I growl without looking back at them. Nothing could tear me away from my wife right now. “Shut up. All of you.”
Wren gives a tiny, broken laugh into my chest, and I know she’ll be okay.
34
DOC
Obsession is starting to take hold as I watch Wren. She’s still acting funny. And not because of Grant. That excuse doesn’t fit anymore, no matter how many times I try to make it. Because she was like thisbeforethe man tried to take her.
She meets my gaze across the room for a beat before Pixie draws back her attention, leaning in to whisper in her ear. It’s been happening a lot more than usual, and they’re close…
Too close. Guarded in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
Still, something isn’t right.
My pulse ticks faster, a familiar warning I don’t want to listen to.
I can’t keep myself from cataloging her behaviors, her habits. They’re shifting.
I tell myself it’s vigilance. Professional concern. Not fixation.
Pixie swaps Wren’s drink and winks at her. An old-fashioned glass with clear soda. I’m pretty sure she didn’t pour any alcohol in there. It’s not her usual. She prefers wine. And she usuallydoesn’t drink much. My gaze tracks the glass until Pixie’s body blocks my view—intentional.
But she’s been nursing beers during the day.
Wren’s new morning pallor improves with the drink, and her smile is a little easier. It’s been tight lately. Worried.
Relief shouldn’t come that fast from sugar and carbonation.
Why?
Her brother is working with the feds to take down the Dalton empire. We helped make Grant disappear, made it look like he hopped overseas for a last-minute vacation to get over the loss of his fiancé. By the time the trail goes cold, they won’t be able to tie it back to Robbie or us.
Everything is calmer than it’s been since Wren showed up at our door. Which should mean she’s sleeping. Eating. Healing.
So what is she hiding? Why do I spy guilt in her eyes when her gaze tilts back my way. I can’t see their green as vibrantly across the room, but her hair shines bright against her pale skin. She needs more sun. Her freckles are fading.
Weight loss? Stress? Hormonal shifts? I shove the last thought away before it can settle.
Her hand brushes over her stomach. It’s not the first time. My jaw tightens. Once is nothing. Twice is coincidence. Three times is a pattern.
The changes are stubble, but they’re adding up. Too many data points to ignore.
My medical brain is staking clues. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.
But something is off.
Especially with how Pixie is avoiding me, too, skipping our after lunch poker game. Having Wren serve me. Always finding something to be in the middle of when I approach. It’s never good when it gets like this.
She hasn’t had any episodes in a while. Which should reassure me. Instead, it sharpens the unease.
Secrets rot from the inside out. I’ve seen it kill people faster than bullets.
Sitting back, I silently clock everything until Wren scampers off to the laundry room. I get up, approaching Pixie at the bar.
“Hey.” She stiffens, but she shoots me a glance. I try to keep my voice soft like she’s a spooked patient. “Is Wren okay?”
“She’s fine.” It comes out almost too fast. Too practiced. Pixie’s shoulders hike up a bit, and she focuses on the glass she’s cleaning.
