Nobela ni Augusta moon

The road stretches endlessly ahead of us, a ribbon of black asphalt slicing through the night. Cole drives like the darkness is chasing us, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh as if anchoring me to the present. The dashboard lights cast his face in sharp angles—jaw clenched, eyes alert, body coiled with the kind of tension that never really leaves him. I stare out the window, watching trees blur into shadows, my reflection ghosted in the glass. Every mile we put between us and that cove should make me feel safer. It doesn’t. My phone still feels heavy in my pocket, like it’s burning through fabric and skin. You’re still mine. The words replay again and again, a cruel echo that won’t shut up. “He planned it,” I say suddenly, my voice cracking through the silence. “Every part of it.” Cole’s thumb presses gently into my thigh. “I know.” “I trusted him,” I continue, anger bubbling hot and uncontrollable. “I defended him. I made excuses for him my entire li

I wake to pain. Not sharp. Not screaming. Dull. Throbbing. The kind that reminds you you’re still alive whether you want to be or not. My wrists are tied behind my back again, this time with zip ties biting into skin. I’m seated on the floor, back against cold concrete. The room is dim, lit by a single hanging bulb that sways slightly, like it’s bored of watching me breathe. I blink, forcing my vision to focus. This isn’t the warehouse. This place is deeper. Heavier. Walls reinforced. No windows. No sound of waves. A compound. “Good,” a voice says from somewhere behind me. “You’re awake.” I don’t turn. “You’re bad at hospitality.” A chuckle. “You always had a mouth.” My father steps into my line of sight, immaculate as ever. Suit pressed. Shoes polished. Like he didn’t just have me drugged and dragged across half the coast. “Where is he?” I demand. “Straight to the point,” he says mildly. “Still emotional.” “If you hurt him—” He lifts a hand. “Cole Maddox is alive. For

I don’t make it to the city. That realization comes too late, right when instinct screams and my body freezes half a second slower than it should. The road curves along the cliffs, narrow and empty, moonlight glinting off the water below like shattered glass. I’ve been walking for nearly an hour, replaying Cole’s voice in my head, when headlights flare behind me. Too close. Too sudden. I step off the road instinctively, heart racing, but the engine cuts and a door slams before I can move again. “Miss Blake,” a man says calmly. “You shouldn’t walk alone at night.” My stomach drops. I turn, already backing away. “I’m fine. I don’t need help.” He smiles, slow and polite, the kind that never reaches the eyes. “Your father disagrees.” I pivot, adrenaline flooding my veins, but another figure steps out from the shadows ahead of me. Then another. Three men. Coordinated. Calm. This isn’t random. I spin back toward the cliffside, calculating distance, chances—too far,

I don’t plan it. That’s what I tell myself while I lie awake beside him, counting his breaths like they’re seconds I’m stealing. Cole sleeps on his back tonight, one arm bent above his head, the other resting dangerously close to me, like even unconscious he knows where I am. The island base hums quietly around us. Generators. Wind. The sea, always the sea. I turn my head and look at him. He looks younger when he sleeps. Less carved out of steel and scars. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, his mouth relaxed in a way I’ve never seen when he’s awake. This is the man I’m leaving behind, not the soldier, not the weapon—this quiet version that feels like a secret meant only for me. My chest tightens. “Don’t,” I whisper to myself. He stirs, brow furrowing slightly, and my heart jumps into my throat. I freeze, barely breathing, watching until his face smooths again. I should wake him. I should tell him I need time. Space. Answers I’m still too afraid to hear. But i

The tattoo doesn’t leave my mind. Even when Cole is standing right in front of me, solid and real and breathing, all I can see is that symbol burned into his skin like a brand I was never supposed to recognize. We’re in the safehouse kitchen. Morning light slips through the cracked window, cutting across the counter between us like a line neither of us knows how to cross. “You’re staring again,” he says quietly. “This time I have a reason.” He nods once, slow. “Then ask.” I cross my arms, trying to steady myself. “How long.” “How long what?” “How long you worked for my father.” He doesn’t look away. That matters. “Five years,” he answers. The honesty knocks the air out of me more than a lie would have. “Five years,” I repeat. “While I was going to charity galas and smiling for cameras.” “Yes.” “And you never once thought to tell me?” “No,” he says firmly. “Because you weren’t part of that world.” “You made sure of that.” “I protected you from it,” he counters. “There

I notice it by accident.That’s the worst part.Cole is standing near the sink, shirt off, towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. The island base doesn’t have luxury—cold tiles, flickering lights, rusted mirrors—but somehow he makes it feel smaller, warmer, like the space bends around him.“You’re staring,” he says without turning, voice calm, confident. Strong.“Can you blame me?” I reply lightly, leaning against the doorway. “You nearly died twice for me. I’m allowed to appreciate the view.”A faint smile curves his mouth in the mirror.He reaches for his shirt, and that’s when I see it.Just below his left shoulder blade. Partially hidden. Dark ink against scarred skin.My breath catches.“Cole,” I say slowly. “Don’t move.”He freezes.That alone tells me everything.I step closer, heart starting to pound. “What’s that on your back?”He exhales through his nose. “Nothing.”“That’s not nothing.”He turns slightly, trying to angle away