She nodded, though it looked more like habit than truth. “Just tired.”
He wanted to tell her rest was mandatory. That she didn’t have to carry everything alone anymore because he was there to carry it for her. Instead, he said, “There are clean towels in the bathroom in case you want to take a hot shower, and Abe stocked the fridge. It might be good to get something in your belly.”
She gave him a small smile. “You always take care of logistics first?”
He gave a weak shrug. “Force of habit. Sorry.”
She made a slow bob of her head. “I think I’ll take that shower first.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, and Elvis waited until he heard the lock click before he moved.
Old instincts took over, and he checked the windows to make sure they were locked and then tested the back door to make sure it was secure.
Donovan stood near the front door, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, posture rigid with the vigilance that someone in their line of work never shut off. The badge clipped to his belt caught the lamplight when he shifted, reminding Elvis why the man was even there.
“I’m going to take a walk around the perimeter,” Elvis said.
Donovan’s gaze lifted as he cocked a brow, his look assessing the situation. “You think they tracked us here?”
“I don’t know,” Elvis said. “But I always like to prepare for the worst and be thankful when it doesn’t arrive.”
That earned him the faintest nod before the marshal turned back to the fire. “I’ll stay inside,” the marshal told him. “Keep eyes on the doors.”
Elvis moved closer, lowering his voice out of instinct, rather than necessity. “If anything moves out there, I want to see it before it sees her. And just so you know, Callen and his father set up a bunch of traps out there. Some may still be operational, so be careful if you go wandering.”
Donovan studied him for a long moment, the weight of federal authority in his stare. “You actually care about her still.”
It wasn’t a question, and Elvis didn’t bother pretending otherwise. “Yeah, I do.”
“I know she cared about you back then,” Donovan told him, his tone shifting from official to personal. “I saw the file. High school sweethearts, talks of marriage. Clean kid. Good grades. Football and shop class. She wrote about you once in a psych eval when they first placed her family.”
That stopped Elvis cold. “She what?”
Donovan simply nodded as he slipped his hands to his hips. “She said you were the only thing she hated leaving.”
The words landed like a fist to his heart.
“But here’s the thing,” Donovan continued. “My responsibility is to keep her breathing. That’s my job, and I’ve done it for fifteen years. I don’t intend to lose her now because she lets her emotions make the decisions.”
Elvis stepped closer, not confrontational, but firm enough that the air shifted between them. He cast a quick glance to the bathroom door and then looked back to the marshal. “With respect, your job is paperwork and procedure and moving her when things get loud.”
Donovan’s eyes narrowed, a menacing expression pinching his face.
“My job,” Elvis continued before the man could say anything, voice steady and low, “is making sure nothing gets close enough to get loud in the first place.”
A moment of silence passed as they stared at each other.
“You think you can do that better than the U.S. Marshals?” Donovan asked.
“I think I’ll do whatever it takes, whereas you have lines you can’t cross.”
Donovan searched his face, looking for bravado, for recklessness.
He would find neither. Just grim determination.
“It might be your job,” Elvis whispered, “but she’s my heart. I don’t care what badge you carry. If someone comes for her, I’ll step in between them and make it their worst fucking day.”
The words weren’t dramatic. They were simple facts.
