Page 38 of Protected from Malice
I’ve never regretted my methods before. But if Eden’s afraid of me…
A dagger stabs into my heart and twists.
Eden looks at me. Walks closer.
Her gaze is steady on mine.
Then.
She touches my arm and asks softly, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine.”
Her hand comes to mine, touching my slightly reddened knuckles. Her fingers trace across them, feather light. Then she looks up at me. Lifts her chin. “We’ll call the police. Say he broke his fingers when you tried to close the door as he was breaking in.” She glances at the phone I’m still holding. “And he must have lost his phone somewhere. We never saw it.”
Relief and admiration crash into me with such intensity it’s hard to breathe past it.
Maybe I didn’t fuck everything up between us.
Maybe.
CHAPTER 7
EDEN
It’shard to believe this is really my life.
Two years ago, I thought I’d experienced the worst it could get.
A one-two punch of horrible-ness in a matter of months.
But after that, I did everything I could to get through it. Counseling. Self-defense classes. Moving out of my apartment complex with the vast parking lots and into a house with an attached garage. Using puzzles as a coping mechanism. Keeping busy with work to the verge of obsession.
And with Indy, I threw myself into his recovery—calling the top specialists in the country and nagging them until they agreed to see him, saving my money and creating fundraisers Indy never knew about so we could afford to get him a prosthetic that would give him back as much mobility as possible.
But after that, I really thought my streak of bad luck was over.
I even tried to convince myself that the strange things I kept noticing over the last month were all in my head. That they were just symptoms of my PTSD and nothing to get worked up about.
It almost worked, until that truck nearly ran me off the road.
Then someone broke into my house.
Broke into my hotel room.
Claimed he was sent there to abduct me. TokillRafe if he got in the way.
I can’t pretend it’s all in my head anymore.
And while Rafe had things in the hotel room handled, there’s no guarantee he won’t end up in danger again because of me.
Yes, I know he’s a bounty hunter. I know his job is dangerous. I knew what he did in the Army was dangerous. But that didn’t mean I liked it. Or that I don’t feel incredibly guilty that he’s putting himself at risk to protect me.
When he says he won’t let me get hurt, I believe him. But at what cost? Will he sacrifice his own safety? His health? His life?
As I watch Rafe hustle around our new hotel suite—this time on the fifth floor of a highrise in downtown Portland—setting up his security system again, a fresh wave of guilt sweeps over me.
Rafe should be back home in Corpus Christi, enjoying his well-deserved time off of work. He should be hiking or taking his boat out on the Bay, soaking up the sun and relaxing. He shouldn’t have to be dealing with a second police visit in less than twelve hours, facing more scrutiny as ifhe’sthe one who wanted to hurt me.
