"What circles would those be, exactly?"
I lean back in the obscenely comfortable leather seat, studying him. "The kind where people pay a lot of money to disappear or make problems disappear."
"And how does a pop star have access to those circles?"
"The same way anyone does. Money and desperation."
He doesn't respond immediately, just watches me with those too perceptive eyes. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Just another spoiled celebrity? A paycheck? A responsibility?
"You don't fit the profile," he says finally.
"What profile is that?"
"Celebrity client. High maintenance. Entitled. Difficult."
I laugh, and it feels strange in my throat. When was the last time I actually laughed? Weeks? Months?
"Give it time, Mr. McKenna. I'm sure I'll live down to your expectations eventually."
"Finn," he says.
"What?"
"If we're going to be living in close quarters for the foreseeable future, you might as well call me Finn."
"Alright, Finn." His name feels strangely intimate on my tongue. "Then I'm Nova."
"I know who you are."
"Do you?" I challenge. "Or do you know what the tabloids say I am?"
Something shifts in his expression. "I read your file. Three albums, two world tours, one Oscar nomination. America's sweetheart turned pop sensation turned serious actress. Twenty eight years old. No known substance abuse issues. No serious relationships in the public record."
"That's my resume, not who I am."
"Then who are you, Ms. Wilde?" The way he says my name sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
Who am I? It's been so long since anyone asked me that question. So long since I've had an answer that wasn't carefully crafted by a publicist.
"I'm just a girl from Seattle who could sing," I say finally. "Everything else happened so fast I barely remember it."
"You were sixteen when you were discovered."
"Fifteen, actually. Sixteen when the first single came out."
"That's young."
"It is." I look out the window at the clouds below us. White and peaceful and so far removed from the chaos of my life. "Sometimes I feel like I'm still fifteen, like the last thirteen years have happened to someone else and I've just been watching."
"That's called dissociation," he says, surprising me. "It's a common response to trauma or overwhelming stress."
"Are you a psychologist as well as a security expert?"
"No. But I've seen enough combat to recognize the signs."
Combat. What has this man seen? What has he done? The file I read was heavily redacted, full of black lines and missing pages. Ten years in the CIA, then private security work for the kind of people who don't appear in public databases.
"Is that why you live in the middle of nowhere?" I ask. "Dissociation?"
His eyes harden slightly. "I live there because it's where I'm from. My family's been in Grizzly Ridge for four generations."
"Sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to pry."
"Yes, you did." But there's no anger in his voice. "It's fine. Where I live is going to be your business for a while, since that's where I'm taking you."
The reminder of why we're on this plane together sobers me instantly. I'm not on vacation. I'm running for my life.
"What's it like? Where we're going?"
"Different from what you're used to. Remote. Quiet. Safe."
"Sounds perfect," I say, and I mean it. After years of chaos, noise, and crowds, the idea of remoteness is appealing even without a stalker hunting me.
"We'll see if you still think so after a few days of mountain living."
"You think I can't handle it? That I'm too pampered?"
"I think you've never chopped wood or hauled water or gone without cell service for more than an hour."
He's right, of course. My life has been filled with hotel suites, private planes, and personal assistants handling every detail. But he doesn't know everything about me.
"I spent every summer until I was fifteen at my grandfather's cabin in the Cascades," I tell him. "There was no electricity. No running water. Just me, my grandfather, and about a thousand books."
That gets his attention. "Really?"
"Really. Those were the best days of my life." I smile at the memory. "Grandpa Jack didn't care about my grades, if I practiced piano enough, or if my clothes were right for the recital. He just wanted to teach me how to fish and tell me stories about my grandmother."
"What happened to those summers?" He asks, but I think he already knows.
"Fame happened." I shrug like it doesn't still hurt. "The first summer after my single hit, my mother said I couldn't waste time in the woods when I had appearances to make. By the next summer, Grandpa Jack was gone."
"I'm sorry."
I shrug. "Don't be. It was a long time ago."
We fall into silence, and I find myself studying his profile as he looks out the window.
Strong jaw, straight nose, full lips that seem at odds with the hardness of the rest of his face.
There's a scar just below his right ear, thin and white against his tanned skin.
Another disappears into his hairline above his left temple.
This man has seen violence. Has probably dealt it out as well as received it.
And now he's my shield against whatever is coming.
"You should eat something," he says, catching me staring.
"I'm not hungry."
"Doesn't matter. Your body needs fuel."
He reaches into a bag at his feet and pulls out energy bars, offering one to me. I take it, surprised to find it's an expensive organic brand, not the tasteless tactical food I was expecting.
"Thanks."
He nods and unwraps his own bar, eating with the efficient movements of someone who views food as necessary fuel rather than pleasure. I wonder if he approaches everything that way. Necessary rather than pleasurable.
The thought sends heat to my cheeks that I desperately hope he doesn't notice.
"After we land, we'll drive straight to my property," he says. "It's about three hours from the airfield. Remote enough that no one will find you, but close enough to town that we can get supplies if needed."
"And your family? You mentioned they've been in Grizzly Ridge for generations."
"My brothers live nearby. Not on my property, but in the area."
"Will they know I'm there?"
He considers this for a moment. "Eventually. But not right away. The fewer people who know your location, the better."
"Even your own family?"
"Especially family. They'd be the first people anyone would ask if they were looking for you."
It makes sense, but it sends a shiver down my spine all the same. The idea that I'll be completely isolated, known only to this man I've just met. It should terrify me.
But strangely, it doesn't.
"What's your plan?" I ask. "Beyond hiding me in Montana?"
"Frank is working with the FBI. They're building a case, following leads. Once they catch this guy, you can go back to your life."
My life. The thought should be comforting, but it isn't. What life am I going back to, exactly? Endless appearances, manufactured relationships, living in a fishbowl where every move is documented and dissected?
"And if they don't catch him?"
Finn's eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. "Then we adapt. Find him ourselves."
"How?"
"Let me worry about that part."
"It's my life," I say firmly. "I want to know the plan."
Something that might be respect flickers in his eyes.
"Fair enough. Our first priority is keeping you safe, which means getting you completely off the grid.
While we're doing that, Frank will work his contacts, I'll work mine.
We'll identify the leak in your security team and use them to trace back to the stalker. "