Chapter Four
Eden
By day two, I'm already learning his patterns. That's the first sign I'm in trouble.
Before dawn: perimeter check. The back door opens, boots heavy on the porch, then nothing for twenty minutes while he circles the property. When he comes back in, he announces himself. Yesterday and today, the same thing. "Just me" or "coming in" or sometimes just a low rumble that means I'm here, don't panic.
After that: coffee. He makes enough for two without asking if I want any. Slides a mug across the counter when I emerge from the bedroom.
Then breakfast. This morning it's steak and eggs and a huge green salad. Yesterday it was a whole roasted chicken. No wonder Maya was worried about leaving enough food—he could eat out a grocery store in a week.
Daylight hours, he stays inside—watches from the windows, paces, checks the locks.
The rest of the day stretches out, shapeless. He finds things to fix. I find spots to sit and stare at nothing. We move around each other carefully, always aware, never quite touching.
It's driving me insane. Not him, not the situation—the nothing. Sitting still while my brain eats itself alive.
I try the laptop first. Bring it out of my room for the first time since Diesel tried to take it, open a blank document, and wait.
Nothing.
The cursor blinks. My fingers hover over the keys. I used to write through things like this—lock myself in my apartment for days, pour everything onto the page until the bad stuff had somewhere to go. But every time I try now, I see the interview room. The way that man smiled when he talked about killing. The way he looked at me.
I close the laptop and switch to the books he gave me yesterday.
East of Eden is still on top. I open it to where I left off, but the words swim. I read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single sentence.
Across the room, Diesel is doing something to a piece of leather—repairing a strap, maybe. His hands dwarf the material, knuckles scarred, and the leather looks delicate in his grip.
I catch myself staring and look back at the book.
Two paragraphs later, my eyes drift again.
He's rolled his sleeves up. His forearms are ridiculous—corded muscle, dark hair, a tattoo I can't quite make out from here. He's frowning at whatever he's working on, focused, and I have to look away before he catches me cataloging him.
I look back at the book and read the same sentence again.
This is ridiculous. He's an asshole. Gruff and bossy and he literally told me to stay uncomfortable yesterday while he tore into a chicken with his bare hands. I don't fall for assholes.
At least, I didn't. Before I spent months surrounded by cops and federal agents who treated me like evidence instead of a person. Daniels gave me his sweatpants when I had nothing else to wear, and that was kind. But Diesel's rough edges are more comforting somehow. If he's this gruff with me—someone he's protecting—imagine what he'd do to someone who's an actual threat.
I slam the book shut.
"Problem?"
"No." I stand up and cross to the window. "I just need—I don't know. Something."
The yard behind the cottage is overgrown—weeds pushing up through what might have once been a garden, a fence line that's more suggestion than structure. In daylight, it looks abandoned. At night, it might be manageable.
And it looks like work. Real, physical, wear-yourself-out work.
That's what I need. Something to do with my hands that isn't typing words that won't come. Something that might actually tire me out enough to stop my eyes from drifting to him every five minutes. Something that might earn me a few hours of sleep that isn't filled with gunfire and screaming.
Plus, he's feeding me, sheltering me, keeping me alive. The least I can do is pull some weeds.
"Let me help with something."
He looks up.
