Chapter Four
Faith
" F aith, you need clothes," Detective Hernandez growls, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's trying not to lose his patience with me as we face off across the small living room of my safe house.
"I could have gotten them from Goodwill," I huff, pushing my hair back from my face so I can pin him and the shopping bags at his feet with a dirty glare. I didn't ask him to buy me clothes, and I don't want them. I'm not a charity case, and he isn't responsible for me.
He growls in frustration, his dark gaze raking over me like he isn't sure what to make of me. I want to tell him that makes two of us, because I can't figure him out. One minute, he's nicer to me than anyone ever has been before. The next, he treats me like he can't get away from me fast enough. Like the day he brought me here. He was so sweet to me until we got in the SUV…and then he acted like he couldn't even stand to look at me.
He's called to check in every day since, but he hasn't been back until today. He says his job kept him away, but I don't think that's the only reason he's avoided coming here the last few days. Not that he'll ever tell me why he runs so hot and cold. Not that I should even care.
I've known him for a week, and he's already the most confusing man I've ever met.
Not to mention the hottest. He's too handsome for his own good, and he looks at me like I'm a puzzle and he's trying to put the pieces together. It's unnerving. I don't want him trying to figure me out because I'm pretty sure he sees more than most people do. The way he looks at me leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way I never was with Nikolai and his men.
With them, I knew where I stood and what was expected of me. I cooked, cleaned, did what they told me to do, and kept my mouth shut. I didn't ask questions or get to have opinions. I learned quickly that the best way to avoid pain was to be invisible. I was good at not drawing attention to myself. Not even Ivan Sedov, who made my life a living hell, ever focused on me like Detective Hernandez does. It's almost like he's stripping me down to my core, exposing all the painful things inside me that I'd rather not acknowledge even exist.
He sees them though.
He sees me.
I wish he didn't.
"You need more than scrubs to wear, angel," he tries again, his rumbling growl setting off little fires inside my skin. Why does he have to sound as hot as he looks? It isn't fair.
"I'm not a charity case, Detective Hernandez," I tell him, hating how strained my voice sounds and how my cheeks heat as I say the words.
He eyes me for a moment like my words surprise him, and then he shakes his head. "Faith, you're in protective custody. So long as you're in our care, it's our responsibility to make sure you have what you need, including suitable clothing."
"You mean the ATF's care," I correct. Agent Gunner explained the rules to me. I'm in the care of the ATF, and Detective Hernandez doesn't work for the ATF. He works for the LAPD. But I know without even asking that the ATF didn't pay for the clothes in all those bags. He did. I just don't understand why. "I'm their responsibility, not yours."
I don't much like that either, but it's easier to feel like I owe something to the government than it is to feel like I owe something to the powerful man standing in front of me.
"Does it matter?" he asks.
I nod emphatically.
"Fine. I'll bill the ATF for the clothes then," he mutters, throwing his hands up in surrender.
"Promise?"
He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling as if asking God to grant him patience. "Yes," he grits out, shaking his head. His left eye twitches. I think I'm stressing him out. That probably shouldn't make me feel better, but it does. "I promise I'll bill them if it makes you happy."
"Thank you."
He tips his head down to look at me, suspicion flickering through his sepia eyes. I hold his gaze as innocently as possible, which makes him shake his head and chuckle. Even his laugh is hot.
His expression softens incrementally. "You're very stubborn."
I ignore him because I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean that as a compliment even though he makes it sound like one. "You really didn't have to come all the way out here to bring me clothes," I say instead.
"I was in the area," he lies.
He wasn't in the area. Literally no one just happens to be in this area for no reason. My safe house is a tiny two bedroom that's as close as you can get to the middle of nowhere while still being inside Los Angeles County. The furniture is threadbare, but there are no neighbors, minimal traffic, and the security system is pretty good.
"Are you settling in okay?" he asks.
"Fine," I lie, avoiding his gaze. The house is safe and secure, but the truth is that I hate it here. It's too quiet. Nikolai's men are loud and disruptive, his territory full of sounds. Every night, I fell asleep to the sounds of Nikolai and his men partying with whatever women they brought home for the night. I hated the incessant moaning and cursing as much as I hated the screams and pleas, but I think I hate the silence here even more.
