Page 120 of Blindside Sinner

“I can, I will, I am. Deal with it.”

Then I hang up without bothering to see what she’ll say back.

That should do it. If not, I’ll deal with Viv later. Right now, I need to get Sloan situated. Make some calls. Work out some security.

I need to make her feel safe again.

I bring Sloan on a lap around the perimeter with me as I visibly and loudly lock the doors and set the alarm. Nothing is getting in this place without a whole mess of sound and light and highly competent hired security plowing through the gate. My alarm company doesn’t fuck around.

When I get us locked in, I bring her up to my bedroom and run a bath. It’s taking everything I have to be the calm source of reassurance she needs, because what I really want to do is go on the fucking warpath.

She shouldn’t ever have to deal with anything like this. When I find the fuck who did it, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.

But for right now, I’m going to take care of Sloan. To let her know I’m never going to let anyone get near her again.

When the bath is steaming and scented with the oils she brought up here weeks ago, I undress her. She lets me do it, limp and catatonic and unresisting. The lights are on, but no one is home.

It breaks my fucking heart.

I help her into the water, wash her body and her hair, and then let her soak for a few minutes while I find something for her to wear. She needs comfort clothes, something warm. I bring her a pair of my team sweats and a cashmere hoodie.

As soon as she’s dried off and dressed, I carry her to bed. This whole situation is mega-fucked, but I can’t deny that I like takingcare of her. I like how she clings to my neck and nuzzles against my chest and whimpers softly when I move her from room to room.

Once she’s settled into my bed, I head to the kitchen. She needs hot soup and a couple grilled cheese sandwiches—my specialty ever since I learned it was her favorite, her go-to for heartbreak and for movie nights and for any time she’s had a little too much of life.

I whip up a couple sandwiches and bring them to her. She still hasn’t said much of anything. I don’t press her. She’ll talk when she’s ready.

When she’s finished eating, I hold her. It’s not much, probably a hell of a lot less that she needs, but it’s all I’ve got.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?”

She winces. “I had a blanket. It was so soft. It’s cut to shreds now.”

Just like that, tears fill her big brown eyes.

I can’t stand to see her cry, so I hold her against me, brush her hair back some more, and wait for the tears to subside.

When she’s asleep, I lower her to the pillows and let her rest. Then I get to work.

By morning, she’s going to have everything she wants and needs or I’m going to go bankrupt trying. The calls are easy enough. Personal shoppers, midnight deliveries, promises for extra payments to rush things hereright fucking now.

Before Sloan is awake, she has new clothes enough to last weeks and every kind of blanket the whole damn city has to offer.

She’s still sleeping as the sun rises, so I go to the workout room. If I can’t sleep, I can at least exhaust myself into not thinking.

So I lift weights until my arms ache and walking up the stairs is almost more than I can manage.

But an hour later, when sweat is rolling off me from the exertion of it all, the thoughts have finally quieted.

Thank fucking God.

I shower and crawl back into bed beside her. I let her down this time, but that isn’t happening ever again. I don’t give a fuck what I have to do or who I have to hire to ensure her safety.

No one touches what’s mine.

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SLOAN

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