CHAPTER 11: THE CREAKING CEILING

POV: Callum Miller

The silence of the estate late at night was never truly peaceful; it was heavy, suffocating, and thick with tension.

By twelve-thirty, the house had settled into an eerie quiet. My parents’ room down the hall was dark, the door firmly shut, and the rest of the lower floor sat in shadowed stillness. But in my bedroom, peace felt entirely out of reach.

I lay flat on my back under the heavy duvet, staring up at the dark plaster ceiling. Every nerve ending in my skin felt raw, electric, and hyper-sensitive. The memory of dinner refused to leave my mind—the way Gideon’s low baritone had cut across the mahogany table, the unexpected way he had defended me against Harlan, and the sharp, dissecting gaze that had pinned me to my seat for an hour.

My lower belly throbbed with a persistent, agonizing heat. My thighs were still locked tight together under the covers, damp friction lingering against my skin from hours of relentless squirming.

Slowly, carefully, I reached down and pulled my phone out from under my pillow.

The harsh, blue-tinged light cast long shadows across my face as I pulled the thick blanket up over my head, creating a dark, secluded tent. My thumb hovered over the screen, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs as I opened the dark red interface of Echo.

The node loaded, refreshing the encrypted data stream.

My eyes darted straight to the real-time distance indicator pinned beneath Commander’s profile.

Location Tag: 0.1 km away.

A cold, sharp gasp hitched in my throat. I blinked hard, staring at the numbers as if my eyes were playing tricks on me.

Zero point one kilometers. One hundred meters.

Not six kilometers. Not across town. He was here...or practically on top of the property line.

My mind raced into a tailspin of frantic, panicked logic. Had he tracked my phone? Was he parked somewhere down the long, wooded driveway in a hidden truck? Was he sitting out in the dark tree line near the iron gates, watching the house?

Before my brain could process the terrifying proximity, the screen flashed dark crimson.

[Audio Note - 0:22]

My fingers trembled so violently I almost dropped the phone against my chest. I quickly plugged in my small, concealed earbuds, jamming them into my ears before holding my breath and tapping play.

A brief, low static hum buzzed through the small speakers, followed by that impossibly deep, gravelly baritone...slow, deliberate, and dripping with absolute, possessive authority.

“You were very quiet at dinner tonight, handsome,” Commander rumbled softly into my ears, his voice lower and rougher than usual, as if he were whispering right against my pillow. “Were you squirming in your seat for me?”

The air was sucked clean out of my lungs.

A violent, sickening shockwave ripped straight through my chest, radiating down into my spine with blinding intensity. My mouth fell open in a silent, horrified gasp, my entire frame locking stiff beneath the duvet.

Dinner.

He didn't say tonight. He said at dinner.

Simultaneously—

CREAK.

Directly above my head, the heavy oak floorboards of the attic guest suite groaned under the slow, deliberate weight of a heavy footstep.

CREAK. CREAK.

The footsteps paced slowly across the ceiling above my bed...heavy, measured, and unhurried.

My eyes snapped wide open in the dark, staring up at the ceiling plaster in pure, unadulterated terror. The world spun around me as a wild, unthinkable nightmare clawed its way into my mind.

No... no, it's impossible. It can't be.

My brain scrambled furiously to construct an escape from the terrifying thought. Captain Gideon Sterling? Harlan's old military friend? The broad-shouldered contractor sleeping overhead?

Could Commander actually be the man upstairs?

Or was this just a sick mind game? Was Commander somewhere parked near the gates, somehow knowing I had just finished dinner? Did Gideon happen to be pacing in his room at the exact second a random audio file played? The timing was too precise, too terrifyingly lined up, but my mind fought to reject the sheer impossibility of it.

In my ears, the voice note continued, smooth as velvet and heavy as iron, entirely unaware of the frantic storm tearing through my mind.

“I know you were thinking about my voice, pet,” Commander murmured, a low, possessive vibration humming through the mic. “I know you felt how wet you were under that table, wondering how close I really was. Keep those thighs squeezed tight for me until morning. You belong to me.”

The clip clicked off, leaving behind a deafening, ringing silence in my ears.

I pulled the earbuds out as if they had burned my skin, letting the phone slip from my numb fingers onto the mattress.

Above me, the heavy footsteps stopped moving.

I lay frozen beneath the covers, my chest heaving violently, gasping for thin air as cold sweat broke out across my forehead. My heart was pounding so hard against my ribs I was terrified the sound would resonate through the floorboards.

Every detail of Gideon Sterling replayed in my head like a fever dream: the crushing grip on the porch, the deep gravel in his voice when he said Appreciate it, kid, the way he had commanded the dining room and defended my quiet nature.

Is it him? Could it really be him?

The doubt was torture. If Gideon was Commander, I was lying under the roof of the man who owned my deepest, most shameful secrets. And if he wasn't, then a dangerous stranger was lurking just outside my window, watching my every move.

A silent, trembling shudder hitched through my chest as I pressed my palms hard over my mouth.

I curled onto my side in the dark, pulling my knees tight against my chest, squeezing my wet thighs together just as the voice had commanded...trapped in an agonizing limbo of suspicion, terror, and relentless desire.