There's nothing to distract me from memories.
I've barely slept since I arrived. Every time I doze off, nightmares of the shooting plague me. It feels like I'm right back there, listening to gunfire ring out while people scream for help.
Even worse is the way Agent Rick Sanders watches me. I saw the way he looked at me at the hospital, and I didn't like it. I was relieved when he didn't stick around after helping get me here, but he showed up again yesterday, saying he was replacing Agent Pierson on my team. I try to avoid him as much as I can, but he's always finding some excuse to touch me or get in my personal space. He stands too close to me, flirts too hard. He reminds me of Ivan Sedov, except he's harder to avoid. I don't like him. I'm not positive, but I think he tried to get into my room last night.
I don't tell Detective Hernandez that, though. I'm sure he'd do something about it if I did, but I already feel like I owe him too much. I don't want to feel like I owe him anything else. I just want to get through this and be on my way to…well, anywhere but here.
"Has there been any word?" I ask, changing the subject before he can ask me anything else about how I'm liking it here. I don't want to have to lie to him any more than necessary. I lied enough by agreeing to help him. There's nothing I can tell him about Nikolai, not like he expects. After the way my mom and stepdad betrayed him, Nikolai made a point to never talk business with me in the room. Even the newest recruits knew to keep their mouths shut around me or face his wrath. What I know about his business dealings is no more than Detective Hernandez could find out from almost anyone else who spends time around his cartel. "Are they still looking for me?"
I've gotten good at reading people, at seeing what they unwittingly reveal. Knowing what kind of mood Nikolai and his people were in or what kind of day they were having kept me alive. Detective Hernandez is a lot harder to read than they were. His expression never changes as the question leaves my lips, but he pauses for a split second in the middle of an inhale.
I expect him to lie to me, but he doesn't.
"There has," he says. Something like sympathy burns in the depths of his gorgeous eyes. Something else burns there too…curiosity or frustration, maybe, but I'm not sure which it is or what it means. "They're still looking for you, Faith."
"Oh," I whisper, though I'm not really surprised. Nikolai doesn't like to lose. In his eyes, I'm his property and he's been deprived of it. He won't stop looking for me. It would make him seem weak, and Nikolai hates anything that makes him seem like anything less than the powerful man he is.
"Tarasova is offering a reward for information on you," Detective Hernandez says gently. "Do you know why he wants you back so badly?"
I sink down onto the edge of the couch, staring at the threadbare carpet as tears of frustration prick at my eyes. "I don't know why he wants me," I mumble. "I haven't known since I was sixteen."
"You've been with him since you were sixteen?"
"Yes," I whisper. I feel his gaze on me, but don't want to see the pity in his eyes, so I refuse to look at him. "He found me after my mom and stepfather left."
"Do you know where your mother and stepfather went?"
I shake my head instead of answering that question.
"They left you behind."
It's not really a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes," I whisper. "She never wanted me to begin with. I lived with my dad when I was little. She didn't have a choice but to take me in after he died."
"How old were you?"
"Six." I stare at the floor hard enough to bore holes into the carpet, refusing to cry. My dad loved me. I was happy and safe with him. But I can't remember what he looks like most of the time. I know he had eyes like mine because I still see them in my dreams sometimes, but the rest of him is hazy. Sometimes, I'm not sure if I actually remember him or if I just think I do. If I'm just so desperate to believe that someone loved me at least once in my life that I made up all the things I think I remember about him. "I hated living with my mom."
"Why?"
I shrug, ashamed to tell him how I grew up. Thanks to the doctor at the hospital, he already knows more about me than I'd like. I don't want to have to admit to this man that most of those broken bones and scars came from the woman who was supposed to love me. My shame is my own.
"Faith, tell me why," he says, the quiet command in his voice hard to ignore.
"She didn't like me much," I mutter, being as evasive as possible. "Can we talk about something else, please? This doesn't have anything to do with Nikolai Tarasova."
