Page 37 of Hero's Heart

Callum hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Honestly, I’m not sure of all the factors surrounding the situation, but no, your part in the abduction wasn’t mentioned to us at all.”

The confirmation hit harder than she’d expected. She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “Of course not. I don’t know why I would expect anything else. The name’s Sloane Miller, not Sloane Getty.”

“It is?”

“My father made me change my name to my mother’s last name when I came to live with him when I was seventeen.”

“Why?”

She definitely didn’t have the emotional fortitude to get into that whole situation tonight. “Let’s just say my father hated my mother, and that seemed to transfer to me. My stepmother—Marissa’s mother—detests me even more. I don’t think either of them would pay a penny in ransom to get me out of a bad situation.”

“Sloane—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted, plastering on a brittle smile. “I’m used to it.”

Callum’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t push, which she appreciated. She didn’t want to go into how she was barely more than a criminal to her family.

He reached for her arm, guiding her gently toward the bed. “You need rest. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No, there’s no need for that.” And she couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in the bed anyway. “Please. I…I don’t want to be there by myself.”

He gave her a gentle smile. “I understand.”

He turned off the bedside lamp, and they settled onto the narrow bed, Callum keeping a respectful distance.

She wanted more than anything to ask him to hold her, but she couldn’t force the words out. Even breathing seemed hard.

“Hey. Try to sleep,” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. “You’re safe now.”

He reached over and grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers between them on the bed. Sloane focused all her energy on that connection.

With the feel of his thumb stroking the skin of the back of her hand, she let sleep overtake her.

Chapter 13

Callum stirred awake, his senses gradually sharpening as consciousness returned. The first thing he noticed was warmth—caused by a soft, comforting shape pressed against his body. His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself face-to-face with Sloane’s sleeping form, their limbs intertwined on the narrow hotel bed.

Evidently, things had escalated from hand-holding of their own accord sometime during the night.

His breath caught in his throat as he studied her as a man for the first time, rather than as a soldier. She was so close, her gentle breaths tickling his neck. He could count each of her eyelashes, see the faint freckles dusting her nose.

God, she was beautiful.

This was dangerous territory. He shouldn’t be thinking about how perfectly she fit against him or how much he wanted to trace the curve of her cheek with his fingertips.

How much he wanted to kiss her. If only to chase away the demons for a little while.

But that wasn’t going to happen. He was too damned old for her. Too set in his ways. Too fucking cranky. Not to mention, she’d been through hell.

And he couldn’t help but marvel at her strength. The way she’d put one foot in front of the other for miles, not once protesting? He knew soldiers who had in-depth physical and mental training who wouldn’t have held it together as well as she had.

But her sobbing last night in the shower had nearly broken him. Even now, his chest constricted with the need to comfort her.

He’d stood there, feeling utterly useless when he’d asked if she was okay. It would’ve been totally understandable if she’d wanted to lean on his strength or, like Marissa, had used her situation to get attention. But Sloane had had her breakdown in private.

She struck him as someone who had to lean on herself way too much, to the point where she had it down to a science.

Maybe it was for the best. It had been so long since he’d needed to provide any kind of emotional support for a woman that he wasn’t sure he could do it anyway. Plus, what was he supposed to say? What could he possibly do to ease the fear and trauma she must be experiencing?

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