Cop instinct trumping mother’s instinct for just a moment caused her to fly into action and run to the aid of her partner, despite how often she’d thought about choking him out herself over the last few months. Krista wrapped an arm around the drunk’s neck, applying enough pressure to cut off his air. His grip on Myles seemed to loosen, but not enough. She couldn’t pry his hand from around Myles’s neck, and the prisoner still hadn’t managed to un-holster Myles’s gun, so deciding disabling him was her best bet, she tightened her grip around his neck and reached for her taser. She was just about to free it when the man’s desperation for air caused him to rear back and head-butt her in the face. The elbow of his free hand came back and nailed her hard in the belly. On instinct she released him, recoiling back against the wall and cradling her abdomen as blood gushed out of her nose and stars spun behind her eyes.
“Matthews!” Myles bellowed. “Call for fucking backup!”
But she just sat there, stunned. Her head was no longer in the moment—it was in her belly, and after that elbow, she couldn’t in good conscience put her baby in jeopardy again. No. Mother’s instinct now trumped any instinct ortraining she may have received as a cop. She couldn’t, shewouldn’trisk it.
“Help!” Myles screamed, just as he managed to swat the assailant’s hand away from his gun, pull out his expandable baton and start whacking the drunk over the head. Finally, the drunk let go, and Myles scrambled away, pulling his gun out and fixing it on the man.
Fury flooded the room as Myles pushed himself up to standing. He fixed his gaze on the perp before flicking it to Krista. “You’ll pay for that.”
Just then two more cops, Marlise and Allie, came rushing forward and into the holding cell.
“Everything okay?” Marlise asked. Her eyes roamed the scene, taking in Krista lying there on the floor covered in her own blood.
Allie rushed forward and helped Krista up. “You all right?”
Krista nodded, using her shirtsleeve to wipe up her face. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Come on, let’s go get you cleaned up before we write up the report,” Allie said, fishing some tissues out of her pocket and handing them to Krista.
Myles was busy handcuffing the prisoner, who was now being held at gunpoint by Marlise.
“This isn’t over,” Myles said as Krista walked past him, his onyx eyes saying so much that a chill colder than any winter storm sprinted down her spine.
She was stuck in court the following day, all day, and thankfully without Myles beside her. She had to lay charges and participate in the prosecution of the man who had beaten his wife to a bloody pulp, inevitably causing her to miscarry. It had been a trying day, an exhausting and emotionally draining day. More than once, Krista caught herself rubbing her stomach as they went through the gruesome details of that horrific night.
She watched as the poor woman recounted each punch, each kick, her whole body quivering with a mix of rage and overwhelming sadness and loss. Kristaached to get up from her seat and go wrap an arm around her, comfort her and tell her that it would be okay; she was free of him and could start a new life, one free of harm and heartbreak, and the doctors said she would still be able to have children. But Krista couldn’t. That was not her job while in court.
Her job was to present the facts and recount her participation in what had happened that night. But what shecoulddo, and what shediddo, with cutthroat clarity and vitriol-laden eloquence, was nail the bastard to the wall with every single detail she could—every scratch, every blood drop, every sexist slur he’d muttered to her and to his wife when they’d knocked on their door that day. She painted him to be the most disgusting, deplorable excuse for a human being imaginable, because he was. She couldn’t sit and wipe away the tears of his wife, but she could sit on the stand and do everything in her power to make sure he never laid on a hand on anyone ever again.
Brock had been away for the past two days for some high-profile personal security job on the mainland, so she had the house to herself. Which, despite the lack of orgasms and stir-fry when she walked through the door after work, had been nice. He was a bossy, pushy, demanding bugger and, even though they were slowly developing a friendship as the weeks ticked by, it was nice tonothave someone cramming a pre-natal vitamin and spinach-infused smoothie down her throat every morning. A person can only eatsomuch spinach before they start a revolt.
And it was probably a good thing he didn’t see her the night following the court appearance, because after a dinner of french fries and roasted red pepper soup, she lay on the couch, spooned Penelope and cried. Cried for the woman on the stand, for all women who were abused and assaulted, harassed and beaten. Cried for the baby that would never be, for her baby safely nestled in her belly and the terrible world she was bringing it into. She cried for herself and the fact that as much as she tried not to be, she was a screwup. She’d gotten knocked up on a one-night stand, nearly got her mentor killed and, in the process, could have lost the baby. She was a total screwup.
It wasn’t until she was fresh out of tears and sadness that the rage finally took over. And the guilt. She’s been stupid to go this long at work and not disclose her pregnancy. The woman on the stand had lost her baby because of her husband’s anger, not her job as a secretary; meanwhile Krista was recklessly endangering her child every day by going to work.
Brock was right.
Damn him.
She needed to switch to light duty, needed to be responsible and think about more than just her career. It used to mean everything to her, but now, there was something bigger, something more important. She cradled her abdomen with her hands and vowed to her unborn child that tomorrow she was going to march into Staff Sergeant Wicks’ office and request the change. She needed to start being responsible. She needed to start thinking about someone besides herself.
Unsure of the time, but exhausted from the day and mental toll it had taken, Krista passed out on the couch sometime between the house-flipping show and the garden renovation show only to wake up the next morning at 5 a.m. to the sound of someone coming in the front door.
Disoriented and exhausted, Krista sprang up from her spot on the couch, aware of the drool puddle beneath her chin but not caring enough about it at the moment.
“Who’s there?” she called out, her eyes adjusting to the light in the living room as they scanned the area for a weapon of sorts.
“Me.” Followed by a grunt and then heavy footsteps on the stairs. Seconds later, his head popped up behind the wall separating the living room from the stairs. Unable to control herself or the magnitude of emotions of the last few days, Krista leaped up off the couch and hurled herself into his arms.
“Oof,” was all he said as his arms made their way around her.
Brock was bagged from the last few days of following around the high-profile celebrity in Vancouver, but all that vanished when a look of pure defeat and terror met him at the top of the stairs. His nose fell to her hair, and he inhaled before he knew what he was doing. Fuck, she smelled good. She always smelled good.
Felt good in his arms, too.
“You okay?” he asked. She was crying against his shirt, and the man was at a loss. He’d never really been in a relationship long enough to have to deal with the emotional roller coaster that was a woman. Sure, he’d dealt with PMS, but this seemed way more than that. And then it hit him. The baby.
Panic flooded him at the thought that Krista might have miscarried while he was away. Grabbing her by the elbows, he pushed her away from him, stepping down one stair so that they could be eye-to-eye. “Krista!” He shook her gently. “What’s wrong? Is the baby okay?”