" ?Me cago en la hostia! " he swears violently, making me jump. He stomps in my direction, stopping directly in front of me. When I still refuse to look up at him, he drops to his knees, leaving me no choice. "Look at me, Faith," he commands softly.
I reluctantly lift my gaze to his, unable to refuse.
His face is a thundercloud, storm clouds roiling in his eyes. "I know you don't want to talk about this, but I need to know. Did your mom hurt you, angel?" he asks, his voice far more gentle than his fierce expression.
"I…" I lick my lips and then nod.
"She abused you."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway.
His eyes fall closed, making it impossible to see what he's thinking. He barely even seems to breathe as he kneels in front of me, his eyes closed and his entire body rigid.
"It was a long time ago," I mumble. "She wasn't so bad when she was sober." Most of the time, she left me alone. But when she drank, she'd fly into rages. Everything I did was wrong. Every word I said was an affront. I tried so hard to be good and stay out of her way, but I never measured up.
I still don't understand what I did to make her hate me so much.
Octavio's eyes pop open. "Don't," he says, glaring at me. "Don't you dare try to make excuses for her, conejita . She was supposed to protect you, and she didn't. She hurt you. You are not to blame for that. You did nothing to deserve it. Understand?"
"Okay," I whisper, blinking rapidly when tears fill my eyes again.
He watches me for a moment, his expression fierce and gentle at the same time. "I'm not going to let anyone else hurt you, Faith."
I clear my throat and scoot backward a few inches, putting space between us. My heart hammers against my ribcage, pounding uncomfortably. I break his gaze, glancing back down at the floor. I think he means it. I appreciate him for saying it…I even want to believe him, but I can't. No one has ever kept a promise to me before now. Trusting people never ends well for me or for them. I learned a long time ago that giving anyone that much power over me was just asking for trouble. And I have more than enough of that without adding this handsome detective to the load.
"Like I said, it was a long time ago, Detective Hernandez."
"Octavio."
I blink at him.
"My name is Octavio. Say it, conejita ."
I ignore his demand, refusing to go there with him. I'm already far too attracted to him. The last thing I need to do is blur the lines between us. He won't be around for long. If I soften toward him now, I'll be the one who ends up hurt, not him. "I'm not a rabbit, Detective Hernandez."
His lips twitch, amusement and frustration dancing in his gaze. "Oh, but you are, little Faith."
I scowl at him, fighting the urge to shiver at the way he says my name. It sounds so nice on his lips. Sexy almost…but I've never been that. I'm too skinny, with ugly scars all over my body. I don't think he'd look at me the same if he actually saw them.
When I was younger, I hated that I was overweight. I would have given anything back then to be skinnier. I just never imagined my wish would come at such a high price. Starvation isn't a good look on anyone. I miss looking in a mirror and feeling…normal.
His expression changes as we stare at each other, his eyes darkening until they're almost black. He's even more gorgeous than usual when he looks at me like he is right now…like he wants to touch me.
It scares me just how normal he makes me feel sometimes.
"What's going to happen to Ilya and his bar?" I blurt out, desperately trying to focus on something other than the thrill of desire his dark gaze sends thrumming through me.
"Does it matter?" One dark brow shoots upward.
"The only thing I had that was mine was my job at his bar. Nikolai wouldn't let him pay me, but so long as I was there, they didn't bother me. I was safe at Ilya's until their war took that away. Everything they touch turns to poison."
"Faith–"
"I want something in exchange for helping you."
He eyes me like he's surprised.
"Promise me Ilya won't get in trouble for what happened. It's not his fault their war spilled over into his bar. He's just trying to survive in their territory like everyone else."
"He was nice to you?"
I shrug noncommittally. "Ilya isn't nice to anyone, Detective."
"Octavio," he corrects in a deep growl.
"He's old and grumpy and never called me by my name, but when…when they started shooting, he protected me," I whisper. "He hid me in the corner and used his body to shield mine."
Octavio's gaze softens again. "I'll make sure he's taken care of," he promises.
"Thank you."
"Faith…" He doesn't say whatever he was going to say. Before he can, the front door opens. Agent Gunner and Agent Sanders come back inside, loaded down with takeout bags and cups. Detective Hernandez sighs and then climbs to his feet, putting space between us as he greets them.
