Page 130

The women, Columbians smuggled in and forced to work to protect their families back home, were in a safe place.

She had shown no emotion. No satisfaction in a job well done.

Ronan frowned, unease settling deep.

The way she’d fallen apart after hearing of her sister’s return. Vomited, even. That wasn’t normal. Not for news like that.

It had looked too much like fear.

Of her sister?

Maybe he’d gotten it wrong. Maybe Raegan Stirling was the danger. To Beau. To Bella. The twins.

And then there was the kid. Jack.

Four years old. Beau’s son.

What kind of woman kept a man from his child. For four years?

Desperate? Or heartless?

His jaw tightened.

All he knew was — her sister’s return had knocked the fight right out of Felicity.

The water cut out; the shower curtain rustled.

Ronan stood, whistling sharply. “Ladies.” He opened the back door. The dogs lumbered in from their various spots in the yard, taking their sweet time clambering up the steps like it was Mount Everest.

He shut and locked the door, turned—

His breath caught.

Felicity stood in the kitchen doorway, ignoring the dogs milling at her feet, her gaze fixed on him. She tugged at the hem of the T-shirt she wore.

It was his.

“I hope you don’t mind … I found this in your duffel.”

He hated the hesitance in her voice. The uncertainty even more. “You can wear my clothes anytime.” He closed the distance, lifting a damp strand of hair from her shoulder. “We need to dry this.”

“I know.” She bowed her head, letting it rest against his chest. “But I’m just so fucking tired.”

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he whispered, “I’ve got you.” He guided her to the bedroom and helped her onto the stool. “Sit.” She obeyed without protesting. He grabbed a comb, working it carefully through her hair, slow and methodical from the ends up, aware of her eyes tracking his movements in the mirror. He used the dryer, warm air threading through the strands as he sifted them gently with his fingers, chasing out the last of the dampness.

She handed him the brush. “Will you…”

He took it without a word and began brushing.

She swayed slightly under his hands.

“Mama used to do this…” Her voice changed, softer, distant. The edges of it blurred, picking up a whisper of a foreign accent.

“She’d brush our hair … every night…,” she murmured, the words slipping between languages. Russian? “Mine … Nessa’s … Tatie’s…”

The names meant nothing to him, but her next words sent a chill down his spine. “So … afraid,” she whispered. “Always watching…”

His jaw tightened, but his touch stayed steady, gentle as he kept up a steady rhythm. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”