24. Ella

24

ELLA

T he roar of the engine vibrates through my bones as I slam the gas pedal to the floor. My heart pounds in my chest, a relentless drumbeat echoing the wild pace of the car. I'm on Oceanview Drive, speeding along the coast with the dark, tumultuous waves crashing against the cliffs below. The moonlight barely pierces the heavy clouds, casting a ghostly glow on the wet asphalt. The other car is right behind me, its headlights glaring in my rearview mirror like a predator's eyes.

I take a sharp turn onto 31st Boulevard, tires screeching in protest as I drift around the corner. The cityscape blurs in my peripheral vision, a whirlwind of neon signs and shadowy alleys. The driver behind me is relentless, his sleek black car a phantom in the night, inching closer with every second. He's not just trying to catch up. He's trying to make me crash.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles white with the effort. I can't afford to lose focus for even a moment. The stakes are too high. I swerve to avoid a pothole, the car jolting violently but staying on course. The other driver matches my maneuver, staying hot on my trail. I glance at the GPS, calculating my next move. The Oceanview Bridge is coming up—long, narrow, and slick with rain. Perfect.

I press a button on the console, activating the nitrous. The car surges forward with a burst of speed, the force pressing me back into the seat. The bridge looms ahead, a skeletal silhouette against the stormy sky. I hit the bridge at full speed, the metal grating beneath the tires singing a high-pitched, nerve-racking tune. I can hear the other car's engine screaming behind me, the gap between us closing rapidly.

Midway across the bridge, I see an opening—a side road that dips sharply down to the lower docks. I yank the wheel hard to the right, sending the car into a controlled slide. The tires squeal as I shoot down the ramp, narrowly missing the guardrail. The sudden drop catches the other driver off guard. He overshoots the turn, his car skidding wildly before he manages to correct. I gain precious seconds, but he's still on me.

The docks are a maze of shipping containers and abandoned warehouses, perfect for losing a tail. I zigzag through the narrow lanes, the sound of the ocean growing louder. My car fishtails as I navigate a series of hairpin turns, the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I catch glimpses of the black car in my mirrors, its driver unrelenting, his pursuit dogged and precise.

I burst out of the maze onto Harborfront Avenue, the open road stretching ahead. The sea is to my left, the city to my right. I push the car harder, the speedometer climbing dangerously high. My eyes flick to the fuel gauge. It's running low. I need to end this, and soon.

Ahead, the road splits into a winding mountain path and a tunnel that cuts through the cliffside. I opt for the tunnel, hoping the narrow confines will work to my advantage. I barrel into the darkness, the walls a blur as I race through. The other car follows, its headlights casting erratic shadows.

Inside the tunnel, the sound is deafening. The roar of the engines reverberates off the walls, mingling with the screech of tires and the pounding of my heart. I see a faint light at the end, the exit approaching fast. I need a plan—something to shake him off for good.

As we burst out of the tunnel, I spot it—a service road that loops back toward the city, barely visible in the darkness. I yank the wheel and brake hard, the car spinning in a perfect 180 before I slam the gas again. The sudden maneuver takes the other driver by surprise. He overshoots, struggling to regain control.

I tear down the service road, buildings flashing by in a haze. The city is a labyrinth, and I know it like the back of my hand. I weave through the streets, taking turns at random, my only goal to lose him in the urban jungle. I hear the wail of sirens in the distance—reinforcements, perhaps, but I can't count on it.

I cut through a park, the car bouncing over the uneven terrain. The rain has turned the grass into a slippery mess, but I keep my foot on the pedal, eyes scanning for an escape. A bridge over a canal appears, its wooden planks slick with rain. I gun it, the car lurching as it hits the bridge, wood creaking ominously beneath the weight.

On the other side, I see my chance—a construction site, cranes and scaffolding creating a chaotic mess. I plunge into it, maneuvering around obstacles with reckless precision. The black car hesitates, the driver momentarily disoriented by the labyrinth of steel and concrete.

I push through, emerging onto a deserted street. I take a deep breath, the adrenaline high fading slightly. I can't see the other car. Did I lose him? My heart pounds, the silence almost more unnerving than the chase.

Suddenly, headlights flare in my mirrors—the black car again, a dark specter refusing to let go. I grit my teeth, determination flaring anew. This ends now.

I spot an underpass ahead, narrow and barely visible. I aim for it, accelerating. The other car follows, inches from my bumper. I time it perfectly, swerving at the last second. He doesn't have time to react. His car clips the edge, spinning out and crashing into the concrete wall.

