Page 17 of Rescuing Aria

“I’ll be prepared next time,” he murmurs at my temple.

Next time. The promise makes my breath hitch.

God, I can’t wait to have sex with this man.

We settle back by the fire, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm secure around me. The stars shine overhead, countless and bright. The ocean continues its eternal conversation with the shore. Yet despite the serene setting, awareness hums between us—a current of desire temporarily banked but far from extinguished.

“Tell me something,” I say, watching the flames dance. “Something you’ve never told anyone else.”

Jon is quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing idle patterns on my shoulder. “When I was eight, I found a bird with a broken wing. I tried to save it, kept it in a shoebox, fed it with an eyedropper. It died three days later.” He pauses, and I can feel his throat work as he swallows. “I buried it under my window and planted a wildflower over the spot. Every spring when the flowers bloomed, I’d think about that bird and wonder if I could have done something different to save it.”

The simplicity of the story, along with its unexpected vulnerability, touches me deeply. I turn my face into his chest, pressing a kiss over his heart.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Your turn,” he says, fingers now combing gently through my hair.

I consider what to share, what part of myself to offer in exchange for his trust. “I used to dream about running away. Even before the kidnapping, before Wolfe. I’d sit in my father’s mansion with everything a girl could want, and I’d fantasizeabout just—disappearing. Becoming someone else, someone without all the expectations and obligations.”

“And now?”

“I know what it feels like to be taken from your life. To be terrified.” I stare into the flames. “I don’t dream about running anymore. I dream about building something worth staying for.”

Jon’s arm tightens around me. “And what would that look like? Thisthingworth staying for?”

The question opens doors in my mind that I’ve only glimpsed before.

“Freedom to choose my own path. Work that matters. People who see me, not just my father’s name or my trust fund.” I pause, gathering courage. “Someone who loves me for who I am, not what I represent.”

“And does your father approve of these dreams?” Jon’s lips press against my temple.

“Hardly.” A hollow laugh escapes me. “Marcus Holbrook has my entire life mapped out. Executive position at Holbrook Pharmaceuticals. Marriage to someone with the right connections, preferably in biotech or healthcare. Two perfect children who’ll continue the dynasty.”

He presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Do you think he’d really object that strongly?”

“I know he would.” Sadness threads through me. “My father measures people’s worth by their bank accounts and business connections. He’s never understood that some things can’t be quantified on a balance sheet.”

“And where do you stand on that philosophy?” Jon’s fingers lift my chin, turning my face to his.

“I used to buy into it.” The admission comes with a flush of shame. “Before the kidnapping, I was exactly what he raised me to be—shallow, privileged, and obsessed with status.”

“And now?”

“Now I know better.” My voice strengthens with conviction. “I’ve seen real courage in Ember, who had nothing but risked everything to help a stranger. I’ve seen real strength in all of you at Guardian HRS, fighting not for money but because it’s right.”

I shift to look directly into Jon’s eyes. “I’ve seen what really matters. And it isn’t my father’s empire or his connections or his legacy.”

Jon studies me, his hand warm against my cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath my eye.

I draw in a breath. “You know the first time I saw Ember? I was rushing to a board meeting downtown. Wearing Louis Vuittons. Designer coat. Wind in my face, phone in hand, already pissed about some press leak.” I give a short, brittle laugh. “And there she was—standing on a frozen street corner, hawking candles from a folding table.”

Jon stays quiet, listening, letting me find my words.

“I barely looked at her. She tried to sell me a five-dollar candle. I dismissed her like she didn’t matter.” Shame curls in my stomach, sharp and sickening. “And then it happened. That van screeched up. Two men in ski masks grabbed me. No one moved. Not a single person helped.”

My voice drops, throat tightening. “Except Ember.”

His brows pull together, his fingers tightening slightly at my jaw, but he doesn’t interrupt.