“Summer told us the tire wasn’t just flat,” Carson said. “The garage said it was deliberately punctured.”
The words hit him like a fist to the chest.
Pope’s hands curled once against his thighs, then released. He saw the parking lot again. Summer climbing out of her car. The sagging tire. The way she’d looked exhausted and embarrassed and too damn alone under that cold bar light.
Deliberately punctured.
Not bad luck.
Not a nail on the road.
Somebody had put a blade into her tire when she was working.
“And that’s not all,” Oaks said.
Pope turned to him.
“She had groceries delivered to her porch. A lot of them. Staples, extras for Ben, enough to make it clear whoever sent them knew what she needed.”
The air grew too thin to take a breath. Pope didn’t speak for a second because if he did, it would sound like the sailor he’d once been.
Groceries on her porch. Tires paid for. A punctured tire.
Somebody knew Summer couldn’t afford tires or groceries.
Fucking hell. She’d been carrying that kind of financial strain alone while still showing up every night at the bar with a smile and teasing him between stolen kisses like her world wasn’t balancing on a knife edge.
Shame crawled through his chest. He’d been inside her bed for months and never realized how close to drowning she really was.
“Who paid for the tires?” His tone was rough.
“We don’t know yet,” Carson said. “Garage said there was a credit on her account. The person left no name and paid in cash—they knew how much her tires would cost.”
Fuck. That strike felt even closer to the bone. Pope stared at the folder in front of him like it might give him the name of whoever had stepped into Summer’s life without permission.
Whoever had done it got close enough to study the weak spots in her life. And if it wasn’t kindness, then it was leverage.
His gaze lifted to Carson’s. “I want in.”
He could keep her safe. And little Ben too. He’d seen the child around town with Summer but never been introduced. The boy deserved a life where his mother didn’t walk through dark parking lots afraid.
Pope lifted his head and met every eye in the room, moving over all three brothers who built the Black Heart Security Agency from a dream backed by a lot of experience and skill. The fact that they were drawing him into their midst raised a feeling of pride he didn’t expect.
“I’m not just protective because this is Summer. It’s…who I am.”
Their expressions didn’t alter, but he knew they got it—they were cut from the same cloth.
But his last protection detail hadn’t gone well.
The diplomat he’d been assigned to guard overseas always filled Pope’s mind without asking permission. A man with a wife and kids and enough enemies that he required constant surveillance.
Pope had run through that day too many times in his head. Every choice subjected to questioning, every route reevaluated. Every second between life and death picked apart until there was nothing left but regret.
He flexed his fingers. Tattooed across his knuckles were the words PAST PAID—a reminder that the debt had been settled and the punishment was over.
At least, that had been the idea when he’d gotten the ink.
The tattoo had come years before the Black Heart. Before therapy. Before Rhae spent countless hours convincing him that surviving wasn’t a crime and living wasn’t a betrayal.
