“He’ll kill me.”
No one’s going to hurt her while I’m around. But what happens when I let her go?
“I humbly serve as a guardian to my fellow Americans. Always ready to defend those who are unable to defend themselves.”
The day I earned my Trident, I was on top of the world. Of course, I was also fucking exhausted after celebrating the entire previous night with the other men who stood with me. Brothers. All of them. Most are dead now. West Sampson. Ace Marklin. Finn Hernandez. They’re the only ones left.
I’ll never serve again. My Trident is locked in my safe, and that’s where it’s going to stay. But once a SEAL, always a SEAL. And that means I’ll protect Hope for as long as she’ll let me.
Running my hand down my torso, I grimace as my fingers trace the raised shrapnel scars dotting my abs. They blaze a trail lower, stopping a half inch from my dick. The docs warned I might never be able to have kids. Hell, I’m lucky I can still get it up. The explosion left me with nightmares, nerve damage, and a permanent limp. Reminders to always trust my gut.
Now, it’s telling me that Hope is in serious trouble. The kind that doesn’t stop at running a woman off the road. Whoever’s after her might be slowed down by all this snow, but in a couple of days, nothing’s going to stop them from canvasing every inch of this mountain looking for her.
When my muscles stop screaming at me, I pull on a long-sleeved Henley, a pair of flannel pajama pants, and thick socks. This is going to be a long night. I should have washed Hope’s clothes first thing this morning, but I couldn’t drag myself down the stairs—and away from her—long enough to run the water. To be fair, I’m not sure any amount of detergent will get that blood out.
Digging through my drawers, I find a second pair of flannel pants. They’re at least six inches too long for her, but a pair of scissors will fix that. The tie at the waist should cinch tight enough to hold them up. Maybe she’ll feel more like herself with something besides a robe to protect her.
At the door, I stop, finally able to put a name to this churning sensation in my gut. Nerves. Uncertainty. Fear.
I’ve jumped out of planes more times than I can count. Spent six years in a war zone where any day could have been my last. And the prospect of spending time with Hope terrifies me.
Time to nut up, asshole. She’s a woman. Not a witch. And she needs you.
5
Hope
All alone, I sob against Murphy’s neck. When I ran, everything happened so fast. Copying the evidence I needed, fighting Brix, watching Bettina try to help me. Then, my entire focus was on making it to Seattle.
Now, the weight of what I’ve done—of Bettina’s death, of the danger I’m putting Wyatt in—feels like it’s crushing me. Simon hurt me whenever he felt like it. Whenever I disobeyed even a little. But he only hurt me.
I should have stayed. No matter how bad it got. Or…
Murphy wriggles closer—as if he can sense my thoughts. More than once over the past three years, I prayed Simon would kill me. That he’d get so angry, he’d go too far. Hurt me too badly for anyone to fix. I used to think that would be for the best.
I cry silently—another skill I mastered in the past three years—until I don’t have any tears left. Swiping at my cheeks with the sleeve of Wyatt’s robe, I sniffle once and meet the dog’s inquisitive gaze.
“Probably should have asked Wyatt for a handkerchief, huh? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who uses tissues.” I don’t know why I’m talking to Murphy like he can understand me. Except, there’s so much intelligence behind those eyes. And he isn’t judging me. Not even for blubbering all over him.
The bra fell to the floor sometime during my crying jag, and when I bend to retrieve it, the room spins a little. “Crap. Guess it’s staying there.” Murphy jumps off the couch, sniffs the blood-stained lace, and whines. Even he’s not touching it. Can’t say I blame him.
The bedroom door’s still closed, but the water in the tub stopped running a few minutes ago. Before Wyatt comes back, I have to find somewhere to hide the memory card. And since I can’t put the bra back on—even if I could twist my left arm behind my back to do up the clasp—I need another option.
What I wouldn’t give for pockets. My own pockets. Or my little makeup bag. Shit. The cash. It was in the center console of the SUV. Now it’s probably buried under five feet of snow.
That’s the least of your problems, Hope. Hide the memory card. Then you can figure out how you’re getting to Seattle.
Universal truth. Everyone has a junk drawer. Even a tall, grumpy mountain man who wouldn’t know polite conversation if it bit him on the ass. And everyone’s junk drawer has to have a roll of tape in it.
The dog stays close as I shuffle into the kitchen. I don’t know if he’s more worried I’m going to fall over or steal something. “Stay quiet, okay?” I whisper. He sits and watches me open drawer after drawer. Silverware. Cooking utensils. Knives. All precisely organized. Shit. Was I wrong? Maybe he doesn’t have a junk drawer.
Nothing in Wyatt’s cabin is out of place. The books on the shelf are in alphabetical order by author. I haven’t seen a single knickknack. Nothing personal. The wood plank walls are bare. I think I saw a photograph on his dresser, but that’s the only indication he does anything but exist here.
Opening the last drawer, I blow out a shaky breath. Still neat and tidy, but it’s definitely a mishmash of…well, everything. Tape, scissors, paperclips, safety pins, a small sewing kit, a notepad, and one very expensive fountain pen.
I tear off a three-inch strip of tape and secure the card under my left breast. Not the best place. The small of my back would be better, but there’s no way I can reach it without taking off the robe. And if I did that, I might not be able to get it back on again. Not with how useless my arm is.
With slow, careful steps—the short foray from the couch used up all the energy I have—I return to the living room. The tape isn’t comfortable, but keeping the card on my body is the safest option. Even if Wyatt has to change the bandages on my arm, he won’t be able to see under the shirt.