Agent Gunner offers him tacos, which he declines, saying he needs to get back to work.
"I'll be back to check on you tomorrow," he mutters to me.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
A few moments later, the front door creaks open and then slams closed. I keep my gaze on the floor until I hear an engine roar to life outside.
When I finally look up, Agent Sanders is staring at me, his eyes narrowed. "We brought you tacos," he says, his expression dropping into a friendly mask. Most people probably think he's handsome with his blond hair, blue eyes, and perfect smile. He isn't. He looks cold and dangerous to me. When he smiles at me, it never reflects in his icy eyes.
"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," I mutter and clamber to my feet. I scoop up the shopping bags, biting back a grimace when the healing cuts on my hands send pain shooting up my arms.
Agent Sanders walks toward me.
I quickly grab the rest of the bags and sidestep him, hurrying down the hall to my room.
By the time I work up the nerve to leave the safety of my room in search of food, it's after three in the morning. The house is completely silent.
I sneak out into the hall, moving as quietly as possible to keep from disturbing Agent Gunner and Agent Sanders. Except for a lamp in the living room, the rest of the house is dark.
I exhale a relieved breath once I make it to the kitchen without running into Gunner or Sanders. One of them is usually camped out on the couch like they think I might try to sneak out if they leave the front door unguarded, but the living room is empty tonight. Thank God. I don't want to talk to either of them.
I just want to eat and go back to my room.
Ever since Detective Hernandez left, I've felt out of sorts and restless. Talking about my mom brought up a lot of old memories, things I prefer not to think about. I'll never understand why she hated me or how she could just abandon me like she did. I thought I'd come to terms with it a long time ago, but I guess not. It still hurts even though it shouldn't. I still love her even though I shouldn't.
Once the leftover tacos are warm, I stand in front of the sink to eat them, staring out into the backyard. A floodlight illuminates most of the overgrown, sad-looking space. There's a tire swing hanging in the tree, but the rope is frayed and rotted. The tire itself is cracked, with weeds growing in the rim of it. I don't think anyone has lived here for a long time. I don't know if the ATF uses it as a safe house a lot or if this is the first time. The house is old, with fading and chipped paint. From the outside, it honestly looks abandoned.
I guess that's the point though. No one would think to search for me in a house that appears as if a good wind might blow it over. Inside is nicer than it is outside. The furniture is threadbare and old, but comfortable. There are even paintings on the wall and rugs on the floor. All the windows in front are blacked out so no one can see inside. They all have bars over them too.
The front door creaks open as I finish my taco. I grimace and pick up the second, trying to eat it as quickly as possible so I can get back to my room. I don't want to deal with Agent Sanders right now. Agent Gunner is nice to me, but I'm not particularly comfortable around him either. He seems to know it because he tends to keep his distance.
My heart thumps painfully when Agent Sanders steps into the kitchen.
"Faith." His gaze runs up and down my body, leaving me feeling cold. "You changed out of your scrubs."
"Octavio brought me clothes," I mutter, shrugging. Wearing the same clothes every day was getting old. I had to get up early every morning to wash them while Agent Gunner was outside exercising and Agent Sanders was sleeping. The stuff Detective Hernandez brought me is nice. The pajama pants are fuzzy and warm, and the tank top is cute.
"You look good," Agent Sanders says.
I pause in the act of taking a bite of my taco. "Um, thanks," I mutter, not sure what else to say.
He leans up against the doorjamb, watching as I eat. "You looked good in your scrubs too." He smiles at me. "You're a beautiful woman, Faith."
My stomach churns uncomfortably. I force down the last bite of my taco and then quickly turn to clean up so I can escape back to my room. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time…feel the way he leers at me. I should have stayed in my room instead of coming for food. I've gone hungry for years. Not eating for a few more hours wouldn't have killed me.
Having food regularly is making me greedy. I'm getting used to being able to eat whenever I want. I need to be more careful. If Nikolai doesn't kill me when he finds me, my life is going to go right back to what it was before. Worse, probably. I need to keep my guard firmly in place. I can't let being here soften me up.
