Page 35 of Guarded from Treachery

Isla looks up from the floor as I walk into the bathroom, her eyes pink and cheeks tear-streaked. Her hair is half falling out of a loose ponytail, with damp strands sticking to her neck and forehead. She’s hunched into herself, her arms wrapped around her stomach, rocking slightly against the nausea.

She looks absolutely miserable.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” she starts. Tears well up in her eyes. “This is the worst it’s been. But I’ll be oka?—”

“Stop,” I tell her gently. “You don’t have to keep saying you’re okay.” I grab a hand towel from the little rack beside the sink and dampen it with cool water from the faucet. Then I kneel beside Isla and hand her the towel. As she wipes her face, I gather her hair back and refasten her ponytail, making sure all the loose strands are out of the way.

Isla glances at me, surprise in her eyes.

I hold my hand out for the towel and wipe it across the back of her neck, cooling her heated skin. “Do you want some water?” I ask. Reaching over to the toilet paper holder, I pull the roll off and set it on the floor beside her. “Or are you not ready for that yet?”

“Matt.” Her chin wobbles. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

It took about halfan hour for Isla’s stomach to finally settle.

While I hated seeing her sick like that, it felt like that was exactly where I was supposed to be—keeping her company on the cold tile floor, rubbing her back and fixing her hair and wiping the sweat from the back of her neck.

It kills me to think about the times she went through that alone.

Not again. Not as long as I have anything to do with it.

Is that unrealistic? Once this case is solved—and it will be, it’s just a matter of time—there won’t be a reason for me to be in Dallas anymore. Isla will move on with her life and I’ll be relegated to a memory.

Unless.

No. I have no business considering anything beyond a client relationship with Isla.

It would be easier to believe that if I didn’t like her so much. If I didn’t feel this protective of her. If she wasn’t pretty much the ideal woman, if I’d ever taken the time to think about it.

If things were different, I’d have asked her out already.

It’s not just that she’s a client, though that’s reason enough to keep things strictly professional. But I’m confident I could still provide the same standard of protection if we were dating, and I know my teammates wouldn’t give me a hard time about it. Dante and Sarah got together while Blade and Arrow was protecting her, just as some of the guys at the original Blade and Arrow did with their partners.

But Isla’s pregnant. Not just pregnant, which I wouldn’t have a problem with on its own, but she doesn’t know how it happened. Doesn’t even know who the father is. She could have been drugged, violated…

Fuck.

Pain slices through my jaw as my molars grind together.

Anger bubbles up inside me, just as it does every time I think about someone hurting Isla. Scaring her. Traumatizing her.

I’ve felt protective of women before—particularly with my teammates’ partners—but with Isla, it’s different. More intense. All-encompassing. Like I don’t just want to take care of her, butneedto.

And it’s not only keeping Isla safe, though that’s the priority, of course. But it’s also making sure she’s eating the right food and getting enough sleep and trying to help her relax in the midst of the chaos. It’s sitting with her in the bathroom while she’s sick and teaching her how to playMinecraft. It’s staying up late to watch the Discovery Channel and brewing pot after pot of ginger tea because sometimes that’s the only thing that makes Isla’s stomach feel better.

While I could tell myself I’d do this for any client, I know it’s a lie.

“Hey, Matt.” Isla walks into the kitchen, cheeks flushed and hair still damp from her shower, wearing a pair of loose shorts and a worn, oversized T-shirt that saysUNHacross the front of it. The morning sun coming in through the windows makes her skin glow and her eyes an even brighter violet than usual.

I forcibly relax my jaw and unclench my fingers from their death grip on the kitchen counter, then return her smile with one of my own. “Hey, you. How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” Isla leans on the small butcher block island in the center of the kitchen as she looks at me. “I was thinking I could probably go in to work after all. My stomach is almost back to normal. If I have some toast, maybe some tea, I should be okay.”

Then she glances at the tray I have set up on the counter, and her eyebrows shoot up. “Matt. What’s that?”

Gesturing at the tray, I reply, “Saltines with peanut butter. Toast with honey. And some dry toast, if you’d prefer. Bananas for protein. A smoothie with almond milk and strawberries. Ginger tea. And some crystallized ginger if you’re not up for drinking something hot.”

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