“Cade,” he replies, and I sigh, scrubbing at my face.
“I need eyes on Ansel. Can you call the guards and tell them to come here and stand watch?”
“There should already be guards with you, as this was my condition for letting you out and about with him. What happened? Where the fuck are you?”
“At his place.”
“Well, I insist you both come back. He’s not safe outside our compound. I made a compromise by letting you take him out daily, but fuck, he won’t be living on his own.”
I rub at the hole in my chest. How can I explain this to Wylder when I don’t understand it myself? “I know, but he won’t come near me.”
Wylder goes quiet for a moment. “What the fuck did you do?”
I clear my throat and look at the window I just tried to open. I seethe curtains move. He must see me standing on the sidewalk, but he doesn’t message, doesn’t call, just lets the curtains fall back to where they were.
It’s getting hard to see now, everything blurring together. “I didn’t do anything. We were just out, and then he suddenly got upset, said he needed time away from me.”
“Well, get him back.”
My voice breaks. “He doesn’t want me, Wylder. He doesn’t want me.”
“Fucking hell. Cade, don’t fucking move. I’ll be there soon. Just hang on for me, buddy, okay?”
Wylder appears ten minutes later, a tinted SUV pulling up to the curb.
“Get in,” he says, stepping out and gesturing for me to enter. I don’t want to, but I end up sliding inside, the leather seats warm against my exposed skin.
“Christ, Cade, you’re a mess.” Wylder peers at my bleeding knee. “Clean yourself up while I’m gone.”
The door shuts, and the driver hands me a small pouch—a first aid kit they keep in the cars for situations like this. The drivers are well versed in us showing up bloody and bruised. Only this time, it’s not a bad man or woman who hurt me. It’s my butterfly. Or at least, he was the reason I was on that rickety platform to begin with.
“Is my chest bleeding?” I ask the driver, who merely squints at me. “Because it feels like it is.”
His eyes widen. “Is this an emergency, sir?”
“No, just a broken heart.”
I turn my gaze outside and see Wylder making his way up the sidewalk. He raps his hand on the dilapidated door of the apartment, but no one answers. It makes me ridiculously happy that Ansel is being safe, that he’s not flinging the door open for just anyone.
Wylder raps again, and even though I can’t hear it, I know it’sharder this time. He even leans forward, probably shouting Ansel’s name.
I rip a wipe open and mop up the blood pooling around my knee before slapping a Band-Aid over it.
Then I watch as the apartment door peeks open. I lean across the seat, my nose to the window, my breath fogging up the glass, my heart racing in my chest.
I was right. He’s safe.
The two of them talk, Wylder through the crack in the door, Ansel safely tucked away inside. They converse for some time, Wylder gesturing back toward the car. I hope he’s convincing him to come home. Where he belongs. Where he’s safe. Because even putting guards on him, it’s notmeprotecting him. I’ll have to leave him in someone else’s hands.
It makes my stomach roil.
The door shuts, and Wylder runs a hand through his hair. His shoulders straighten, and he spins around, his phone out, his mouth moving a mile a minute. By the time he’s at the SUV and sliding in, he’s explaining.
“He won’t come with us. He refused. The guards will monitor him.”
I swallow, and my jaw clicks, my eyes flicking up to the man standing outside Ansel’s door. I stare long and hard, wincing when the door opens and Ansel pushes a chair out for the man to sit in.
“Did you tell him it wasn’t safe? To keep his fucking door shut?”