I don't stop to look back. I keep driving, the city swallowing me whole. The danger is over, but the night is far from done.

The adrenaline from the chase still thrums through my veins as I drive, the city lights blurring past me. Who the hell could be after me? My mind races, dissecting the possibilities as I navigate the rain-slick streets.

My separate life is dangerous, and not everyone appreciates the service I provide. My list of enemies is long, and tonight's chase suggests one of them wants to cut it short.

I pull into a small takeaway on Crescent Street, the warm glow of the neon sign a stark contrast to the night's earlier chaos. The rain has let up, leaving the pavement glistening under the streetlights. I park the car and step out, pulling my hood up to shield against the residual drizzle. The smells of freshly brewed coffee and grilling sandwiches hits me as I push open the door, the bell above it jingling softly.

Inside, the place is nearly empty—just the way I like it. I head to the counter, my mind still churning through the list of suspects. The usual cheaters and their furious partners cross my mind, but none seem desperate enough to resort to such extreme measures.

"Hey there, what can I get for you?" the barista asks, her cheerful demeanor a brief respite from my dark thoughts.

"An almond bar and a black coffee, to go," I reply, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

As she prepares my order, I lean against the counter, my eyes scanning the street outside through the rain-streaked window. Who could have orchestrated such a brazen attack?

First on my mental list is Martin Delacroix. He's a corporate big shot whose affair I uncovered last month. His wife was devastated, but his fury was palpable when confronted. He swore revenge, his eyes promising more than just empty threats.

Next, there's Coral Price, a socialite with a penchant for younger men. Her scandal made headlines after I provided her husband with undeniable proof. She's powerful and connected—enough to hire someone to take me out.

Then there's Derek Harlan, a cop with a sideline in infidelity. Exposing him put a significant dent in his career. He's got the means and the motive to come after me, not to mention access to the kind of underworld contacts who could arrange a high-speed chase.

My thoughts are interrupted by the barista handing over my chocolate and coffee. I pay quickly, flashing her a brief smile before heading back into the night. The chill air hits me, and I tug my jacket tighter around myself. Back in the car, I take a sip of the coffee, the bitter warmth grounding me momentarily.

I start the engine and drive aimlessly, the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers hypnotic. As I nibble on the soft, chewy bar, my thoughts circle back to the night's events. Whoever was behind the wheel of that black car wasn't just trying to scare me—they wanted me dead.

I turn onto Elmwood Avenue, the familiar sights of the neighborhood calming my racing mind. This is my turf, the place where I've built my reputation. But even here, I can't afford to let my guard down. Not until I figure out who's behind this.

Another name surfaces—Richard Saunders. A real estate mogul whose latest conquest was exposed through my intervention. His carefully constructed image shattered, and his business took a hit. He's got resources and a grudge—dangerous combinations.

I park the car in front of a 24-hour pharmacy, needing to clear my head and reassess. I sit there, watching the few pedestrians hurrying by, their umbrellas bobbing like dark mushrooms. The rain has picked up again, drumming softly on the roof of the car.

As I finish my bar, my phone buzzes. It's a message from Ethan. "What are you up to on your day off? Taking down some baddies?"

I grin slightly. If only he knew.

I reply quickly, telling him I went out for a drive, and now I'm headed back home. My mind is still reeling. The timing of the attack, too—just when I was tailing Vanessa… Could it be her? But the silhouette of the driver was manly, and Vanessa was stone drunk back in the bar. She couldn't possibly sober up enough to drive with the specific intent of killing me.

I sip the last of my coffee, the caffeine sharpening my senses. Who would go to such lengths? Could it be a coalition of enemies? Or is there someone new in the game, someone I haven't yet considered?

I need more information. I decide to call it a night. I can make a list back in my room.

As I drive through the rain-soaked streets, I make a mental note to check in with my other contacts, to gather intel on any recent hires or suspicious activities. Someone has declared war, and I need to be ready.

Whoever's behind this will soon learn that I'm not just a hunter. I'm also a survivor.

Lily's asleep by now, no doubt. She's really an angel.

I weave through the quiet streets, the rain a constant companion. The tension from the chase is still in my muscles, but the thought of seeing Marcus calms me. He always knows how to ground me, even when the world is spinning out of control.

The manor comes into view, its grand silhouette a comforting sight. I park in the driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires. As I step out, the rain has softened to a light drizzle, more a mist than anything else. I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs. This place has become my refuge.

