I hear him end the call, followed by the sound of something—his phone, maybe—being slammed onto the desk. I should move, should retreat back to the bedroom before he catches me listening, but I'm rooted to the spot, my mind reeling.
The office door swings open fully, revealing Woodrow's imposing frame. His eyes narrow when he sees me standing there, obviously having heard everything.
"How much did you catch?" he asks, voice carefully neutral.
"Enough." My voice comes out small, shaky. "My father owes someone named Donovan three hundred thousand dollars? And this Donovan person is…what? Part of the mob?"
Woodrow sighs, running a hand through his short hair. "Come here."
I hesitate for just a moment before stepping forward, into his space. His arms wrap around me automatically, enveloping me in his warmth, his scent. I shouldn't find comfort in the embrace of my captor—or protector, or whatever he is—but I do. God help me, I do.
"Your father's been gambling with dirty money for years," he says, his chest rumbling against my cheek as he speaks. "Cards, horses, anything he could bet on. Donovan's not exactly mob, but close enough. He runs most of the underground gamblingin three states. Your father kept borrowing, kept losing, kept making promises he couldn't keep."
"And now they want to use me to get to him," I finish, the reality of my situation finally sinking in. "But I haven't spoken to him in six years. I don't even know where he is. I don’t think he would care enough if anyone threatened me.“
"They don't believe that. They think you're protecting him, or that he'll come running if they have you." His arms tighten around me protectively. "They're not completely wrong. Even a piece of shit like your father might surface if his daughter's life is in danger."
I pull back slightly, looking up at his face. "Did you know him? My father?"
Something flashes in Woodrow's eyes. "Not personally. But I know his type. I've dealt with plenty of men like him in my former line of work."
I don't press for details. I'm not sure I want to know exactly what Woodrow did before, what skills he has that make him so confident he can eliminate the threat against me. The way he talked on the phone—cold, brutal, matter-of-fact about violence—tells me enough.
"I feel so stupid," I confess, pressing my forehead against his chest. "All these years I've been careful, kept to myself, tried to build my own quiet life far away from him. And still, his mess finds me."
Woodrow's hand comes up, stroking my hair gently. The tenderness of the gesture, contrasted with the violence I just heard in his voice, makes my throat tighten with emotion.
"You're not stupid," he says firmly. "None of this is your fault."
"I know, but—" To my horror, tears spring to my eyes. The stress of the last twenty-four hours—the kidnapping attempt, Woodrow's rescue, losing my virginity, discovering hissurveillance, learning about the danger I'm in—it all crashes over me at once. A sob escapes before I can stop it.
"Shh, little girl," Woodrow murmurs, his large hand cradling the back of my head. "I've got you. Nothing's going to hurt you."
I cry against his chest, soaking his shirt with my tears. He holds me through it, silent and strong, occasionally pressing his lips to the top of my head. When I finally quiet, hiccupping slightly, he tilts my chin up with one finger.
"Better?" he asks, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.
I nod, embarrassed by my breakdown.
"You need to relax," he says decisively. "Come with me."
He takes my hand, leading me to the bathroom off the master bedroom. It's larger than I realized last night, with a deep soaking tub in one corner. Woodrow turns on the taps, adjusting the temperature before adding something from a bottle that immediately creates a mountain of bubbles.
"You take baths?" I ask, the domestic image at odds with the dangerous man I've come to know.
His lips quirk up in a half-smile. "Even monsters need to soak sometimes. Especially after fieldwork."
Fieldwork. Such a benign term for what I suspect is violent, bloody work.
He turns to me, his hands going to the hem of my borrowed t-shirt. "Arms up," he commands softly.
I obey without thinking, letting him pull the shirt over my head. Standing naked before him should make me self-conscious—I've never been nude in front of anyone before him—but the reverent way he looks at my body makes me feel beautiful. Desired.
"Get in," he says, his voice rougher now, eyes darkening as they travel over my exposed skin.
The water is perfect, hot but not scalding. I sink into the bubbles with a sigh, tension I didn't even realize I was carryingbeginning to melt away. Woodrow strips quickly, efficiently, his powerful body revealed inch by inch. Even after everything we've done, the sight of him naked still takes my breath away. Scars crisscross his torso, telling stories of violence and survival. His cock is already half-hard, thickening under my gaze.
He steps into the tub behind me, his large body making the water rise dramatically. His legs bracket mine, his chest a warm wall against my back as he pulls me against him.
