Page 8 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
“Sit up a little,” I suggested, nodding toward the pillows. “Easier to breathe.”
She obeyed slowly, like her body needed instruction. Biscuit pressed against her leg, a warm anchor. Her palm rested on his head, grounding herself on fur and steady heartbeat.
I stayed right beside her. When her breathing evened out, the blanket pulled around her shoulders, her eyelids drooped again—exhaustion winning.
“Sleep,” I murmured. “It’s over.”
Biscuit stretched along her side, guarding her in his own way.
Planned to leave, but ended up sitting longer, watching her chest rise and fall. Every time the thought of her locked somewhere dark for “misbehaving” crossed my mind, my hands curled into fists. Foster care? A boyfriend? Didn’t matter. Someone had hurt her. Someone had taught her to fear shadows and silence.
Feelings weren’t my specialty, but protecting what needed protecting?
That I could do without thinking.
One decision settled deep and solid:
No one was ever putting Holly Turner in the dark again.
Chapter four
Holly
When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the light. Soft and gray, sneaking through the curtains. The kind of morning light that made everything look gentler than it really was. The second thing I noticed was the weight across my legs was warm, heavy, and breathing.
Biscuit.
He was sprawled on the bed, chin resting on my ankle like he was guarding it. His fur was warm and smelled faintly like the house—pine and soap. My fingers were tangled in his ruff, even though I didn’t remember falling asleep that way.
Then I realized what I did remember.
The nightmare. The cellar. The latch slamming shut. My own stupid crying.
And Blake.
My whole body went hot and cold all at once. I sat up too fast, the blanket sliding off my shoulders. My brain filled with the pieces of last night—the way I’d cried, the way he’d held me. I’d pressed my face against his chest like a child.
I buried my face in my hands and wanted to disappear.
The floor creaked in the hallway. Biscuit’s ears twitched before I even heard his voice.
“You awake?” Blake’s voice was rough, like gravel and morning coffee.
I managed a small “Yeah.” It came out more like a squeak.
He appeared in the doorway, pushing the door wide a second later, already dressed for work—jeans, boots, flannel rolled up at the sleeves. His hair was damp from the shower. There was a travel mug in one hand, keys in the other. He looked like a man who had a plan for the day, not like someone who’d spent half the night holding a crying mess together.
“You sleep at all after…?” He stopped himself before finishing the sentence.
“Yes, thank you,” I whispered.
He just nodded once, like that was fine, and glanced down at Biscuit. "Keep watch, buddy." Biscuit thumped his tail like he’d understood the assignment.
“Good boy,” Blake said, quiet but approving.
He turned his gaze back to me. “You should eat something. There’s oatmeal on the stove. I didn’t add sugar yet. I’ve also got plenty of bread for toast, eggs, coffee, juice. Biscuits and waffles in the freezer.” He winced. “Not homemade like my mom would make.”
My mother would never dream of so much as operating the microwave if she could help it. “I can—” My voice caught. I cleared it. “I can make breakfast for you. I don’t mind.”
