CHAPTER 9: THE VOICE IN THE HALLWAY

POV: Callum Miller

The tailgate of the massive black truck came down with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed into the damp evening air. Rain drizzled over my shoulders, soaking into the fabric of my jacket, but I barely felt the chill. My hand was still hot…throbbing with the phantom pressure of Gideon Sterling’s grip, my pulse hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs.

In the truck bed lay two heavy, military-grade tactical duffel bags made of thick black ballistic nylon. They looked weathered, packed tight, and reinforced with rugged steel hardware.

I reached in, grabbing the reinforced straps of the first bag. The moment I pulled, a soft grunt escaped my throat. The bag was extraordinarily dense, feeling like it was loaded with lead weights or solid steel gear. I braced my boots against the wet gravel, hauling it over the tailgate before hoisting the second one onto my opposite shoulder. The straps dug deep into my collarbones, the sheer weight threatening to pull me off balance as I turned back toward the broad stone steps of the house.

Up on the porch, Harlan and Gideon were stepping inside the warm glow of the foyer. Harlan’s sharp, authoritative voice carried over the sound of the rain, directing his old captain toward the grand oak staircase that led up through the center of the estate.

I trudged up the porch stairs, my muscles straining under the heavy load. By the time I crossed the threshold into the entryway, the front door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the damp mist.

"Take those straight up to the top floor, Callum," Harlan commanded, stepping out of his study with a folder in his hand. He didn't even look up from the papers as he spoke. "Captain Sterling gets the entire attic suite. Make sure the heat is set properly and the extra linens are pulled. Then come straight down to help your mother with dinner."

"Yes, sir," I muttered, adjusting the heavy nylon straps digging into my chest.

I turned toward the central staircase. The Miller estate was built with traditional, heavy timber framework...grand, imposing, and quiet. The second-floor hallway led past the main bedrooms, but tucked at the far end was a narrow, dark wooden staircase that wound sharply upward into the converted attic suite.

My boots were silent on the carpeted steps as I hauled the tactical bags up the first flight. My legs were still slightly unsteady, my thighs tight and sensitive from the agonizing drive home. Every step forced my denim to brush against my sensitized skin, reminding me of the slick heat dampening my boxers—and the dark, possessive voice that had commanded me to squeeze my legs together in the library.

When I reached the second-floor landing, I saw the door to the attic staircase standing halfway open. A warm slice of yellow light spilled out onto the dark hardwood floor.

I approached the narrow stairs, taking them one by one, the heavy duffels dragging slightly against the wooden banister. As I crested the top step, the sprawling expanse of the attic guest suite opened up before me.

It was a masculine, rugged space...vaulted ceiling beams of dark exposed oak, a massive king-sized bed covered in charcoal wool blankets, a stone fireplace, and heavy leather armchairs.

Gideon was standing near the far window overlooking the rear gardens, his back turned to the door.

He had already removed his dark outer tactical jacket, laying it neatly across the back of an armchair. In just a tight, slate-gray compression shirt, the sheer scale of his physique was breathtaking. His broad shoulders sloped down into a massive, tapering back that rippled with dense muscle at the slightest movement.

As I stepped into the room, he reached up with one thick arm to adjust the collar of his shirt. The fabric stretched tight across his left shoulder, pulling low enough to expose a jagged, silver line of scar tissue that carved a pale path over the top of his shoulder blade and disappeared down his back.

"Just... setting these down here, sir," I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper as I carefully lowered the two heavy duffel bags onto the hardwood floor near the foot of the bed.

The heavy nylon hit the floor with a dull, solid thud.

Gideon paused. Slowly, deliberately, he turned around to face me.

The soft light of the bedside lamps caught the sharp angles of his heavy jaw, illuminating the dark stubble shadowing his face and the cold, intense storm-gray of his eyes. He crossed his thick arms over his massive chest, the compression fabric straining against his biceps, and tracked my every movement with that same hyper-vigilant, dissecting gaze he had used on the porch.

I straightened up quickly, pulling my jacket down over my hips, keeping my chin tucked low in automatic submission to the overwhelming authority in the room.

"Harlan said... if you need extra linens or the heat adjusted, I can get that for you," I stammered, my heart kicking against my ribs like a trapped bird. "The fireplace is already stacked with wood if you want to light it."

Gideon didn't answer right away. He stood motionless, his gray eyes lingering on my flushed cheeks, tracing down the line of my throat to where my pulse was visibly jumping beneath my skin.

The silence stretched between us, thick, suffocating, and heavy with an electric tension that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Then, Gideon took a slow step forward, his boots making a quiet, heavy sound against the rug.

"Appreciate it, kid," he rumbled softly.

My entire body went dead still.

A cold, dizzying tremor surged through my chest, pulling the air right out of my lungs.

That gravelly, low register hit my ears with a terrifying, uncanny familiarity. It was deep, slow, and heavy—striking the exact same acoustic notes as the audio files sitting in my encrypted app. A wave of goosebumps broke across my skin, my pulse spiking into a frantic, chaotic rhythm.

No... stop it. Don't be ridiculous.

My mind scrambled furiously to push the crazy, paranoid thought away. Lots of men in security and the military had deep, gravelly voices. Harlan’s voice was low and commanding, too. Gideon was a decorated former captain, a hardened contractor moving in to consult on my father's business...not some anonymous figure lurking on an encrypted server. It was just a weird, disturbing coincidence born from my own fried nerves and exhaustion.

Yet, as Gideon stood just three feet away, radiating an intense, suffocating heat, I couldn't stop the involuntary shudder from running down my spine.

His storm-gray eyes stayed locked on mine, calm and unreadable, tracking the sudden, dark flush consuming my face.

"You alright there, Callum?" Gideon asked smoothly, his tone dropping a fraction lower. "Look a bit jumpy."

"I... I'm fine, sir," I choked out, my voice sounding embarrassingly small. I took a quick step backward toward the threshold, desperate to escape the heavy, intimidating weight of his presence. "Dinner... dinner will be ready soon. My father expects everyone downstairs."

Gideon gave a slow, single nod, his broad arms remaining folded across his chest. "I'll be down."

I turned and made a quick exit down the narrow wooden stairs, my heart hammering like a trapped bird as I reached the second-floor hallway. I leaned back against the wall, taking a deep, shuddering breath to steady my trembling hands.

It was just stress. It had to be. But as I headed downstairs, the lingering echo of his deep baritone kept ringing in my ears, leaving my skin prickling with a strange, lingering chill.