Pushing to his feet with a groan, Dax unfolds his cane. “Good. She matters, Ry. And if I’m right, I owe her one hell of an apology. Because her brother mattered too, and my prejudices may have killed him.” He reaches back to his hip and withdraws a belt holster and a 9mm. “You didn’t get this from me. But unless you flew across the country armed…”
“I didn’t.” As I take the gun, I clasp his hand for an extra beat. “Thanks.”
Dax slips through the hotel room door, and I wish I could have my friend back for one day. Just long enough to tell him he matters too.
9
Wren
Rolling over, I catch my wrist in the sheets and wince. The pain forces me fully awake, and I barely stop myself from rubbing my eyes. My headache’s mostly gone, and the hard knot of anxiety lodged in my chest lessened overnight. My eye still feels hot and swollen though, and I really don’t want to look in the mirror.
Squinting as the beside clock comes into focus, I’m shocked. It’s after nine. And…where the hell is Ryker? As I push up to sitting, I see him—stretched out in front of the door. On his side. One hand resting on a pistol. He looks…almost peaceful, and I have a feeling Ryker McCabe doesn’t do peaceful very often.
“Where did you get a gun?”
He’s instantly awake, the gun held firmly, but his finger off the trigger. “Dax.”
“Is there some reason you felt the need to sleep on the floor?” I ask as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body aches, but no new injuries make themselves known—I’m just sore from being grabbed and dropped by guys who didn’t care if I was comfortable.
“Safer.” Lumbering to his feet, he checks the gun’s safety and then tucks it into a holster.
“In case housekeeping decides to raid the place?”
The look he gives me is one part “isn’t she cute?” and two parts “how did I get stuck babysitting this idiot?”
“In case anyone followed Dax from the police station last night. Not like he could have seen them.” Touching both the deadbolt and the safety lock, almost automatically, he nods towards the bathroom. “Go on. I’ll order us some breakfast and then I’ll take you to your office. What do you want?”
Rolling my eyes, I trudge towards the small, marbled bathroom with fancier toiletries than I’ve ever seen. “I don’t need anything.”
“Well, you’re getting something.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Fine. Eggs. Scrambled.” Shutting the bathroom door with a little more force than necessary, I sink down onto the edge of the tub, rubbing my sore shoulder absently. There’s dirt in my hair from the alley, and…ugh. Blood under my fingernails. Dax kept my name out of the police report, but do I need to worry about DNA?
Peeking back into the room to ask Ryker, I gawk. He’s doing one-armed pushups, alternating arms every five rounds. He’s shirtless, his back a mountain of sculpted muscle and scars, with a massive tattoo running between his shoulder blades. A skull with an evil grin and glowing red eyes looks out from a shield, bolts of lightning forming anXbehind the image. A green beret sits atop the skull, with a black and orange patch on one side.
“De oppresso liber?”I ask, unable to look away—or get control of my mouth, apparently.
Faster than a man his size should be able to move, he scrambles up and clutches his black t-shirt to his chest. “You need something?”
The strain in his voice warns me he’s not going to answer my question—or lower that shirt anytime soon. “Um, there’s blood under my nails. I scratched one of the guys who tried to take me. Do I need to…the police…?”
He takes my hand, staring down at my dirty nails as his warmth seeps into my fingers. “No. The police have enough evidence to put them away without you getting involved.”
My gaze roves over his arms, over the burns winding down his entire left shoulder, over more ink, bright colors, bold lines. Releasing my fingers, Ryker nudges me towards the bathroom. “Use any of my stuff you need.”
Dismissed, I trudge off to the shower, hoping I can find some way to wash away the feeling my life is never going to be the same again.
* * *
When I emergefrom the bathroom smelling of Ryker’s deodorant and shampoo, my hair still damp, he’s pouring a second cup of coffee from a porcelain teapot. A massive spread graces a rolling cart: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and fresh fruit.
“How much do you think I eat?” I ask as I continue to use one of the hand towels to blot at my hair.
“I have no idea.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “If this isn’t enough—”
“This would feed me for a week.” I sink down onto the bed. “Can we go to my place before we head to the office? I’d really like to get a change of clothes and my brother’s book.”
“Not a good idea.” Ryker takes his mug of coffee and a small duffel bag and beelines for the bathroom. Before I can reply, he shuts the door.