Inside, the manor is quiet, the kind of deep, comforting silence that blankets everything. I tiptoe through the hallways, careful not to disturb Lily. Her room is at the end of the corridor, the door slightly ajar. I peek in to see her sleeping soundly, her small form bundled under the blankets. Relief washes over me. Despite the chaos of the night, she's safe.

I make my way to the study, where Marcus is almost always found at this hour. The door is half-open, and I see him hunched over his desk, surrounded by papers and the soft glow of his desk lamp. He's engrossed in his work, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Marcus," I call softly, not wanting to startle him.

He looks up, a smile breaking across his face as he sees me. "Ella, you're back." His eyes scan me, concern flashing as he takes in my tired expression.

I nod, stepping into the room. "It's been a long night."

He stands, crossing the room to me. "I can see that. Come on, let's get you something to eat." He places a hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the kitchen. The warmth of his touch is reassuring, a reminder that there's still normalcy in this world.

The kitchen is dimly lit, a soft glow emanating from under the cabinets. Marcus moves with practiced ease, opening the fridge and pulling out ingredients. I lean against the counter, watching him. The simple act of fixing a meal feels like an anchor, grounding me after the storm.

He sets to work, sautéing garlic and onions in olive oil, the aroma filling the room. "I thought you might like some pasta," he says, his voice warm and low.

"That sounds perfect," I reply, grateful for his intuition. I watch as he adds diced tomatoes and fresh basil, the simple ingredients transforming into something delicious under his skilled hands.

As the sauce simmers, Marcus opens a bottle of red wine, pouring us each a glass. "Here, this will help you relax."

I take the glass, the rich aroma of the wine mingling with the scents from the stove. I can't let Marcus know what really happened tonight. He can't know about my secret life, the danger I put myself in. It would only worry him, and he doesn't need that burden.

We sit at the kitchen table, the soft clink of cutlery and the warmth of the meal creating a bubble of peace. The pasta is perfect, the sauce rich and flavorful. We talk about trivial things—his work, Lily's latest antics, plans for the weekend. It's a welcome distraction, and I find myself relaxing, the tension slowly ebbing away.

Marcus watches me with a gentle smile, his eyes soft in the dim light. "You look exhausted, Ella. You need to take better care of yourself."

"I know," I say, smiling back. "It's just been a long week."

He reaches across the table, taking my hand in his. "You do so much for us, Ella. You deserve to be taken care of, too."

His touch sends a warmth through me, a comfort I didn't know I needed. "Thank you, Marcus. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He stands, moving to my side of the table. "Why don't we make tonight about you for a change?" His voice is low, seductive, as he leans in closer.

My heart skips a beat, a different kind of thrill running through me. I look up at him, the intensity in his eyes making it hard to breathe. "Marcus…"

He lifts me gently from the chair, his hands firm yet tender on my waist. "Let me take care of you, Ella."

I let him lead me down the hallway, the dim light casting shadows that dance along the walls. My mind races, but this time it's not with fear or adrenaline—it's with anticipation. In the bedroom, Marcus turns to me, his hands cupping my face. "You're safe here, Ella. With me."

I nod, unable to speak as he lowers his lips to mine. The kiss is soft at first, a promise of what's to come. I melt into him, the world outside forgotten.

He leads me to the bed, his hands insistent in the best possible way. As we sink into the soft sheets, the night's troubles fade away. Our clothes come off, and then he's kissing my chest, tasting my nipples, making me groan and wish for more.

Marcus's tongue knows its mission well. He circles the tips of my nipples before gliding it down my stomach. My response is immediate. "Oh… oh, God."

I only realize his intention when my first climax is on the brink. That's how good he is. A quick tug gets my underwear out of the way as his tongue circles around. My hips respond of their own volition, rising into his tongue, trying to shift so it will slip inside me. With a gruff laugh, he pins my impatient body to the bed and gives me one long lick, dragging his tongue from the bottom of my pussy lips to my clit. He holds on for a second before flicking it.

With a low moan, I release the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. He's off again, running his tongue down to my inner thigh so I can feel the long build up. His hands hold me firmly in place. My muscles begin tensing.

Just then, he blows a puff of air on my cunt. "This is what I've been wanting all evening." He laughs.

"Please…"

"Please what, Ella?"

"Please fuck me."

He presses his tongue directly to my clit. I lift off the bed despite his iron grip, his whole mouth around me, tongue circling as fast as he can manage. I come in an instant, weeping tears of joy as my juices cover his chin. At the last breath, I collapse back on the bed as his head emerges.

With a slow, burning grin, he regards me as he licks his lips. "That was delicious. But we're far from done."