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Chapter 690:

Easton’s smile was softer now, tinged with memory. “My grandfather,” he said. “He was a rally driver, before he became a lawyer. Before he became—” he stopped, his expression shifting, “—before he became the man I needed to escape p>

He found a parking spot on a quiet street, killed the engine, and turned to face her fully.

“They won’t find us here,” he said. “Not tonight. I know this neighborhood. I know—” he reached out, his hand finding her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, “—I know how to disappear when I need to p>

June leaned into his touch. She should be frightened. She should be planning her next move, her next defense, her next fortress.

Instead, she felt only warmth. Only safety. Only the dangerous, intoxicating certainty that she was exactly where she needed to be.

𝗝оіn о𝗎𝗋 𝗰𝗼m𝗆𝘂ո𝘪𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝘯

“Take me home,” she whispered.

Easton’s eyes darkened. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, drawing her gently, inexorably closer.

“Which home?” he asked.

June smiled, and for the first time in years, it reached her eyes.

“Yours,” she said.

And she kissed him, there in the darkened car, while the city hummed around them and the danger waited—patient and watchful—for another day.

The Aston Martin purred into the VIP parking level beneath Easton’s building, the tires humming against concrete as Easton guided the car into its designated space. The garage was climate-controlled, silent, empty of other vehicles at this hour.

June’s fingers found the seatbelt release. The metal clicked, the strap retracted, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The chase had lasted twenty minutes. Easton’s evasive driving through the West Village’s labyrinth had been exhilarating, terrifying, and—she hated to admit—strangely intimate. The way his hand had found hers on the center console. The way he’d asked “Which home?” and the way she’d answered.

Yours.

The word still burned in her throat.

“Stay put for a second p>

Easton’s voice was different. Lower. Tighter.

June’s hand froze on the door handle. She turned.

Easton wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed on something beyond the windshield, thirty feet away where the garage’s emergency lighting cast long shadows against a concrete pillar.

A black Dodge van. Nondescript. Deep-tinted windows that swallowed the overhead lights. And—June followed his line of sight—the faint vibration of an idling engine, exhaust pooling beneath the chassis.

“Don’t move,” Easton said.

His hand closed over her wrist—not rough, but absolute. The pressure of his fingers against her pulse point sent something cold through her veins.

“Easton p>

“Lock the doors.” He was already reaching for his own door handle, his movements economical, precise. “Stay in the car. If I’m not back in ninety seconds, press the blue button. Drive. Don’t wait for me p>

“Easton, you can’t p>

He turned. Looked at her. And June saw something she had never seen before in those gray eyes—a predator’s focus, stripped of all courtroom polish, all civilized restraint.

“Ninety seconds,” he repeated.

Then he was gone.

The door closed with a soft thud. June’s fingers found the lock button and pressed it. The Aston Martin’s systems chirped, securing her inside.

She watched Easton move.

Message from Noa: Have a beautiful weekend dear readers, hope you enjoy these days. God loves you and Noa wishes you all the best. p>