Page 7 of Protected from Torment

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. One hand comes to my cheek. Sparks erupt where he touches me. “I’m sorry. There wasn’t time⁠—”

“I’m okay.” And I am. Shaken, and maybe a little scraped up from the road, but I’m okay. Which is a heck of a lot better than I would have been if he hadn’t saved me.

As I look at him, a faint twinge of recognition pricks at me. Like I’ve seen him before, but I can’t think of where or when. But familiar or not, he saved my life. So I think introductions are in order.

“I’m Melissa,” I tell him. “And thank you. So much. You risked your life⁠—”

His gaze burns into mine. “I had to.” Then the corner of his mouth twitches. “And it’s nice to meet you, Melissa. I’m Tyler.”

I know I should get off him. But I can’t bring myself to. Not when being held by him feels more right than anything.

Instead, I smile back at him. “Hi, Tyler. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

CHAPTER 2

TYLER

My eyes are drawn to her as soon as I walk into the room.

She doesn’t look the same as she did earlier, when we met on the road, or even in the lobby of the Lakeside Inn, while we were both reserving our rooms. But that shouldn’t come as a surprise, given that we were drenched to the skin and covered in mud. Now she’s clean and wearing dry clothes. Her hair isn’t plastered to her head anymore, but springing from it in unruly curls.

A less observant man might not even realize she’s the same person. But I can tell.

It’s the way she holds herself, her chin tipped at a defiant angle and her shoulders high, almost as if she’s bracing herself for an attack.

It’s her high cheekbones and elegantly swooping brows that remind me of the actresses from the old movies my mother likes to watch.

It’s the blue of her eyes, piercing even from across the room—a color that reminds me of a cloudless sky in summer.

And it’s her curves, which I damn well shouldn’t have been noticing back on the road. Curves I shouldn’t have committed to memory as they pressed against me.

But I did. And for some reason, I can’t get them out of my head.

Maybe it was just our proximity. My body reacting to the closeness of a woman after over four years of celibacy. Even if my brain rejects the idea of being with another woman, my body might have other ideas.

And, really, I have been thinking about putting myself out there again. It’s still just a spark of an idea, spurred on by the relationships my teammates have found. A longing that creeps up on me at unexpected moments, like watching Rafe affectionately rub his pregnant wife’s belly, or Webb surprising his fiancée with another of those stuffed animals she likes so much.

Maybe it’s time, I’d think. I know damn well Kaia wouldn’t want me to be alone forever. She loved me too much for that.

She would tell me to get back out there. I can picture her; shaking her head the way she always did when she thought I was being particularly dense, saying, Ty, you need to put yourself out there again. It’s not right, hiding away like this. I know you love me, but it’s okay to love someone else, too.

Over the last year, I’ve wondered more and more if she’s right.

But every time I’d consider taking one of my teammates’ wives up on their offers to help me start an online dating profile or set me up with one of their single friends, I’d remember standing in front of Kaia, exchanging our vows as we took each other as husband and wife. I’d remember how certain I was that I’d spend the rest of my life with her.

How could any other woman replace her?

How could I possibly consider sharing my life with another?

A burst of rough laughter jerks my gaze from Melissa and over to a small cluster of men gathered at the bar. They’re clearly several drinks deep, swaying slightly on their stools as they down their beers. Locals, I’d guess, and regulars of the Lakeside Inn’s pub, judging from their familiarity with the bartender.

One of the other men says something, and all four of them break into loud guffaws that draw the attention of everyone in the room. The bartender laughs along with them, then lines up a row of five shot glasses and fills them with whiskey.

The bartender—a grizzled man of about sixty with a beard that reaches almost to his chest—lifts one of the shot glasses and says, “Salut, you bastards!”

The four regulars pick up their shot glasses and echo, “Salut, you bastards!” before downing their shots, as well.

My gaze slides back to Melissa, who’s sitting by herself at a two-person table in the corner of the pub. She has a glass filled with clear liquid and ice, which I’m guessing is water and not a large serving of vodka. If she ordered food, it hasn’t arrived yet. In its place is her phone, sitting face-up on her placemat.