He turns, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. The posture stretches his black t-shirt across muscles that look carved from stone. He studies me for a moment, those dark eyes calculating.
"Your father owes money to dangerous people. A lot of money." His voice is calm, matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather. "When they couldn't find him, they decided you'd make good leverage."
The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet. "My father? I haven't spoken to him in six years." Not since he walked out on my mother and me without a backward glance. Not since the last time he emptied our bank accounts to pay his gambling debts.
"Doesn't matter to them." Woodrow pushes away from the counter and crosses to me in three long strides. I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. "Blood is blood. You're his daughter. That makes you valuable."
"But how—" I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "How do you know all this?"
"I have connections. I hear things." His hand comes up, and I flinch, but he just tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my breath catch. "I work in security. Private security. The kind for people who need more protection than the police can provide."
"Is that what I need?" My voice comes out breathier than I intend. His proximity is doing strange things to my body, raising goosebumps on my skin despite the warmth of the cabin.
"Yes." The single word carries such certainty. "Those men will try again. They have your address, your work schedule, your habits. They've been watching you."
A chill runs down my spine. "Like you've been watching me?"
Something flickers in his eyes—caught, perhaps, but not apologetic. "Yes. But not for the same reasons."
I back away, fumbling in my pocket for my phone. "I need to call the police. Whatever's happening, they can?—"
Woodrow moves with startling speed for someone his size. One moment he's standing three feet away, the next his hand is wrapped around mine, easily engulfing it as he extracts my phone from my grasp.
"No police," he says, pocketing my phone. "They can't protect you from these people. They play by different rules."
"You can't just take my phone!" I reach for it, but he steps back, keeping it out of reach. Anger flares, cutting through my fear. "Give it back! I need to tell someone where I am. People will be looking for me."
"Will they?" His question lands like a slap. "Who exactly will miss you tonight, Priscilla? Tomorrow? The bookstore doesn't open again until Monday."
The truth of his words stings. I have no real friends, no family nearby. My manager might notice if I don't show up for my shift on Monday, but would anyone actually look for me before then?
"That's not the point," I say, but the fight is draining from me, replaced by a hollow realization of just how alone I truly am.
Woodrow's expression softens—just slightly, just around the edges of that hard mouth. He steps closer again, and this time when his hand comes up to my face, I don't flinch. His palm cups my cheek, thumb brushing over my skin with surprising gentleness.
"I know you're scared," he says, voice lower, rumbling in a way that makes something tighten low in my belly. "But I'm going to keep you safe. No one will hurt you while you're with me. I promise you that."
His touch is warm, his callused skin rough against my face. I should pull away. I should be terrified of this stranger who's brought me to a remote cabin, who's admitted to stalking me,who's taken my phone. I should be doing anything but leaning into his touch like a cat starved for affection.
But I am. God help me, I am.
"Why do you care what happens to me?" I whisper. "You don't know me."
His eyes darken, pupils expanding until the brown is almost swallowed by black. "I know enough." His thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip, sending sparks of sensation straight to my core. "I know you deserve to be protected. To be safe."
My eyes flutter closed for just a moment. I can't remember the last time someone touched me with such…intent. Such focus. Like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"Such a good little girl," he murmurs, and something inside me liquefies at the praise, at the possessive tone in his voice.
Little girl.There it is again. I should be offended—I'm a grown woman—but the way he says it, deep and commanding, makes me feel small in a way that's not entirely unpleasant. Makes me want to please him. To earn more of that praise.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I step back, putting distance between us, trying to clear my head. "This is crazy. You're a stranger. I don't even know your last name."
"Walker. Woodrow Walker." He lets me retreat, but his eyes never leave me. "Former special forces. Now I work privately. And I'm very, very good at what I do."
I believe him. Everything about him screams lethal efficiency, from the way he moves to the way he dispatched those men in the parking lot. The way he's looking at me now, like he could devour me whole.
