One of the other men steps forward. He looks older than the others, solid and broad-shouldered, but not as massive as the first man. His face is clean-shaven, and his salt-and-pepper hair is trimmed close at the sides.
“You’re outside of Moon Ridge,” he says. “At our home and security compound. The three of us are security consultants. We found you in your car on our way back from the city last night.”
He pauses, giving me time to absorb the information, and I need it.
Security consultants?I don’t know whether to be relieved or suspicious. My sense of who I can trust has been shattered.
“I’m Atlas,” the man says. “Andrew O'Connell, but most people call me Atlas, and you can, too.”
He looks over at the other men, who are standing back a few feet. Atlas gestures to the one who’d been next to my bed when I woke up. “This big guy is Boyd Barrett, but he’s better known as Grizz.”
Grizz is enormous, his chest and shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt. Even standing still, his powerful body seems capable of violence, but when he tips his head in a greeting, his rugged features are full of concern.
The third man is tall and leaner, with sharper features. A long beard frames his mouth and jaw. Intricate ink designs on his neck disappear beneath his collar. There’s an intensity about him that makesme look away.
“That’s Silas Mercer,” Atlas says. “He goes by Viper. I know it’s a lot to take in. Don’t worry, there won’t be a quiz later.”
His humor reassures me. If these men were sent by Preston, they wouldn’t be joking with me, would they? Or bothering with detailed introductions.
The way they look at me is nothing like Preston’s associates, either. I got used to seeing cold calculation in my fiancé’s circle, which I used to think was simply political ambition. Now I know better.
These strangers assess me with calm, professional focus. All three of them are older than me by at least a decade, I’d guess, judging by the varying amounts of gray in their hair and beards, and the lines on their faces.
Their clothing is rugged. Their flannel shirts and work pants seem better suited to outdoor adventures than legislative meetings or fundraising dinners.
The men seem respectful, and the way they keep their distance helps me breathe easier, but trust is a luxury I can’t afford when my life depends on staying hidden.
“I’m Kira. No nickname.” I’m thankful when they don’t ask for my last name.
“Good to meet you, Kira. Would you like something to eat?”
I don’t feel hungry, but I’m sure I should eat for the baby’s sake. Who knows how long it’s been. “I need to use a bathroom first,” I say.
“There’s one right around the corner,” Atlas says. “Get up slowly, and let’s see if you’re steady on your feet.” He stays nearby, ready to support me.
I push the blanket back and notice the long underwear I’m wearing. It’s warm and soft, though it hangs on my body, a couple of sizes too big. I’m assuming at least one of these men removed my wedding dress to change my clothes, and the thought of that makes me feel vulnerable.
Atlas offers a hand to help me stand, and I accept his help, because my body barely feels like my own. Once my feet settle onto the floor, I feel more stable. Various aches call for attention, but the need to relieve my bladder overrides everything else.
With the support of Atlas’s hand on my elbow, I make it to a nearby bathroom, where the light is already on.
“I’ll be right outside if you need help,” he tells me.
There are several bruises on me. Other injuries are covered by bandages. I’m not sure what’s from the accident, and what was caused by my fiancé-turned-stranger.
I’m relieved there are no visible injuries on my stomach. I felt another flutter while Atlas was introducing himself, and I think it’s a good sign. I sense that the baby’s okay, even though I can’t fully shake the worry.
There’s a mirror over the sink that’s hard to avoid as I wash my hands, and my reflection is a shock. Instead of even waves, my hair is now matted in parts, staticky in others. The thought of trying to work a comb through it makes me want to go back to sleep.
Most of my careful wedding makeup is gone. There are dark areas under my eyes that appear to be part mascara smudgeand part fatigue.
The last time I looked at myself, I was pinning a veil into my hair, full of hope, buoyant, happy. Now I’m trying to survive.
As promised, Atlas is outside the door when I open it. I think I’d be okay without his assistance, but the gentle support of his hand is a much-needed comfort as he leads me back to the bedroom, where cushions have been added to the bed so I can sit up.
There’s a tray of food waiting for me. A steaming bowl of soup, toast neatly cut into triangles, and a small bowl of applesauce.
“Thank you for this,” I say in the direction of all three men. “And thank you for saving me.”
