Rawley got up, stood behind me, and wrapped his good arm around my chest. His other hand covered mine, right where they pressed against my belly.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he said, voice more promise than threat.
For the first time, I believed him.
The house felt gutted. Empty of threat, but also of the comfort that used to fill the spaces between the walls. I wiped the counter, the blood soaking through the paper towels in watery red blossoms. My hands shook—not with fear, but with the afterburn of adrenaline, as if the fight hadn’t drained from my body yet.
Rawley sat at the kitchen table, his wounded arm propped on a pillow, bandages already blooming faint pink at the edges. He watched me move, his eyes tracking my every step, like he was waiting for me to break or disappear.
He looked different now. Not just hurt—changed. Whatever piece of him had been holding back, trying to be a gentle rancher or some approximation of a normal man, was gone. He was a weapon again, sharp and dangerous, and I wanted that more than I wanted the fantasy of the gentle giant.
When I finished scrubbing, I slumped into the chair beside him. I wrapped my arms around myself, but his hand reached out and found my wrist, held it tight.
“We’ll get through this,” he said. It sounded like an order.
I tried to laugh, but it stuck in my throat. “You really think Hargrove’s going to stop after this?”
He shook his head, slow and certain. “No. He’ll send someone else. Or try something worse.”
I let my gaze drift to his arm, the way his biceps flexed when he gripped my hand. “Does it hurt?”
He looked at the wound like it was a scuff on his boots. “Not much. But I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Next time, you stay out of the way.”
The words stung, but I understood. “What if next time, it’s me they go for?”
He let go of my wrist, then pulled me onto his lap, his good arm wrapping tight around my waist. The gesture was so fast, so absolute, it shocked me into stillness.
“They won’t get past me,” he said. His voice was a mix of threat and plea, and for the first time I realized how much of his strength was just fear channeled into violence.
I touched his face, traced the edge of his jaw. “I don’t want you to die for me.”
He smirked, but his eyes were soft. “I won’t die. I’m too pissed off.”
The sound of police radios faded from the porch. The deputy stepped in, asked Rawley to sign a statement. He did, not bothering to read it. The sheriff said we could go to a motel if we wanted, but Rawley just stared him down until the offer wilted.
When they were gone, the silence was enormous. Even the horses seemed to know something was wrong, and their nervous stamping in the barn carried into the night.
Rawley got up, checked every lock and window, then set out new motion lights by the back porch. He bled through another layer of gauze and ignored my protests as I replaced the bandage, his muscles twitching under my touch.
He refused to take painkillers. “Need to be clear-headed,” he said, like it was a point of pride.
Afterward, he showered. I heard him curse when the water hit the cut, but he didn’t ask for help. When he came out, he found me sitting on the stairs, hugging my knees, staring into the dark.
He sat beside me, his thigh pressed to mine, the warmth of him leaking through the thin cotton of his sweatpants.
“I called Macon,” he said.
I blinked, the name taking a second to click. “Your SEAL friend?”
He nodded. “He’s already halfway here. He’ll set up the cameras. Maybe teach you how to shoot.”
I smiled at that. “You don’t think I’m too soft?”
He studied me for a long time. “No. I think you’re the strongest person I know.”
