Page 38 of Somewhere You Belong

“What’s that?”

He points down at the floors. “Don’t rip up the hardwood. It just needs a good polish. The original wood is part of what makes this house special.”

I tilt my head at him, fighting a smile. “That was the plan. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not going to completely rip the house apart. It’s too special to do that.”

“At least you have half a brain in there.”

I roll my eyes playfully. “There you go insulting me again.”

His head drops, eyes closing. “Fuck, Willow. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I hold my palm up. “I’m just kidding, Dallas. But good to know you at least have half a heart inthere.” I move forward to poke his chest jokingly, but that proves to be a big mistake.

Solid muscle barely gives way under the press of my finger against his pec. And getting close to him again allows me to see deeper into those dark chocolate pools of sadness and spite he has for eyes.

I may be dealing with some issues, but it seems to me that Dallas is probably battling his own, too. And as much as I enjoy sparringwith the man, perhaps it would serve me best to remember that every person we cross is fighting battles we know nothing about.

“Have a good rest of your day, Willow,” he finally says, a crack in his voice, retreating from our close proximity and moving for the door again.

“You too. And thanks again for your help. There’s one problem gone off a long list of others.”

“I’m sure you’ll solve them soon enough.” And with those parting words, he opens and shuts the door behind him, leaving me trailing him with my eyes through the windows on the side of the house until I can no longer see him.

And my heart lurches at the reality of being alone once again.

Chapter eight

Dallas

“Get down!” I can barely hear my voice over the cacophony of noise surrounding me. Bullets fly through the air, dust clouds penetrate the sky, and more yelling and screaming ring out as I take cover behind the wall in front of me.

But that’s when I see them—a woman, gripping her child, crying in the corner of the alley.

She’s basically a sitting duck.

“You need to get out of here!” I call out to her. But all she does is shake her head, continuing to cry and hold her baby. “Run!”

I vaguely hear one of my other men say something to me, but my focus is shot—it’s locked and loaded on this woman.

Disregarding the imminent threat around us, I move toward her, knowing that if I at least help her find cover, she has a chance to survive. Twenty feet seems like one-hundred yards as I crouch down, attempting to avoid being shot myself as chaos swirls around us. And I can sense how close I am to victory, how narrow of a distance there is between saving two innocentlives to make up for the ones I’ve taken with far too many bullets to count.

Within an arm’s reach, I close in on the woman just as a bullet pierces her neck.

“No! Fuck!”

Slamming down to the ground, I wait out the rain of gunfire filling the alley.

And then I feel it—a sharp, searing pain as a bullet slices through my side. The physical pain is excruciating, yet it pales in comparison to the searing guilt and heartache that flood in.

My vision goes blurry, the dust and red haze around me making it hard to see.

But I’ll never stop seeing her—the woman in front of me, gasping for air as she holds her baby—fighting for her life as I curse the circumstances and choices of my own.

Only this time, her face is different as I look up at her for one last glance—it’s the face of a woman who has taken up more space in my mind lately than I care to admit.

It’s Willow.

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