“Fashion icon,” I say.
He glances down at himself. “Runway ready.”
I huff a laugh as I grab a glass of water and some pain relievers from the bathroom. “Drink all of this. And these will help with the headache.”
He takes the pills without question, drains the water in one long swallow. He must be even more dehydrated than I thought.
“Thanks,” he mutters, handing the glass back.
I walk him to the guest room, catching his elbow when he stumbles. He lowers himself onto the bed, and I can see exhaustion dragging him under like a riptide. His eyes are already half-shut when I reach the door.
“Hey.”
I turn back.
He’s looking at me, barely hanging on to consciousness. “What’s your name?”
Names are dangerous in my world. Names get people killed.
But I’m supposed to be free of that world. At least for now.
“Natalia.”
He nods slowly, like he’s filing it away somewhere safe.
“Thanks, Natalia.” The words slur together. “For not leaving me there.”
He’s out before I can respond.
I stand in the doorway too long, watching the steady rhythm of his breath. In sleep, the tension drains from his face. He looks younger. Almost peaceful.
Then my eyes catch on something else.
The too-small shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of stomach. Tanned skin. Defined muscle.
And scars.
A puckered circle on his hip that looks exactly like a bullet wound. A jagged line across his ribs from something sharp. A knife, maybe. Something that wanted to kill him and almost succeeded.
I know those kinds of scars. I grew up in a house full of men who wore them.
I back out slowly. Pull the door shut. My heart is beating too fast, thoughts spinning in tighter and tighter circles.
He could be anyone. That’s the problem. I don’t know what I just let into my house, and in my family, the things you don’t know are the things that kill you.
I cross to the kitchen and pull open the junk drawer. My fingers close around the canister of mace I stashed there my first night here.
I pull it out. Check the seal. Make sure it’s ready.
The beach house settles around me, still except for the waves and the creak of old wood. Somewhere down the hall, a stranger is sleeping in my guest room. A stranger with no name, no memory, and a body that tells a story I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear.
Helping him was the right thing to do.
I believe that.
But I’m not stupid.
And if he gives me a reason to regret this, I’ll be ready.