I finish cleaning the kitchen and turn to leave the room, only to jump backward. Agent Sanders is standing so close he's practically on top of me. He leers down at my chest, licking his lips. He looks at me exactly like Ivan does, like I'm a prize.
I take a step backward, trying to put some space between us. He grins and takes another step towards me.
"Please back up, Agent Sanders," I whisper, hating the way my voice shakes.
"Oh, so you're only on a first name basis with Hernandez?" he says. I think he's trying to tease, but he just sounds petulant. I didn't even realize I'd called Detective Hernandez by his first name. Sanders takes another step toward me, forcing me to back up again. "My name is Rick."
"Please back up," I say again.
He shakes his head, grinner wider. "Not until you say my name, babe."
I try to duck around him, but he flings out an arm, blocking me in. My back hits the wall, a whimper escaping my lips. He's not nearly as big as Octavio, but he's still a hell of a lot bigger than I am. He towers over me, making me feel small in a way that Octavio doesn't. Sanders makes me feel weak and afraid.
"Please let me go," I whisper again, cringing into the wall when he blocks me in with his body. He's so close I can feel his erection against my hip and smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke on his breath. My stomach threatens to rebel, the tacos that were sitting like rocks now fight to come back up. My hands shake, fear rushing through me in a powerful wave.
"You're so damn sexy," Agent Sanders says, reaching out to touch me.
I dodge his hand, which seems to annoy him. Irritation flares in his icy eyes. I don't think he's used to being told no or not getting what he wants. For whatever reason, he wants me, but the feeling is definitely not mutual.
"I bet Nikolai taught you all kinds of dirty tricks, didn't he?" he asks and reaches for me again. His hand lands against my shoulder, pushing me deeper into the wall. "Did he teach you how to suck cock, babe?"
I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood.
His hand creeps down my shoulder and then onto my chest. Before I can even react, he leans forward, his hot breath blowing across my face. His lips brush my cheek.
"Stop it right now," I say, trying to push him off me.
He leans into me, trapping me between the wall and his body. His erection digs into my stomach. I turn my head to the side, trying to keep him from kissing me. If he does, I'm going to throw up all over him. My entire body shakes, my legs threatening to give out beneath me.
"I'll scream," I warn him when he squeezes my breast.
"You know you want this," he says.
I shove hard against his shoulders, but he doesn't budge.
"Let me go," I whimper when he squeezes harder, sending a bolt of pain through me. "You're hurting me."
"So damn hot," he mumbles as his tongue touches the corner of my lip.
"I said let me go!" I scream, my voice so loud it borders on shrill. I push at his shoulders again, trying to get him to back up and let me go. I'm on the verge of a panic attack. I can feel it beating in my chest like the wings of a bird, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
"Sanders, what the fuck are you doing?" Agent Gunner snaps from somewhere behind him, his voice hard and angry. "Let her go right now."
Agent Sanders hesitates when he hears his partner's voice. I use his hesitation to my advantage and bring my knee up as hard as I can, nailing him right in the groin.
"Fuck!" he shouts, doubling over in pain.
I push him again as hard as I can. He's off-balance just enough that it forces him back a couple of steps. As soon as he's out of my way, I rush past him, my heart racing with fear. Agent Gunner stands in the doorway, his expression shocked.
"Ms. Donovan, are you–?"
I push past him and race down the hallway. I don't stop until I'm in my room with the door locked. There's a rickety chair in the corner of the room. I grab it and shove it underneath the door handle, making sure Agent Sanders can't get in here. Making sure no one can.
Once I'm sure I'm safe, my legs give out. I sink to the floor and wrap my arms around myself, sobbing.
I thought cops were supposed to be the good guys, but apparently not. I think…I think if Agent Gunner hadn't come in when he did, Agent Sanders would have hurt me. And I wouldn't have been able to stop him.
I'm stuck here with no way out, and one of the men meant to protect me is someone I need to be protected from.
"Please," I pray, rocking back and forth as tears pour out of me. "Please help me, Octavio."