Chapter 15
Xander
The chair creaks when I lean back, leather stretching under my shoulders. The glass sweats against my palm, scotch biting down my throat with a slow burn. The quiet sits heavily.
Too fucking quiet.
I tap my fingers against the armrest, steady and sharp, the sound barely cutting through the stillness. My gaze drifts to the stairs again. The bedroom door stays closed. A line of light spills across the floor, thin and unmoving. She’s up there, but it feels like a mile away.
But she’s here.
Elliot killed the guy who attacked her, leaving us with no leads.
Should’ve been my hands around his throat. My blade splitting him open so he understood exactly why you don’t touch what’s mine.
Whoever she’s running from knows how to cover their tracks. Knows how to make sure no one can trace the blood back to them.
In the hospital, she looked at me like I was the enemy. Eyes wide, shoulders tight, every muscle pulling her away from me. She looked at me like I was Death himself walking in.
Like she was afraid of me.
The thought tears through me, sharp and ugly, deeper than any blade could cut. I’ve seen men beg for their lives, seen them piss themselves in the dirt when they realized they weren’t walking away. None of that touches me. But Dahlia looking at me with fear in her eyes? It split me open.
I grind my teeth until my jaw clicks. I’ll bleed patience out of myself if that’s what it takes. One step at a time to prove she’s safe here.
Now that I’ve found her, I can wait as long as she needs.
The phone buzzes against the table, and I set down the glass to check the screen.
Group chat. Nosy bastards.
Bash:
So you went full psycho and married her while she was unconscious? Bold move.
Me:
Don’t start.
Bash:
Romantic as fuck. Does Hallmark make a card for that?
Me:
Fuck off.
Damon:
Locked her in the house already?
Matthias:
I knew you took after me.
Bash:
When’s the baby?
My thumb hovers over the screen, jaw locked tight, pretending those words don’t swirl a want deep in my gut. I take a long drink before I can reply.
Me:
Keep talking and you’ll never meet her.
The screen stays quiet after that. Good.
A shout. Then the crack of something hitting the floor above.
My glass is down before it stops ringing. I take the stairs two at a time and stop short at her room.
I pause, hovering, then plant my shoulders to the opposite wall so she has the length of the hall between us.
“It’s not locked,” I say, voice low.
The door cracks open a few inches. Enough for me to see her. She’s got a lamp raised like a weapon, bare feet planted on the floor, wearing one of my shirts that hangs too loose on her frame. Her grip is tight, knuckles white against the ceramic.
She looks ready to fight.
And so fucking beautiful. I keep my hands at chest level where she can see them. Open. Empty.
“Easy,” I say.
Her eyes instantly find mine. I check for the usual signs of a concussion worsening, but her gaze is sharp, no glassiness, no delay as they dart away, then back again.
Her chest rises and falls with her quick, shallow breaths, making her look like she’s been running, even though she hasn’t taken a step.
Instinct pulls me forward, my hand lifting toward her wound. She jerks back, wood sliding between us like a shield, and I stop cold midway across the hall.
I let the distance hold. My fingers curl once, then flatten against the sides of my thighs.
“We need to change your bandages,” I say, nodding at the gauze.
Her grip on the lamp tightens. The gap doesn’t widen.
I hate the tremor in her arms. Hate the way she braces like she’s waiting for me to break her down. I stay where I am and let her watch me. Let her see I’m not coming through that gap unless she asks.
“I’ll do it myself.” Her voice is tight, chin tipped like she’s daring me to argue.
Every part of me wants to. Her wound is almost uncovered where the bandage has rolled down. It should’ve been changed hours ago, but if I push, she’ll slam the door in my face.
My jaw locks, and I force the words out slowly. “I’ll call the family doctor.”
Something flickers across her face. Relief, quick as a breath, before she catches it and sets her mouth hard again.
She starts to shut me out.
“You need to eat.” My voice cuts before the latch can click.
Her knuckles tighten. “You can’t make me go out there.”
I could. We both know I could. I could carry her to the table and sit her down, and she wouldn’t move until I let her. My fingers flex with the thought.
Instead, I pull back. “I’ll have the housekeeper bring something up.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t trust the concession. She hesitates, gives the smallest nod, then shuts the door.
The latch clicks. Silence again.
I drag a hand down my face, tug at my hair until the sting cuts through the urge to force my way in. She’s right to be afraid of me. I’ve earned that fear a hundred times over.
I’ve killed more men than I can count. Put bullets in their skulls, knives in their guts. I’ve never pretended to be a good man. And now I’ve dragged her straight into it. Drugged her. Inked my name into her skin. Locked her inside my walls.
Regret chews at me, but not enough to undo it. Not enough to let her go.
I should’ve stayed away. Watched her from a distance. Kept her safe without her ever knowing. But the second someone laid a hand on her, that thought burned to ash.
She’s in my world now and under my protection. Even if the one she fears most is me.
My eyes stay fixed on where she disappeared, every part of me wanting to push it open. Instead, I pull out my phone and text the doctor.