Tweedle-dee nods and strolls across the grass, over to the neighbor’s house. She’s already standing on her porch, watching the officers clamor around the dead man—Doug.
As I’m explaining what happened to Tweedle-dumb, a few more officers join us. They ask question after question, and I don’t know how long I’m standing there until I hear a door behind me open.
Daphne steps out, and before I can get to her, an officer steps in her way, blocking my view of her.
They keep us separated for an hour. Officers rotate; another person asks the same questions, wondering if they might get a different response from us. I don’t tell them about my suspicions.
I’ll keep my theory about Ghost_M110 to myself. If I haven’t caught the fucker yet, I know the police aren’t competent enough. Maybe the FBI is. And given the fact that a dead Secret Service agent was found outside in the President’s Daughter’s home, that might warrant their assistance.
But I’m not handing that information over to some cop with a praise kink, eager for a pat on the back for getting information he didn’t discover on his own.
I’m released and permitted to put some fucking pants on. Daphne is sitting on the front step, waiting for me.
She stands, and I usher us both inside, waiting until the front door closes and locks the rest of the world out.
Hawkeye whines loudly and scratches the back door. “I’ll let him out.” Daphne’s voice is so hollow and distant that she sounds like a completely different woman.
Not my woman.
“I called the head of the Secret Service,” she says as she opens the back door and lets Hawkeye out to do hisbusiness. “He got my dad on the phone. I told them what happened.”
Relief warms my muscles. Good. They’re taking this seriously. “When are they sending out new?—”
“They’re not,” she cuts me off. “Dad’s not sending anyone else. He said I’ll be fine with light patrol.”
“What!” I snap so loud that Daphne recoils. Damnit, she’s having the morning from hell. I don’t want to scare her. “What do you mean they won’t give you more security? Someone killed a man and practically dumped him on your front lawn.”
“I know,” she snaps back. Finally, she sounds like herself. “They’re going to have someone parked outside my house and someone else patrolling around the neighborhood every hour, but that’s it. No extra detail.”
The hollowness in her eyes hurts. “At this point, I’m better off dead to him. At least then he’ll get to pull the sympathetic grieving-parent card to voters.”
Closing the gap between us, I sweep Daphne into my arms. God, I never want to let her go. She’s trembling as tears start to fall. Over her shoulder, Hawkeye’s chasing his tail around the grass, blissfully unaware of the commotion happening on the other side of the fence.
“Move in with me.” At this point, it’s not a request. “The police will need you to move out anyway for a while. Your house is a crime scene. I have high-level security on the entire property. You and Hawkeye will be safe there.”
Daphne nods against my chest, and I’m relieved she’s not putting up a fight. She’s gone through enough today. All I want is to get her to my place, draw up a bubble bath in the Jacuzzi for both of us, and then spend the rest of the day in bed with takeout—anything to help her after the shock of this morning.
“Go pack what you can,” I instruct. “We’ll move the rest of your things tomorrow.” I doubt I’d get both of us, Hawkeye, and more than a couple of suitcases into my Porsche. I lean back and kiss her forehead. Wet trails glisten down her cheeks, but she nods and wipes them away with her fingertips.
“But Hawkeye?” she says with some uncertainty in her voice.
“I’ll pack up his stuff,” I tell her. “Besides, I have plenty of supplies at the shelter. I can swing by and grab some things from our warehouse.”
“Okay.” Daphne’s voice has gone weak and pillowy soft. She steps out of my arms and slowly trudges her way to the stairs. “Tris.” Her voice wavers as she calls out to me. “Thank you. No one’s ever taken care of me like this. I don’t know how to handle it.”
“Come back here.” I wave her over, and Daphne rushes back into my arms. “Daphne, did you ever consider that I genuinely enjoy taking care of you? I love seeing you smile, and I fucking hate seeing you upset like this.”
Her gorgeous ocean-blue eyes gaze up at me with haunting sadness. God, I could drown in that color and die a happy man. “You deserve to be cherished,” I say. “You should have been all along, and I promise I will spend the rest of my days showing you, if you’ll let me. Icareabout you.” I emphasize the word, driving it home. “You deserve special treatment, Daphne Fox, because you are so damn special.”
Her breath hitches and, for a lingering moment, there’s uncertainty in the air. I don’t know if she’s going to cry, laugh, or speak.
And I can’t take the uncertainty.
“Tris, I?—”
I capture her words as I kiss her, not waiting to hear what she might say. I need her to know. To know that she’s mine, and she’s safe, and she’s so damn perfect the mere existence of her hurts like a bruise on my soul.
Tonight, she’s in my home. Sleeping in my arms. This feels monumental, like my life’s forever altered because of this wondrous masterpiece of a woman in my arms.
