Page 16 of Oliver

“It’s a buffer,” he said softly. “Until we know who’s after you.”

I dropped my bag by the bed. “And what if we never find out?”

His answer was immediate. “We will.”

He meant it—every word. I could hear it in his voice.

I sank onto the edge of the bed. “What if they come for someone else next? Someone I care about.”

Oliver crouched in front of me. “Then they’ll answer to us.”

Us.

Again with theus.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

He stood. “Get some sleep. There’s food in the kitchen. Tag’s here if you need anything.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be just down the hall, getting some shut-eye.”

I watched him go, and for the first time in days, I realized I wasn’t just scared.

I was angry. Why did people think they could do this to me? I’ve never done anything to anyone.

Someone had stolen pieces of my life—my control, my safety, my sense of direction.

But they hadn’t taken all of it.

Not yet.

Not ever.

9

Oliver

She didn’t sleep.

I heard her moving around in the early hours—quiet footsteps, the click of the fridge, the soft creak of the porch swing.

She was pretending to be fine.

I knew that move. I’d lived it.

I left her alone until late morning, then knocked on her door with two mugs of coffee—one black, one the way Cyclone said she liked it: cream, no sugar.

She opened the door in an oversized shirt and a pair of leggings, hair up in a loose knot.

“You always bring coffee to women hiding in a safe house?” she asked, one brow lifted.

I grinned. “Only the ones I rescue from armed kidnappers.”

She took the cup. “Charming.”

We sat on the back patio. Ocean breeze rolling in, the salt air cutting through the heaviness that never fully left her eyes.

---