Page 20 of The Knight

She reached for her bag, but Abe was just quicker. He scooped it up, offering it while extending his other hand to help her from the car.

She stared at his free hand, her cheeks igniting. “I can?—”

“It’s a big step. Humor me.” The quirk of his lips softened his words.

Impossible man.Freya slid her hand into his, adrenaline spiking through her system. His hand engulfed hers, heat radiating from him like a furnace.

Her feet hit the ground and for a beat, his hand remained locked on hers. The contact was unnerving.

The few relationships she’d had with men in the past had been purely physical—she’d long resigned herself to her inability to connect on any deeper level. Affection had never been on the cards and she’d made her peace with that.

But Abe’s touch, one of simple comfort, stirred something unfamiliar.

She tugged her hand free, fumbling in her bag for her keys, desperate for distraction. “Just let me find my keys…”

Abe strode toward her front door. “Freya.”

The warning in his voice made her look up.

“Did you leave your porch door open?”

Her hand clenched around her keys, cold metal biting into her palm. “No. I didn’t.”

12

Abe frozeat the sight of the porch door hanging ajar, his pulse spiking.

Shit.“Get back in the car.” He turned on his heel.

Freya’s eyes flashed with defiance. “No?—”

“This isn’t a discussion, Freya.” He clamped his hand around her elbow and propelled her back to the SUV, ignoring her protests.

He yanked the door open, but when she hesitated, he scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. For a split second, he was acutely aware of her warmth against his chest, the delicate scent of her floral shampoo.Focus on the job. He placed her in the seat. “Lock the doors. Stay here until I tell you it’s safe.”

“Abe, I —”

He slammed the door. The thud reverberated through him, matching the pounding of his heart.

Impossible.How was she getting under his skin so easily? He never got involved with clients, but something about Freya Jonsdottir was seriously challenging his commitment to staying professional.

He turned his back on the car and faced the house. His hand moved to his holster, fingers curling around the grip of his weapon. The weight of the gun steadied him, anchoring him to the task at hand. The familiar calm of operational focus settled over him like a second skin and his breathing slowed.

The worn wood of the steps creaked under his boots as he climbed. Reaching the porch, he nudged the door wider with the muzzle of his gun, wincing at the faint squeak of the hinges.

Inside, the front door was unlatched. Carefully, he nudged it open with a soft tap of his boot. It swung inward, revealing an empty hallway painted pale blue. A rail of hooks lined one wall, bare save for a lone jacket. A small unit hugged the opposite wall, on top of which a china dish waited, ready for keys to be deposited.

Abe paused on the threshold, every sense hyper-alert. He waited, listening for any sound that might betray an intruder’s presence. Nothing, except the faint tick of a clock from somewhere deeper in the house and the muffled thrum of his own pulse in his ears.

Satisfied that the immediate area was clear, he moved forward, his grip tightening on his weapon as he approached the first doorway. The living room.

Shit.

Someone had torn the room apart with savage efficiency. The couch and chairs were slashed, stuffing bulging from the torn holes. Artwork was ripped from the walls and stomped on. Broken glass littered the floor in a treacherous carpet of lethal shard.

His jaw hardened as the devastation tripped memories. Clearing houses on mission in Afghanistan, moving from room to room with his team, never knowing what horror lay in wait around the corner.

Finding solace in Mariam’s arms…

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