On the other side of the door are sounds of Mallory pulling aside the table I told her to push against the door while I was racing here.
The snick of a lock.
The dip of a door handle.
The door swings open and there she is, eyes red and puffy, but teeming with outrage. Her pajamas are a matching set, yellow like a dandelion and covered in a floral print. Her breasts spill from the low-cut top.Somebody entered her private space, leered at her wearing a piece of clothing she felt comfortable sleeping in.My hands ball into fists. Was it that son of a bitch night manager? Who else could it have been?
Mallory takes one look at me and her face crumples, as if she was using her fury to get her through until it was safe for her to feel her other feelings.
I'm there, stepping into the room, folding her into my chest. Her head cradles into my neck, her breath hot against the fabric of my shirt.
"Someone was in my room," she whispers. "While I was in it. Sleeping." One sob. "With my baby."
I look down past the curtain of dark hair, watch the possessive pass of her hand over her stomach.
"What if they had hurt us?"
Closing my eyes against the thought, I run my hand down her back, all the way to the pronounced lower dip, returning. "You are both safe, and that's what matters."
Her answering nod is tiny, causing her lips to skim my chest. My heart constricts. My throat, too.
"Is your stuff packed?" I ask her.
"Yes," she answers, taking a step away.
But I don't want her to. I want to keep her in the circle of my arms, where I can make sure she and Peanut are safe.
She motions toward the bed, where there are two bags. I recognize one from that first day I accompanied her to the inn, mad as hell about her subterfuge but determined to treat her well.
I stride forward, lifting the bags from the bed. After a quick double-check of the bedroom and the bathroom, I swipe a paper grocery bag from the table. One look inside tells me it holds her collection of snacks. There's enough in there to fill a pantry, and my heart swells at that. She doesn't want a repeat of what happened at the festival.
My gaze turns to Mallory, and I watch a chill sweep over her skin. Dropping everything I'm holding to the ground, I pull off my jacket. Wordlessly she turns, sliding her arms into the jacket, allowing me to zip it. I reach behind her neck, fist her silky hair, pulling it out from where it's trapped. My jacket swallows her, and if I'm lucky, it'll absorb some of her scent.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I pick up the bags, saying, "No problem." I hear how gruff I sound.
Normally I'd guide her through the door and let her go first, but considering tonight's events, I'm walking out first. If anybody is going to encounter someone with bad intentions, it's going to be me.
No such thing occurs. We have to walk back through the lobby to leave, or use the emergency door at the end of the hall, which will set off an alarm.
Lobby it is. I take Mallory's hand, pull her in tight to my side.
The guy behind the desk stands up when we enter. Mallory's hand grips mine, her other hand coming up to grasp my arm. Her entire body grows rigid.She suspects it was him.
We sail through the small space, eyes forward, until he says, "If you're leaving, you need to complete the checkout process."
"Fuck off," I say clearly, never breaking my stride or looking his way.
Mallory's head turns in to me, face partially pressed to my arm. "Thank you again," she whispers.
Anytime.
Forever.
Always.
What is wrong with me?
