“This is the top lock,” She shows me the key and then moves to the next, “The middle, and then this will do the lock on the bottom,” She shows me the last key.
I take them from her, “I’ll be right back, okay? Lock the car behind me.”
“What if it isn’t safe inside?” She whispers.
“Then you get behind the wheel and you drive, you hear me? Go straight to Savannah; my brother will be able to keep you safe.”
“What about you?” She grabs my arm as I move to get out of the car. “Dean, what about you?”
“Don’t worry about me, Butterfly,” I tell her softly, covering her hand only to uncurl her fingers from my arm, “You go, and you leave me.”
Her head shakes frantically, fear stamped all over her, but I get out and close the door behind me. Bending a little, I catch her eye through the window, gesturing toward the button for the central locking. A lone tear slips out of the corner of her eye, and something inside my chest cracks.
Whoever hurt this woman is going to pay. There is nothing that will be able to stop me from ripping them apart.
“Lock it,” I mouth to her.
With a hard swallow, she does as she is told, and I hear the locks engage; only then do I head up to the house. It doesn’t look like anyone has been here, but that means nothing. I’ve worked with men before who can get into a place without ever unlocking the door or breaking a window. They’re quick, stealthy, and able to hide until the last second. You never see them coming.
As quietly as I can, I insert the first key and then the next, listening the best I can for sounds on the other side, but I hear nothing out of the ordinary. I insert the final key, the bolt clicking back, and press down on the handle. The lack of use of both arms gives me a disadvantage, but I’ve had worse odds.
Shoving the door open all the way, I pull the gun from my waistband and step inside, kicking the door closed behind me. Loaded and ready, I go room to room, checking every closet, every space big enough to hide someone, keeping my steps light and agile. With the downstairs clear, I take the stairs slowly, one at a time, keeping my breaths light and soundless. I scan the hallway, finding only dust mites swirling in the stale air as a beam of sunlight flows in through a window at the top of the stairs.
I go to the bathroom first, checking every possible spot before I head to the bedroom, taking my time to ensure it’s safe before Sloane comes in here.
Downstairs, I hear the door open and spin, pressing myself to the wall. The house must be being watched; there’s no one in here, but they could have been waiting outside. Whoever it is, they’re sloppy and loud, not even masking their steps.
It figures; Richard can’t afford the elite.
Stepping back out of the bedroom, I quickly make my way to the wall at the top of the stairs, using it to conceal myself as whoever it is keeps rummaging around downstairs. I peer down at them, keeping my cover, trying to catch a glimpse, but the layout makes it impossible. I press my spine back to the wall just as they round the corner, their steps echoing through the quiet house.
They come slowly, taking each step one at a time, and when they’re close enough to reach, I lunge and have them pinned to the wall in the next second.
Sloane’s wide eyes meet mine, her lips parted and breaths coming in rough, heavy pants.
“Sloane!?” I hiss, loosening my grip on her, but I keep her pressed to the wall. “What the fuck are you doing!?”
“You — you were taking too long,” She whispers with a shake, “I didn’t — I couldn’t leave you.”
“Fuck, Butterfly,” I press my brow to hers as I realize the type of courage it took for her to come inside. My hand slides to her neck, cupping the edge of her throat. Her eyes search mine, her fear and anxiety written all over her face, but slowly, surely, she relaxes a little in my hold, like she’s starting to truly believe I can keep her safe.
“The house is clear,” I rasp, my own instincts loosening their grip on me, only to be replaced by the feel of her body pressed to mine. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and she wets her lips with a swallow.
“Okay,” She replies softly.
“We should get you packed,” I say it out loud, as if to convince myself.
“Yeah,” She agrees, but neither of us make a move to do that.
I curl my hand around to the nape of her neck, her hair like silk as it moves over my hand, the smell of her, like lemons and sugar, wrapping me up and making my damn mouth water. She tips her head back as she slips her own hands up the front of my shirt.
I should stop this and check it’s what she wants. It’s been hot and cold, a tightrope, and I don’t want her to regret anything. Butfuck, I want to taste her. I want to slip my tongue between her lips, hold her face as I steal her breath to fill my own lungs.
Leaning in, I wait, and I wait, closing the small gap as slowly as I can, keeping her stare until the tip of my nose brushes hers. She doesn’t pull away, her eyes falling half closed so tentatively, I brush her lips with mine. A testing touch, as light as a feather, and when she leans in for more, I pull her tighter to me, tipping her head back a little more to slant my mouth over hers.
Her whole body melts.
Running my tongue along the seam of her lips, I test and wait to see if she’ll open for me and give me the taste I’m craving.
