Page 78 of Lost in the Moonlight

Just as she said, “I made you a target,” Hardy’s deep voice picked up, grunting out, “Lincoln?”

I didn’t give a shit that it was the middle of the night, his time, as I said, “He took a potshot at us.”

“What happened?” He was instantly awake as I explained the situation.

Willow turned, collected her clothes from the pile she’d made earlier, and pulled her phone from the table by the sofa.

If she thought she was leaving, she had another thing coming.

I crossed over to the door, blocking it before she got anywhere near it, while I listened to Hardy’s lecture about allowing a Secret Service detail back into my life. I was almost in agreement because, damn it, I needed someone with actual training to ensure Willow was safe. And yet, doing that—inviting them in—would end everything.

The Secret Service would dig around into her past, which would only flag the Marshals, and they’d come running. And everyone would agree our being together was an impossibility. Danger on both sides that the agencies would find unacceptable.

“I can’t discuss this right now,” I said to Hardy. “This is Poco. Find him.”

I hung up and barred her exit as she tried to brush past me. When she refused to meet my gaze, panic worse than I’d felt while chasing an unknown assailant flooded me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I demanded.

“Home. If they’re going to come, I won’t let them bring you down with me. Let me by.”

“No.”

She stomped a bare foot. It was a soundless action, and yet it vibrated through me in a way that would have had me smirking if things weren’t so desperate.

“If you go home, I’m coming with you,” I told her with a deadly resolve.

“This isn’t your fight!” she insisted, eyes flashing a warning I didn’t heed.

“No?” I demanded. I’d prove to her just exactly why it was my goddamn battle.

I yanked her to me, pushing my lips against hers. All my anger and fear and frustration came out as I plundered her mouth. She held herself rigid for all of two seconds before I felt her drop her clothes and lean into me.

The taste of her overwhelmed my senses, instantly softening my kiss. I felt a tremor run up her spine that had nothing to do with fear. I slowed my frenzied pace, licking along her seam, seeking the inner recesses, touching, soothing, marking. Focusing on the beauty of our connection until I felt the edge of fear and darkness slip away from both of us. When I pulled back, her eyes were hazy with the same desire that tore through me.

“That feeling, Willow…that hunger we feel for each other…it proves this is very much my fight. Hell will have to rise up and swallow me whole before I let another woman I care about face tragedy on her own. I refuse. You go home, you lock me out, and I can guarantee I’ll be sleeping on your front step. You kick me off your property, and I’ll be lying along the sidewalk at your gate.”

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and a single tear escaped, slowly traveling down her cheek as if connecting the soft dots of her freckles. I swiped at it with a thumb.

“It’s not right, Lincoln,” she whispered.

And because I was desperate, because I knew it was the last thing she wanted, I asked, “You want to call the Marshals, then? Have them come? Because there’s no way I’m letting you face any of this alone.”

She gritted her teeth and pushed out of my embrace. She crossed her arms over her chest, but I could tell my words had landed home. She was debating now just as fiercely as she’d debated leaving after she’d seen the painting of Sienna. We’d get through this just like we’d gotten through that. She’d see the truth. She had to.

“While you think about that, let me clean this foot up,” I said. Because I didn’t quite trust her not to leave, I grabbed her hand and pulled her with me into the bathroom.

I dug around for the first aid kit, soaked a cotton ball with antiseptic, and leaned against the cabinet, trying to locate the cut on the ball of my foot. She let out a huff, grabbed the cotton from me, and knelt at my feet, dabbing at the wound.

“I don’t think there’s any glass in here,” she said quietly.

Taking a Band-Aid from the case, she placed it over the wound before surrounding the ball of my foot in medical adhesive to keep the bandage in place.

When she rose and placed the roll back into the first aid kit, her hands were shaking. I captured them in mine.

“It’s going to be okay. This is just Poco. We’re going to stop him.”

“What if we’re wrong? What if it isn’t?”

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