Cara’s eyes glisten, almost as if she’s about to cry. “If I touch Ripper the wrong way—even by accident—his mind goes right back to his time in Turkmenistan with that…sadistic piece of shit who almost killed him. We’ve been together two years now, and it still happens occasionally. I never do it on purpose, but I feel guilty every time.” She rises and moves to the French doors. “Can I open these for a minute?”
“Sure.” Joining her, I breathe in the fresh air and stare down at the street below. Is that…?
It is.
Wyatt and Murphy head for the south corner of the block, turn, and disappear. Has he been doing laps this whole time?
At my side, Cara pats her cheeks, and the bright red tinge to them fades. “It took me a long time—and a lot of therapy—to understand that my guilt isn’t misplaced or wrong. It’s normal. But it’s not okay for me to beat myself up for making a mistake. There’s a difference. Wyatt’s apology? That was one hundred percent the right thing for him to do.”
“And him doing laps around the block for the past half an hour?” I point to the north side of the street where the two round the corner.
“That’s him beating himself up.” She smiles, but her eyes are still sad. “So text him. Tell him you were triggered, but you’re okay now. Tell him to come home. I’ll stay with you until he does.”
Ten minutes later, he still hasn’t responded. We’re back on the couch, our wine glasses empty. “So what are you and Wyatt going to do once this whole mess is over?” Cara asks. “Will you stay? Ryker doesn't let anyone live in this building he doesn't trust. So it's quiet. Safe. Secure.”
Sinking back against the cushions, I chew on my lower lip. We’ve only been here for twenty-four hours, but this apartment already feels like it could be home. But I lived in L.A. I love big cities. After the isolation of the past three years, I crave the bustle. Even the people.
“Hey? What's wrong?” Cara leans closer, concern in her eyes. “I didn't mean to pry.”
“No, it's not that.” Staring out at the city, I run a hand through my hair. I'm free now. Wearing clothes that are mine. With a man who talks to me. Who listens to me. Who doesn't yell or hit or punish me for every single word I say. A man who risked his life for me. “Wyatt hates it here.”
“So did Ripper.”
“What?” At her nod, I ask, “Then why are you living here?”
“Because this is where Ry is. And this is where he met me. He's learned how to manage his fear. But it's still hard for him some days. For me too.”
“I wish we could find a compromise. A way to live here but still find the peace Wyatt needs.”
Cara's eyes gleam, and she reaches over to pat my thigh. “Give him a little time. He might realize peace and quiet are as much about who you’re with as where you are.”
Wyatt
The sun lost its battle with the stars almost an hour ago. I stopped counting our laps around the block after number fifteen. My hip is on fire, the bone-deep ache making every step pure agony.
Murphy thinks this is the greatest thing since his rawhide bone. I swear he’s actually prancing. Gotta find a dog park tomorrow. Or some place for him to run.
Me? I could sleep for a week. Before I met Hope, I spent my days working from dawn to dusk. Chopping wood, fishing, hunting. Some times, Murphy and I would just…walk. Pick a direction and hike until the sun was high in the sky, then turn around and come home.
It’s the stress. The constant worry Simon’s going to find her. And about a million pounds of guilt.
“I’m sorry too. I know you weren’t mad at me. You were worried. I’m okay. Come home.”
I stare at the text message for the tenth time as Murphy finds another tree to mark. “Coward,” I mutter under my breath. “She needed you, and you left her.”
Come home.
Not come back. Come home.
Fuck. “Time to go, pal.” Winding Murphy’s leash around my palm, I meet his gaze, then jerk my head toward the building’s front doors. “We’ve been hiding long enough.”
Hope and Cara are sitting on the love seat when I code myself back into the unit. Murphy goes right to his favorite corner and starts gnawing on his bone. Hope’s shoes are by the door. Cara’s too. There's nothing else personal in the space—not yet—but it's still starting to feel like we belong here. Like…a home.
“I should get back to Rip,” Cara says. “You know where I am if you need anything.” The two women hug, and from the look on Hope’s face, they’re fast on their way to becoming friends. If not already there.
Once we're alone, I shove my hands into my pockets. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“And I shouldn’t have assumed you were angry,” she says quietly. “But it’s going to happen sometimes. Like your nightmares. We can’t control what triggers us.”
