The official story? He was out celebrating after the party, drunk, and walked right into the path of an oncoming car. Dax made some calls, and details of his other injuries—as well as his negligible blood alcohol level—are buried forever.
The day after the first units come online, I walk out of my office at 5:00 p.m. on the dot, join Tank in the elevator, and don't bother to hide my smile.
Dax waits for me in the lobby, dressed in a pair of black jeans and a blue Henley, with a new cane in his hand. I can tell the exact moment he hears my footsteps, because he smiles, and though the man never truly relaxes, some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
"I think I read all the news reports today, darlin'. And the interview on WBZ? I'm so fucking proud of you."
Stepping into his arms, I feel safe. Protected. Whole. For so long, I thought Alfie's success would be the thing to give true meaning to my life. But I was wrong. I ignored almost everything else these past three years. I worked, visited my mother, and slept.
Now...I realize how much I've missed.
"Let's get out of here," I say against his ear. "I want you all to myself tonight."
Dax offers me his arm, and Tank follows us to the waiting car. “You need me any longer, Dax?” the big man asks.
“Not tonight.”
I offer Tank a smile. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Evianna. And…I ordered you that kick ass chair I told you about. If you’re going to be protecting me eight to ten hours a day, you’re going to be comfortable.”
Tank doesn’t even try to stifle his grin as he high-fives me. One of these days, Dax will relent and agree that I no longer need round-the-clock protection, but for now, I let him be as overprotective as he wants.
After the car pulls away from the curb, Dax turns to me. "Do you trust me?”
"With my life. You know that." He's...nervous. Why is he nervous? "Why are you nervous?"
"I want to take you home. Your home."
My heart lands in my throat. I haven't stepped foot in my house since the attack, and I'm not ready. "Dax...can't we go back to your place instead?"
He takes my hand, holding it between both of his. "If you don't want to stay, we won't stay. But...it's like being thrown off a horse, darlin'. You have to get back on sometime."
After a long minute, I take a shuddering breath. "Okay. Let's go."
The ride passes in silence as I stare out the window, remembering the fear, the helplessness I felt as Noah's hitman held me down. But then the memories shift. The first time Dax put his arms around me. How he took care of me. By the time Dax gets out of the car and offers me his hand, I'm steadier. I can do this.
It still takes me three tries to get my key into the lock, but once I do, I gasp. The house smells...clean. Like freesia and lilies. Two steps down the hall, I understand what he's done.
"You took care of everything," I breathe as he shuts the door behind us.
"This is your home. I didn't want you to come back here and have to see it...broken. And...Ry has a contact at the best home and business security company in the United States—maybe the world. There's a top-of-the-line system protecting every door and window. I want you to feel safe here."
I turn slowly, terrified to ask the next question. "Is this your way of saying...you want me to start staying here again?" I leave out the two words I can't bear to say. Without you. We’ve spent every night together since the attack, and though I know our relationship went from zero to a lifetime—at least in my heart—faster than it should have, I can’t imagine my life without him.
"I'm fucking this all up," he says as he shakes his head. "Can we go upstairs? There's one more thing I need to show you."
With my hand around his elbow, I guide him up the stairs. My bedroom looks almost exactly like I expect, with one difference. Little Xs of tape on the floor under the bedposts. At the corners of the dresser. My gaze trails around the room, until it lands on my bed.
“Oh, my God.”
My eyes brim with tears as I gently cradle the jewelry box to my chest. “How…?”
“This is a big city. Didn’t take long to find the best woodworker in Boston.” Dax runs a finger over the lid, all the way to the dented corner, which still bears evidence of the fall, but is now smooth and polished—almost like it was dented from the start. “It’ll never be…what it was. Never perfect again. But, it’s whole. And it’ll last.”
“You’re wrong about one thing,” I whisper. “It is perfect.” Easing his hand off the box, I lift the lid and stop breathing.
