"Are you okay? Are they still here? What happened?" I've got so many questions, so many things that I need to know, but the most important one is her. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"Y-yeah, I'm okay," she says, but her voice says she's only okay physically. Mentally, she's a mess. I can see it in the way her eyes don't settle, how they still skim the room, lingering on the bed, and the message I just now realize is written in the sheets.
You're mine. You'll always be mine. And I always get what I want.
"Denali," I whisper, hesitant to ask, yet knowing it's important, "who did this?"
She knows. A message that personal, that specific, shehasto know who's after her.
"Not here," she mutters, her hands clutching at my shirt, wrinkling the fine material. I couldn't care less, though. Not with Denali here in my arms, panic rising in her throat, tainting her voice. "I—it was—it was Theo."
Theo. A man's name. "An ex?"
"Something like that." She won't look away from the bed. "Kai?—"
"We need to call the police." I start to pull her out of the room, and then realize the more we move, the more we damage the integrity of the crime scene. "And you can't stay here?—"
She fights me, stiffening in my grip, so I lift her in my arms and carry her bodily from the room, forcing her to leave thatmenacing scene behind. She can't stand in there and ruminate on it forever. It'll tear her up inside. Once we're clear of the bedroom, and standing beyond the majority of the mess, in the kitchen foyer, I set her down, pulling my phone out almost immediately.
Her hand falls on mine, stopping me in my tracks. I'm not sure why she wants me to wait, but I look at her, hoping for an explanation.
"Don't call them," she pleads, her eyes wide. "You don't understand what he's capable of?—"
"Clearly he's capable of a whole lot," I say dryly, gesturing at the rooms we can see, and those beyond. "Has this been going on for awhile?"
She ducks her head, and I realize she's been hiding more from me than I thought. "Remember those horrible lillies?"
The ones that I commented were funeral flowers, not gifts for a woman. "Yes."
That was him?
"We need to call them, Denali. The cops can handle this?—"
She takes my phone from me and stuffs it down the front of her dress. "No. He knows cops. He'll make it go away, just like he did last time. Healwaysmakes it disappear?—"
"You can't stay here." I don't know that she'd try, I just need her to know I won't allow it. Not because she's in danger, not because clearly someone has been doing this for a long while, not because there's too much of a mess to clean up to make this place habitable right now. But because I can't imagine not having her near me right now. I won't let her out of my sight. If I walked away now, let her stay on her own, I'd never forgive myself.
I need to know she's okay. And the easiest way to do that is to keep her with me.
"Where the hell else am I gonna go, Kai?" Her hair has started to fall from her tight bun in little wisps, but instead offraming her face sweetly, they're clinging to the side of her throat in the sweat from her panic and fear. "He'll only follow me."
"Pack a bag, and be quick," I say calmly, like there's no room for argument. "You'll stay with me."
"No." The word is said with all the determination of a woman who doesn't plan to argue the topic. "I amnotleading him to your home next."
"I'm not giving you a choice, Denali. You're coming with me. My place has a security team, locks, and a whole ass alarm system. And we've got Anton and Roger."
She looks to the kitchen, where a lovely cat licks his paw as he sits on the counter and watches us. "Taco?—"
Without a second thought, I walk over, pick the cat up, and stick him in my coat, buttoning it up around him. "I've got him. Now let's go." After a second of hesitation, I eye her tits and sigh. "And give me my damn phone back. I don't want to have to go fishing for it."
It takes a minute, but the realization that I'm not arguing, and she's not going to win this one must wash over here and settle into that thick skull of hers, because she frowns, but she doesn't argue further. She reaches down the front of her top and hands it over, and I'm almost disappointed that I didn't have my hand forced—so to speak—into getting it myself.
Now's not the time for sexy games with my assistant.
Later, though . . .
The antsy cat in my jacket is not pleased with where he's at, but he's not arguing too much. In fact, the more I pet him, the more content he becomes with his current situation. "Your mama is one stubborn woman," I tell him, already planning to have Anton make the phone call to the authorities. I don't care if the asshole who did this has a million dollars and a cop in every town on his bankroll. He's going to pay for this, and the first step is a paper trail.
