Go upstairs? Or go home? If anyone’s in the office, I’m fucked, and so is Zephyr. Entering my code into the key locker, I snag the fob for the closest SUV.
The five-mile drive to my apartment stretches out in endless minutes while I make sure no one’s following me, and I pull into the garage, exhausted, pissed off, and in pain.
After I scan my palm to open the door, I stop short. Zephyr sits on my couch,wearing my bathrobewhile some super hero movie plays on my television.
“What the fuck are you doin’?” I ask, pulling my gun and pointing it right at her head. “I left you tied to my headboard.”
She jumps up, focusing on the gun. “Are we back to this again? I didn’t leave. I was cold. And filthy. I took a shower, and since I didn’t have any of my clothes, I improvised.”
“Did you snoop around too? Crack my safe? Are you hidin’ one of my guns under that robe?”
Zephyr skirts the couch, her fingers wrapping around the belt. “Want to frisk me? You didn’t before, and that wasmost definitelya mistake.”
“Keep your feckin’ clothes on.” I hold up my left hand, then wince at the pain in my shoulder.
“Shit. What happened?” Zephyr rushes over to me, and with a sigh, I holster the gun.
“If I had to guess? Whoever’s after you tracked you to that comic shop. Some big arse with messy black hair and a French accent shot me after demandin’ I tell him where you were.”
Her green eyes widen, and she backs up until she hits the arm of the couch, then sinks down. “Could be one of a handful of guys. But they never travel alone. No matter who it was, it means François knows where I am—or where I was.” Her voice—strong and confident since the moment I shot at her in the garage—falters, and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Ronan. If I stay here any longer, I’m putting you in more danger than you’ll ever know.”
Her steps aren’t steady as she heads for my bedroom, and I follow in time to find her scooping up her clothes. “Give me five minutes to get changed, let me have my backpack, and you’ll never see me again.”
“What’ll you do?” Using my body to block the door, I set her pack down behind me. “Because if they found you once, they’ll do it again. They were ready to kill me without a second thought. I don’t want to think what they’d do to you.”
Zephyr stops, frozen in place holding her damp clothing. Her expression doesn’t change, determination in the set of her jaw. But her eyes? She’s scared. Terrified even.
“You didn’t leave. You had the chance. I saw your laptop. Anyone with the skills to hack into the DMV wouldn’t let a biometric lock stop them. Stay and let me help you.” Dax is going to murder me. Slowly, painfully. But my gut—which I’d stopped trusting after the mess in Edgewater—is telling me Zephyr needs someone on her side.
“Take off your shirt,” she says, adjusting the ball of clothes on her hip and gesturing to the bathroom. “And tell me where I can find your first aid kit.” When I don’t move, she stares me down. “If I’m going to put a target on your back, the least I can do is patch you up first.”
Her brief moment of vulnerability fades away. As she passes me, careful not to brush my injured shoulder, our eyes meet, and though this case is turning into a mess of epic proportions, I don’t care. Zephyr needs my help, and she’s going to get it.
Chapter Eight
Zephyr
Why didn’tI run when I had the chance?
Because you were warm, and he made you a cup of tea.
This is how screwed up my life is. A man shows me a single moment of kindness, and I turn into an idiot.
Dumping my clothes into a pile on the floor, I lean against the wall while Ronan pulls a first aid kit from a drawer and sets it on the counter. “You don’t need to do this.”
“Yes, I do. Take your shirt off.”
Busying myself setting out gauze, antiseptic, and a suture kit, I pay little attention to Ronan until he clears his throat. “If you don’t mind…? You’re not the only one who got soaked tonight.”
“Shit. Sorry…” I lose my words entirely when I get my first good look at his torso. A Celtic Cross covers the right side of his chest with a beautiful woman—a Siren, if I had to guess—tattooed over his arm and shoulder.
“Are you goin’ to patch me up or ogle me all night? If it’s the latter, I’d prefer to make a cup of tea first.” His smart mouth twitches, and I roll my eyes.
“Hold still.” Because I don’t trust him—and because I want to—I rest my palm over the Celtic Cross. A light dusting of hair tickles my fingers, and his muscles tense. With my free hand, I pour a generous amount of antiseptic onto one of the gauze pads and press it to the wound.
“Fuck me,” he hisses. “That burns.” He leans a hip against the counter, and honest-to-God, I didn’t expect him to pass out over a little blood.
“No shit, Sherlock. Getting shot usually does. Let me guess. This is your first time.” Ronan’s skin is warm under my touch, and damn. He still smells good.
