"No. I feel sick." She sits down on one of the leather barstools, legs trembling again. "Blake, what happens now? I can't stay here forever. The police?—"
"The police can't help you," I say, pouring a glass of amber liquid from a decanter. "If they could, you wouldn't be running."
I slide the glass across the granite counter. "Drink."
She sniffs it. "Whiskey?"
"You didn't eat that bear claw this morning," I say, walking to the fridge. "I watched you leave it on the counter. You're running on empty, Tiff." I pull out a carton of eggs and some pre-cut vegetables. "Sit. I'm making you an omelet. Drink it slowly, whiskey on an empty stomach will drop you."
She takes a sip, coughing as the burn hits her throat. But she takes another. A flush of color returns to her cheeks.
I walk around the counter until I’m standing between her spread knees. It’s an aggressive stance. I want her to know it. I place my hands on the granite on either side of her hips, boxing her in.
"You stay here," I say, my voice dropping to that rough register that makes her eyelids flutter. "You sleep in my bed. You eat my food. You let me handle the threat."
"And what do you get out of this?" she asks, her voice small. She looks at my mouth. "Why are you doing this for a baker you barely know?"
I reach up, brushing a thumb across her cheekbone. I smear a streak of flour, revealing the creamy skin beneath. "I know you, Tiffany. I know you unlock your door at 3:45 a.m. I know you listen to true crime podcasts while you knead the dough because the silence scares you. I know you check the locks three times before you start the ovens."
Her breath hitches. "You... you’ve been watching me."
"Yes." I don't apologize. I don't shy away.
"For how long?"
"Since the day you moved into town."
"That’s... that’s stalking, Blake."
"Call it what you want." I lean in closer, until our noses are almost touching. "Tonight, that stalking is the only reason you aren't in the trunk of a black sedan heading back to a man who hurts you."
She stiffens, her eyes flashing. "So you're my savior and my stalker? Convenient." But she doesn't pull away.
"You’re safe here," I tell her. "But there are rules."
"Rules?" Her chin tilts up. There’s that spark of defiance I saw when she held the rolling pin. I want to fan that spark into a flame.
"Rule one," I say, running my hand down the side of her neck, feeling her pulse jump. "You don't leave this house without me. Not for fresh air. Not for anything. The perimeter is alarmed. If you cross it, I’ll know."
She swallows hard. "Okay."
"Rule two." My hand drifts lower, resting on the curve of her shoulder beneath the leather vest. "You do what I say, when I say it. In a situation like this, hesitation gets people killed."
"I’m not a soldier, Blake."
"No. You’re the objective. And I don't lose."
The air between us is thick, heavy with the scent of her pussy getting drenched while she stares at me. I can see the way she clenches her thighs together, trying to fight the ache I’ve put in her. She’s terrified, yeah, but she’s also dripping for the man who just hauled her out of the fire. It’s a visceral, raw need that makesmy balls tighten, a silent plea for me to fill her until she can’t scream.
"Is there a rule three?" she whispers.
My gaze drops to her lips. Full, parted, pink. I want to devour her. I want to lift her onto this counter and bury myself so deep inside her she forgets her own name. But she’s traumatized. Fragile. If I break her now, she’ll never heal right.
I force myself to step back. The loss of proximity hurts physically.
"Rule three," I state, my hand moving to the nape of her neck, my thumb stroking the tension there. "You sleep in my bed. Under my sheets. I’ll be in the chair by the door." I catch her gaze, letting her see the raw honesty in mine. "I can't sleep unless I can hear you breathing, Tiffany. I need to know the monster didn't get in."
"Blake—"
