"I am sorry," he said quietly. "About your father. About all of it. I know that doesn't mean much coming from me. But I am."
I didn't respond. Just walked into my bedroom and closed the door behind me.
I waited until I heard him move into the living room, heard the creak of the couch as he sat down. Then I locked the bedroom door, not because I thought he'd come in uninvited, but because old habits died hard, and sank down onto my bed.
The tears came then. Quiet and hot, soaking into my pillow as I curled up on my side and let myself fall apart.
For my father, who I still missed every single day.
For myself, for everything I'd been through and everything still to come.
And for Hudson. For the man I'd loved and lost, who was now twenty feet away on my couch like the last ten years hadn't happened.
I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle my sobs, but I knew he could probably hear them anyway. He'd always been able to read me too well, know me too deeply.
That was part of the problem.
But even as I cried, even as my heart ached with old wounds and new fears, I couldn't deny the truth that settled over me like a weighted blanket.
For the first time in weeks, I felt something other than terror.
I felt safe.
And I hated that he was the one who made me feel that way.
Chapter 2: Hudson
She was crying.
I sat on her couch in the dark, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands, and listened to Betty cry through the thin walls of her apartment. The sound was muffled. As if she was trying to be quiet, probably pressing her face into a pillow, but I heard every broken sob like it was a knife sliding between my ribs.
This was my fault.
All of it. The tears. The fear. The fact that she was in danger in the first place.
If I'd been here maybe she wouldn't have had to face any of this alone.
But I hadn't stayed. I'd walked away ten years ago and convinced myself it was for her own good, that keeping my distance would keep her safe. And look where that had gotten us.
Her crying eventually quieted, replaced by the soft, even breathing of sleep. Only then did I let myself exhale, let my shoulders drop from where they'd been hunched up around my ears.
She was safe. For now.
I stood and moved through her apartment on silent feet, checking the locks on the windows, testing the deadbolt on the front door. The place was small. One bedroom, one bath, a kitchen that opened into a living room, and it was still a mess from the break-in. Cushions slashed. Drawers emptied. Her clothes scattered across the floor like someone had wanted to touch every piece of her life.
The thought made my hands curl into fists.
I'd seen the photos. My team had sent them to me within hours of the break-in, along with a full report. I'd stared at those images until my vision blurred, assessing every violation, every message those bastards had left behind.
We can get to you whenever we want.
Not anymore.
I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my second-in-command at Black Hawk.
Me: Need a full security overhaul. Apartment and bar. Send Martinez first thing tomorrow.
Reeves responded within seconds, because the man never slept.
