24. Trip
TWENTY-FOUR
TRIP
S he fell asleep in my lap.
Tangled in a blanket. Face tucked against my chest.
Fingers still curled into the fabric of my shirt like she was afraid I’d vanish if she let go.
I didn’t move.
Not for hours.
I hoped that bringing the mask back out would help, make her see that she’s safe with me. Maybe it did? But it didn’t feel like it in that moment. It felt like she shattered again. And I won’t be able to forgive myself for that.
Her breath is soft, warm against my neck. Her body, small, vulnerable, molded into mine like she belongs there.
Because she does .
My arms stay locked around her, keeping her pressed to me. But I don’t sleep.
Can’t.
Not yet.
Because the danger isn’t gone. Patrick is still out there.
And I know, know he isn’t done.
This isn’t a man who gives up.
Patrick doesn’t take rejection lightly. He doesn’t walk away when something he thinks belongs to him slips through his fingers.
No.
Patrick is the kind of man who takes. Even if it means destroying everything in the process.
And Lydia was the prize he wanted back.
Over my fucking dead body.
I stare at the ceiling, heart pounding slow and steady, adrenaline still humming in my veins.
Every muscle in my body is tight, coiled, ready to spring the second something shifts.
My senses are razor-sharp.
I can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. The distant hum of the fridge. The soft rustle of the blanket as Lydia shifts in her sleep, nuzzling deeper into me.
Mine.
The word echoes through my mind, low and primal. She’s mine now. Every inch of her.
Her body wears my marks. Her skin carries the faint sting of my blade, a reminder she’s given herself to me completely.
But that isn’t enough. Patrick doesn’t care about marks. He doesn’t care about boundaries.
And that’s what keeps me awake.
I trace my fingers lightly down her spine, barely skimming the fabric of the blanket.
Her body relaxes under my touch, but even in sleep… I feel the tension still lingering.
The way she curls in on herself.
The way her breath hitches every now and then, like her body remembers the fear even if her mind has shut down for the night.
That is his fault.
Patrick did that to her. And I’mgoing to make him fucking pay . My jaw clenches as I tilt my head back, closing my eyes.
I can see it.
Patrick standing at her door. A smug fucking smirk plastered across his face. Lydia’s body trembling, but not with pleasure.
With fear.
Her eyes wide. Lips trembling. Patrick’s hand on her throat. My vision goes red.
My fists clench so tightly that my knuckles crack.
No. Not again.
I have to be ready. The cameras are set. The motion detectors work. But none of that matters.
Because men like Patrick? They don’t knock.
They slither in through cracks. They wait until you blink.
And if he’s desperate enough to come after her now?
He isn’t coming alone.
That thought hits me like a fucking bullet.
Patrick isn’t a lone wolf. He’s a manipulator. A narcissist who always has someone else willing to get their hands dirty for him.
If he can’t take me out alone…
He’d bring someone who can. Who?
Men I’ve trained with. Men I’ve fought beside. Men who’ve crossed the line so many times they don’t know how to come back.
I know the type. Because I used to be one of them. I suck in a breath, jaw tightening as I stare at the darkness.
Patrick isn’t smart enough to take me out himself. But if he has money, and he does, he can buy someone who is. And when, not if, he calls one of them?
Fuck.
There are a dozen names that come to mind. Men I haven’t thought about in years. Ghosts from my past who’ve traded their souls for money and blood.
I know how they work.
They don’t ask questions. They don’t hesitate. They don’t stop until the job is finished. And if one of them is coming for me now… They won’t just take me out. They’ll take Lydia too.
No. Not a fucking chance.
I need names. And I need them now. My mind shifts gears. This isn’t about defense anymore.
This is war .
I shift carefully, sliding out from under Lydia without waking her. Her body stirs, a soft sigh escaping her lips as her fingers flex like she’s searching for me.
“I’m here, killstreak,” I whisper, brushing my lips against her forehead.
She settles, body going limp again. But I don’t. I move through her house like a shadow.
Silent. Controlled. The air feels heavier. Like it’s holding its breath. I check the doors. Locked. Windows. Secure.
But none of it matters. Because I feel it. The ghost of Patrick’s presence still lingers in the air. I grab my phone, jaw clenched, heart pounding harder now.
This isn’t paranoia. This is instinct. I open a secure line and send out a message. Not to friends.
I don’t have those.
I have contacts.
Men who owe me.
Men who fear me.
I need intel. Names. Because if Patrick has reached out to one of them …
I’m ending this before they ever get close.
I stare down at my phone, waiting. Seconds stretch into eternity. My heart pounds like a fucking war drum.
Then…
Message received.
I open it.
One name.
My blood goes cold.
Fucking hell.
I know the name.
Zane Matthews.
Ex-special forces. Trained in close-quarters combat and black ops. A fucking ghost who could disappear in plain sight.
And worse? He owes me.
I saved his life.
But Zane isn’t the kind of man who stays loyal. He’s the kind of man who follows the highest bidder.
And if Patrick bought him– we’re fucked.
A growl rumbles low in my chest as I grip the phone tighter.
No.
I’m not waiting for this to come to me. I’m not giving Patrick or Zane the advantage.
This isn’t defense anymore. This is hunt and destroy. I look back at Lydia sleeping.
Her face is peaceful now. No fear. No nightmares.
But I know I know. If I don’t stop this now , she won’t be safe. She won’t be able to have her daughter back here without constantly looking over her shoulder.
Not ever. And that isn’t an option.
I bend down, brushing a kiss against her forehead one more time.
“Sleep, killstreak,” I murmur. “I’ve got this.”
Her body relaxes at my words, trusting me even in sleep.
Mine. Forever.
I stand up, my mind going dark. The predator inside me stirs. And this time, I don’t hold it back.
“Let’s play, motherfucker.”
Patrick isn’t ready. But I am. And this time, I won’t stop until he’s in the fucking ground.