Chapter Eighty-One
Georgia
I glanced from the attorney who looked like Superman to the man who just looked like a superhero. The giant inked script across Blade’s chest that I’d seen for the first time just seconds ago when he’d stripped off his shirt and put it on me struck me all over again.
I didn’t want to go over anything with an attorney.
I wanted to drown in Blade’s woodsy, masculine scent and trace the letters on his chest.
Superman sat and smiled gently. “May I call you Georgia?”
No, it sounded weird. “You can call me whatever you want.”
“ Fucking Christ ,” Blade muttered.
Superman glanced at him. “Give us a minute?”
Blade didn’t budge. “No.”
Superman showed he had balls of steel. “Attorney to client, I need a minute alone with her. Step outside, Blade.”
Blade didn’t step outside. He didn’t even move. Arms crossed, he glared at the man he’d called for help—or legal advice—to dig me out of the mess I’d created. Or he created. Whatever. It was a colossal mess, and I didn’t want to deal with it. I didn’t even want to think about it. Not ever again. Never, ever, ever again . I just wanted a shower. And a new life. And for Blade to never, ever go to prison.
“That wasn’t a request,” Superman warned Blade.
“Don’t fucking care. You want to speak to her, I stay.”
I exhaled a tight breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and Blade instantly glanced down at me as if he’d heard. I barely refrained from reaching for him. I wanted to hold on to him so badly and make sure he didn’t leave me alone, but he definitely didn’t seem like the type of man who’d appreciate me grabbing him or holding his hand, like, ever, so I didn’t move.
He looked back at the attorney like he was out of patience.
Superman didn’t let it go. “You brought me in to handle the legalities of this situation. In order to do that, I need information from her, but she’s not comfortable speaking in front of you.”
“She speaks fucking fine in front of me.” Blade’s merciless gaze landed on me again. “Answer his questions if you want. If not, I’ll handle it.”
“You’re an attorney too?” I was joking, almost. He could do everything else, why not this? He already took the law into his own hands.
“No.” He looked back at Superman. “Lose the familiarity. Ask your questions.”
Without comment or any change in his expression, the Superman lookalike attorney reached into his messenger bag and took out a folder and a pad of yellow paper. “I looked up the property records for your house, Miss Lyons.” He opened the folder. “Did you know the deed had been transferred to your husband three years ago? Is that when you vacated the property under duress?”
I cringed. Like every organ had been sucked into nothingness from the inside cringed . “I don’t have a husband.” Not anymore.
“Legally, you—”
“He’s dead,” Blade clipped.
In that moment, I couldn’t look at Blade. I couldn’t think about what he’d had to do because of me. I also couldn’t stop thinking about how it felt to be pressed up against his skin and see all his tattoos, and the pit in my stomach when I saw the giant Valhalla inked across his chest.
That, of all things, was what had finally made Blade real to me.
Not normal real, but SEAL real.
I was insignificant. He was a warrior.
And I’d made him kill for me.
Superman shared a look with my Valhalla warrior. “Is there going to be a death certificate?”
“No.”
“Police report?”
Instead of answering Superman’s question, Blade pulled out his cell and dialed. A moment later, his gaze cut across the hotel suite. “Sweep team sitrep.” He listened for a few seconds. “Anything on police scanners?” He looked toward the open door to the adjacent suite. “When? Copy.” He glanced at his watch. “We need those clothes. Yeah.” He looked at me. “Use surveillance footage.” He hung up and glanced at Superman. “Sweep team’s in place. Exfil’s happening after dark. No noise on any channels. Handle it as a missing persons and expedite what you can.”
“Copy.” Superman looked at me. “Miss Lyons, is there anything else that you are aware of that was in your grandfather’s estate besides the house, his retirement account, and his vehicles?”
“My grandfather’s Corvette is still there?” I hadn’t looked past Grandpa’s old F150 in the driveway to check the garage. Not that I’d had time to, but even if I had, I would’ve skipped looking for the Stingray because I’d assumed Henry had sold it by now. Or totaled it.
Superman glanced at Blade.
“Hold.” Blade started texting as a knock sounded on the door.
Fear shot through my nerves. “Who is that?”
“Delivery. Clothes,” Blade clipped before shoving his phone into his pocket, drawing his gun, and heading to the door.
Weapon aimed, he cracked it and glanced into the hall.
Then he holstered his gun, opened the door, and grabbed three large shopping bags before kicking the door shut. Striding to the dining area of the large suite, he dumped the bags’ contents onto the table and began riffling through everything.
Superman showed me a legal-looking document. “While Blade’s handling that, is this your signature?” He pointed to the bottom of a page.
I glanced down.
Superman’s hand was big, like Blade’s hand was big. And Superman sort of looked like he was the same kind of man as Blade. Except his wavy black hair that was a little longer on top and combed to one side looked more attorney than warrior. And his button-down shirt was perfectly pressed. And okay, he was in suit pants instead of cargo pants, and his giant dress shoes were polished, and his cologne was subtle. But his sleeves were rolled halfway up, thick veins bisected his hands and roped up his forearms, and he had calluses on his fingers in the same places where Blade had calluses.
“Are you a SEAL?”
His smile was slight, polite, and all warning. “I was in the military. The signature?”
I glanced at Blade. He’d already made two neat piles, one larger, one smaller, each with a new pair of boots next to them. His were black and huge and combat style. Mine were brand new pink Uggs.
I looked back at the almost-illegible handwriting at the bottom of the document the attorney was holding. “That’s not my signature.” It was Henry’s, and I made a silent vow. That was the last time I would ever think about how much I’d let Henry Ashland fuck me over.
Blade pulled his cell out of his pocket and glanced at the screen before striding toward me and holding the cell up for me to see. “This the Vette?”
There she was—dusty but unmistakable. A 1973 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray Convertible in Elkhart Green with a Medium Saddle interior. The car I’d learned to drive in after spending countless hours helping my grandfather overhaul the engine. Working on that car was the only time a parent figure had ever spent any time with me. Or I with him. Whatever. He’d effectively been a captive audience when he was in the garage and I’d hung out.
I nodded. “That’s the Vette.”
“Handle it,” Blade instructed the attorney.
“Noted.” Superman wrote something on his pad of paper. “Almost finished. Just a few more questions, Miss Lyons.” He set his pen down, clasped his hands, and gave me a steeled look that rivaled Blade’s. “Are you aware that there were multiple DNA samples taken when you were admitted to the hospital seven years ago?”
It was instant.
My mind, my body, the moving air in my lungs—they all shut down.
I didn’t think about that night. Ever.
From someplace far away, I watched a Superman lookalike nod, then his mouth moved. “First-degree criminal sexual conduct has no statute of limitations. Would you like to file charges?”
The muffled words slanted sideways and came with an exaggerated slowness that sounded like they were being pushed through a pillow wrapped in a blanket.
The Valhalla warrior’s face twisted with anger, and his mouth moved.
The Superman lookalike stood.
An invisible rope was suddenly pulling my body toward the floor.
Tattooed arms came out of nowhere, barked commands followed, and pins and needles spread across my head and neck.
Then my body was airborne.