I nod, too breathless to speak.
"We always travel in pairs," Drake explains, guiding me toward a black SUV idling at the curb. "Rowan's been tailing us since we left Redthorne."
He must have read the confusion in my expression. “The text you sent?” I ask.
Drake nods, confirming.
I blink up at both men who saved my life and manage to force two words past my trembling lips. "Thank you."
Both Rowan and Drake incline their heads in acknowledgment but say nothing as they shuffle me into the SUV.
Rowan’s attention moves to the building we just escaped as sirens begin to wail in the distance. “Looks clear.” He moves into the driver’s seat while Drake keeps glued to my side.
“I took out two. We will need to scrub the local surveillance.”
Rowan grunts and guns the accelerator, weaving through the late afternoon traffic.
I swallow hard and look at both men who just risked their lives for me. Drake has a cut above his eyebrow from the shattered glass. “I can tend to your cut when we get back to Rafael’s. I have training. It doesn’t look like it needs stitches, but that area bleeds easily.”
“Thank you, baby girl. I’ll be all right.”
“Thanks to you, actually. Truly.” I say with every terrified, grateful fiber of my being. “Both of you. I don’t think saying it once is enough.”
The rest of the drive back to the penthouse passes in a blur of adrenaline and shock, my hands shaking so badly that Drake takes one of them in his own and holds it until we pull into the underground garage of Redthorne Holdings.
The elevator ride is silent, and when the doors open onto the penthouse, my heart nearly stops.
Rafael stands by the window, silhouetted against the city lights that are just beginning to flicker to life as dusk settles over Chicago. He turns when he hears us enter, and the look on his face makes my breath catch—fury and fear and something desperate that he buries almost as quickly as it appears. His shirtsleeves are rolled to up his forearms, the dark ink of his tattoos visible and the tense cords of muscle telling me he knows. Of course he does.
His dark eyes rake over me from head to toe, cataloging every inch of my body like he's searching for injuries. I must look like hell—my hair has come loose from its braid, my blouse is torn at the shoulder, and I'm pretty sure there's blood on my skirt though I don't think it's mine. Something passes between the three men that requires no words.
"Drake. Rowan." His voice is controlled, but I can hear the rage simmering beneath the surface. At them or the situation, I can’t tell. But his actions clear it up for me.
“Thank you.” He moves to his brothers and he clasps their hands and brings them in for a shoulder bump and shoulder pat. “Thank you for protecting my wife and bringing her back safely.”
Wife?
Wife.
I inhale deeply and roll the word through my emotions, unsure of how it makes me feel. Not that it’s true, but do I see myself as this man’s wife? Not at the moment, but maybe? I don’t know, I'm just happy to be alive right now.
Rowan and Drake turn to me a moment and offer me a small smile. It doesn’t seem right to let them just walk out. They turn for the elevator to leave. I step forward and wrap my arms around Drake's solid frame, squeezing him tight.
"Thank you," I whisper against his chest. "For protecting me today."
He is solid and warm and smells like gunpowder, and I squeeze tight before pulling back to do the same to Rowan, who accepts the embrace with the startled rigidity of a man who is not hugged often.
"You too. Thank you for keeping me alive. Both of you.” Both men give me a nod that carries more weight than words. Their expression softens in a way that says I have earned something that does not come cheap. Their respect.
The weight of everything that's happened presses down on my shoulders like a physical force.
Rafael crosses the room in four strides and stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His eyes roamover my face, my body, my hands still carrying the faint tremor of adrenaline.
He cups my face as he tilts my head back to examine me more closely. His touch is gentle, at odds with the barely leashed violence I can see coiling in every line of his body.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. Drake protected me and got me out before?—”
