First thing I do is check the perimeter.
The cameras feed into my tablet. Every angle covered—alley, rooftop, street. Nothing but the usual foot traffic. A mail truck. Jogger. Woman walking a dog in a puffer coat.
Still, I scan each frame twice. Then a third time.
My hand rests on the sidearm holstered at my thigh like it’s an extension of my body. Because it is. That’s what I do—I protect.
And she is under my protection now.
Even if what happened between us complicates the hell outof that.
I scrub a hand down my face.
Fuck.
She’s going to wake up, and she’s going to talk. Verbally process. Deconstruct what we did until it turns clinical. Intellectual. Safer.
And I won’t know what to say. I’ll just sit there like a fucking statue while she redefines what was the most perfect, primal, filthy thing I’ve ever experienced.
I shouldn’t want to hear her say it.
But I do.
I want her to admit it mattered.
I want her to say she meant it when she begged to be used. That it wasn’t just adrenaline or fear or some fucked-up survival instinct. That it was her.
But I won’t ask.
Because I don’t deserve that kind of honesty.
And because I’m not sure I can handle what she says if it’s not what I want to hear.
So I do the only thing I know how to do.
I check the doors. Recheck the windows. Pull up the schematics of the house and make sure every alarm is armed, every blind spot covered.
I order food. Just enough. Protein-heavy. Fuel for both of us.
Then I sit down at the table and stare at the wall.
And I wait.
Like the idiot soldier who just fucked the one woman who could wreck him.
I check on her.
Can’t help it.
She hasn’t moved much. One leg kicked out from the sheets. Lips parted. Hair a goddamn mess. There’s a bruise on her hip I don’t remember giving her, and I can feel it—low in my gut—how badly I want to mark her again.
Not rough. Not now.
But mine.
The flash drive’s still on the floor where it landed.
I crouch beside it. Rest my forearms on my knees. Just look.
