“Don’t you think I know that?” She advances on me, anger flashing in her eyes. Jerking up the hem of my boxer shorts, she shows me a very recent wound on her left thigh. One that looks a hell of a lot like the one on my shoulder. “This is less than a week old. My fuckingbrothershot me. He’s still in the cartel. The boy I took care of, the one I kept safe on the streets, the little kid who idolized me foryearschose François Strauss over me, and if I’d been thirty seconds slower, I’d be in some small, dark room, hanging from my wrists, and praying for death. One night too long in an abandoned apartment in Rotterdam, and Oliver found me. Probably through Dante—the lying, two-faced bastard. I know this is no way to live. But it’s theonlyway Icanlive.”
Her chest heaves, but she’s not steady, her body swaying with exhaustion and her eyelids fluttering.
I should keep my distance. Hell, I should let her have her way and sleep on the couch. But she’s hurting in every way, and dammit. All I want to do is comfort her. To promise her everything will be okay.
Wren—along with the rest of Second Sight—taught me the importance of promises. “You don’t say those two words,” Wren told me once, “unless you know, without a doubt, that you mean them.”
Approaching slowly, my hands loose at my sides, I wait until we’re close enough to touch before I speak. “Zephyr, you’re not alone anymore. Tell me how I can make you feel safe. I’ll do anythin’. You can bag up my phone, tablet, and internet router and toss ‘em down the garbage chute. Do you want my gun? It’s yours. Want to cuffmeto the headboard so I can’t contact anyone? Done.”
She peers up at me, confusion joining the exhaustion in her eyes. “Why would you do any of that for me?”
I shrug, stifling my wince. “Because you deserve to feel safe. Even if it’s just for one night.”
* * *
Zephyr
How did I get here? In a bed with extra pillows, soft sheets, and a down comforter. In a bedroom on the sixth floor of a secured building, with a handsome, protective, and kind man sleeping in the next room. He left his Glock 19 on the nightstandknowingI’m wanted for murder.
Before he headed for the living room, he promised me he wouldn’t contact Dante or anyone at Second Sight—where he works—without talking to me first. The sincerity in his eyes? I believe him.
I don’t know why this man is risking his life for me. Or why I’m letting him. Ishouldsneak out while he’s sleeping. Run as far and as fast as I can.
But he took a bullet for me. When he removed his shirt earlier, fresh bruises marred his torso, and I know his type. He’s hiding all but the very worst of the pain.
Can I actually do this? Close my eyes and fall asleep? Trust that I’ll be safe here until the morning? There’s only one way to find out.
* * *
The silence confuses me.So does the mattress. The pillows. It takes me a few moments to realize where I am. In Ronan’s apartment. In Ronan’s bed. Rolling over, I snag my phone from the nightstand.
Oh, my God. It’s…morning. Early. Only a little after 7:00 a.m., but I slept a solid four hours. Outside of the flight from London, I haven’t done that in…months.
Tip-toeing down the hall, I find Ronan on the couch, small lines of pain bracing his lips. The blanket he used to keep me warm last night bunches around his waist, and in the gray light of morning, the bruises are so much worse. The way his eyes are darting back and forth under his closed lids, he’s dreaming—and it’s not a good one.
“Ronan?” I drop to one knee and touch his uninjured shoulder. “Wake up.” He sits up so quickly, I end up on my ass, my spine hitting the coffee table with an audiblecrack.
“Shit,” he says his voice rough from sleep. “Are you all right?” Strong arms wrap around me and he pulls me onto the sofa next to him, gently running his hand up and down my back to check for injuries.
It feels so good to be held, I don’t pull away. “I’m fine,” I whisper. “I was more worried about you. Nightmare?”
“Thelasttime I got shot. Thought I was about to meet Jesus for a bit there.” Ronan relaxes, sinking into the cushions, and God help me, Isnuggleagainst him. What the hell am I doingsnugglingwith a bounty hunter? One who less than twelve hours ago aimed a gun at my head.
“Tell me about it?” I ask.
What are you doing? Getting to know him? This is a mistake of epic proportions.
He sighs, curling his bare feet under him with a wince. “The company I work for—Second Sight—we’re a security and protection firm. Some light P.I. work. Cheating spouses, embezzlement, theft, kidnappin’ cases…”
“So bounty hunting is just a side gig?” My attempt at sarcasm earns me a scowl, and he shakes his head.
“This is the first time Dax has taken on a job like this. Jasper Yoden’s brother served with him in Afghanistan.”
Shit.“So, it’s personal for him.”
“It is. Which is why I can’t—won’t—contact him until we have evidence you didn’t kill the man.”
He’s so confident, so very sure in his declaration, that I don’t push him—for now. But there isn’t proof, and soon, he’s going to figure that out. Until then, I’ll steal whatever moments of closeness I can. Maybe if I save up enough of them, the rest of my life—however long it lasts—won’t feel quite so lonely.
