14

Nathan

There are moments, rare and sharp-edged, when a man is forced to sit still and take stock of his life, to look back and tally the decisions that brought him here, to this precise point in time, and as I stood by the window of Carrie’s apartment, watching the first fragile hints of dawn stretch pale fingers across the dark sky, I realized this—this mess of danger and desire, of duty and something so much deeper I didn’t yet have a name for—was exactly the result of every choice I had made, whether I’d known it then or not.

She was sleeping in the next room, or at least I hoped she was sleeping, though I doubted it because the way she had clung to me earlier, her body shivering not from the cold but from sheer terror, had told me enough: Carrie Smith, for all her bravado and sharp wit and fire, was hanging on by a thread, and I had no right—no damned right at all—to feel the things I felt for her when I was supposed to be her protector, her shield, nothing more.

But feelings aren’t obedient. They don’t stand down just because you order them to.

And so, instead of sleeping, I stood at her window, my muscles tight, my eyes scanning every shadow, my mind turning over every possible scenario of how Daniel might strike next, because I knew in my gut that he wasn’t finished, not by a long shot, and that it was going to get worse before it got better.

Perfect, thank you for confirming! Let’s continue building out Chapter Fourteen in Nathan’s POV with rich, flowing sentences in the Chimamanda style, making the story deeper and textured.

I shifted my weight slightly, leaning my forearm against the cool glass, and allowed myself, for just a fleeting second, to close my eyes, not to sleep but to listen—to the soft hum of the city at this impossible hour, to the steady whisper of the wind rattling a loose shutter, to the quiet pulse of my own heartbeat that seemed louder here in the silence of Carrie’s sanctuary than it had in any of the violent nights I’d survived before.

And there was that familiar ache creeping in again, low and stubborn, the ache of memories that wouldn’t die no matter how many times I buried them—Olivia’s laugh, high and bright like sunlight; the soft thud of tiny feet I’d never gotten to meet; the dream of a home and a life that was shattered by the sharp crack of a bullet I hadn’t been fast enough to stop.

“Stop,” I muttered to myself, dragging my palm down my face, because there was no room for ghosts here, not tonight, not when Carrie’s world was tipping on the edge of something dark and dangerous and I was her only line of defense.

And just as I was pushing away from the window, forcing myself to move, to check the locks again, to sweep the perimeter like some kind of ritual that had become both a comfort and a curse, I heard it—the softest creak of a door, the unmistakable sound of bare feet padding across cold floors, and then her voice, small and hoarse, threading through the dim hallway:

“Nathan?”

I turned, and there she was, backlit by the faint glow of the kitchen nightlight, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes glassy with sleep and something deeper, something raw.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her arms wrapping around herself, as though she were trying to hold her pieces together, and something in me—something primitive and foolish—rose up, wanting nothing more than to cross the space between us and wrap her up so tight no fear could ever get through again.

“Come sit,” I said, my voice low, gesturing to the worn armchair by the window, and she moved without hesitation, like she trusted me with her whole heart even if her words hadn’t said it yet, and she sank down, pulling her knees up to her chest, her gaze fixed out at the city as though the answers she wanted might be hiding in the shadows.

“Do you think he’s really out there?” she asked after a long stretch of silence, her voice barely a whisper, but sharp enough to cut through my chest.

I hesitated before answering, because I had promised myself—promised Edward, too—that I would always tell her the truth, no matter how ugly or inconvenient it might be. “I think,” I began carefully, my eyes locked on hers, “that he’s close. And I think he’s waiting—for the right moment.”

She nodded, as though she’d already known the answer deep down but had needed to hear it out loud to make it real, and then, with a sigh so heavy it seemed to deflate her entire frame, she leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

“I hate being scared,” she admitted, her voice cracking just a little. “I hate that he still has this power over me.”

And I crouched down in front of her then, my hands braced on the arms of the chair, close enough to see the freckles on her nose, to catch the faint scent of lavender and fear on her skin, and I said, with every ounce of certainty I had left in me:

“He’s not going to win, Carrie. I won’t let him.”

Her eyes opened slowly, wide and searching, and I saw something there—a flicker of hope, maybe, or something deeper, more dangerous—and before I could stop myself, before reason could catch up and slap me back into place, I lifted my hand, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, letting my fingers linger just a second too long on her cheek.

She didn’t pull away.

“Nathan…” she whispered, her breath hitching just a little.

And in that suspended moment, where everything seemed to tighten and blur at once, I knew—knew without question—that whatever line I’d drawn between us before, between protector and protected, was slipping away, and that nothing, not even the ghosts of my past or the threats of her present, was going to keep me from crossing it.