جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 270

**Stella's POV**I am on my feet before my mind decides to stand.The broken pieces catch the candlelight as I crouch over them. There are two clean chips and a constellation of smaller ones scattered across the floor. I gather them into my palm with the careful hands of someone handling evidence of their own failure, then straighten to face Rose."I'm so sorry, Auntie." The word sits wrong in my mouth because I didn't break the candle holders myself— but I say it anyway. "I'll replace it."Rose looks at me. Then at the shards cupped in my palm. Then back at my face, with the particular patience of a woman who is deciding exactly how much to say."Replace it," she repeats."Yes.""And where exactly will you find one?" Her voice stays calm, almost conversational. "Are you flying to Rome tomorrow morning? Should I write down the address?"The heat climbs my neck before I can stop it. I have never even been to Rome. What right did I have to open my mouth at all?Oh, goddess. Let the floo

**Stella's POV** The awkward silence stretches long enough to become a different kind of silence — not the held-breath kind but the settling kind, the kind that comes after a storm has moved through and left the air changed. My father leans back in his armchair. He looks tired — but tired in the way of someone who has expended something. Noah shifts against me again, sighing in his sleep, one small fist opening and closing against my collarbone. "Don't let them rattle you," my father says. I look at him. "They didn't rattle me." He gives me a look that says he knows exactly how rattled I am. I look back at the fire. "Dad." The word still feels new in my mouth — strange and slightly too big, like shoes I haven't broken in yet. "I have to be honest with you about something." "Then be honest." I take a breath. "My entire professional experience," I say, "is a few days in a mailroom at Ace Industries." I pause to let that sit. "I sorted packages. I logged deliverie

**Shawn's POV** Stella hasn't said a word since the attack. Not in the car. Not when we got to her apartment building. The doorman took one look at us and stepped aside quietly. He could tell it had been a bad night. And it was. I keep thinking about Rose and her sons. How dare they send those rogues knowing full well that Noah was with Stella at that moment? 'But I guess when you want someone dead, nothing else matters.' My wolf scoffs in my head. 'Well, they did a messy job. Tomorrow at the conference, I'm going to find whoever gave that order. And I'm going to be watching them very closely.' I respond to him. The elevator doors close and we begin moving upward. Stella is standing next to me holding Noah against her shoulder. Her hand rubs slow circles on his back without her even thinking about it. He's asleep, with his little fist gripping her shirt like he doesn't want to let go. She isn't looking at me. She's staring at the wall above the elevator buttons. Not r

**Stella's POV** I kiss Shawn like I'm trying to forget everything that happened tonight—the swerving car, the screaming tires, the certainty that I was about to die with my son in the backseat. His hands move to my waist and grip hard, and I press closer, needing to feel something other than fear. Needing to feel alive instead of like a ghost who narrowly escaped her own death. The steam wraps around us. He's naked and dripping, and I'm still clothed, and somehow that makes this feel even more urgent. His hands find the belt for my robe, untie and pull it down in one smooth motion. It hits the wet tile with a sound I barely register because his mouth is on my neck now, finding that spot that makes my thoughts scatter. I should feel self-conscious. Should second-guess this. But all I feel is the desperate need to let this night out of my body somehow—to replace terror with sensation. He lifts me onto the counter, and the cold tile against my back makes me gasp. His hands

**Shawn's POV** Goddess, I hate it when people who've never really been part of my life suddenly act like they care — like they have any right to. "Out." I respond flatly, and Aunt Lisa's frown turns to a scowl. "Out?" she repeats, like the word owes her more than one syllable. "Yes." I step past her and push the door open, hoping she won't follow me in. But Aunt Lisa follows me inside, her heels clicking sharply against my floors. "Shawn Emmanuel Black. I'm your Aunt and your owe me more than a one word explanation." She uses my full names hoping I will give into her, but I keep moving further into the house. The thing about Aunt Lisa is that she operates on the assumption that because she was around when my parents were alive, I owe her every answer she demands. As though she raised me herself. "You could have called," she adds. "So could you." "I did call. All my calls went to voicemail." "Then that explains it." I set my keys on the side table. "I was busy w