Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Woodrow
Priscilla watches from the doorway of the bedroom, her arms wrapped around herself, those big hazel eyes wide with fear. Not for herself. For me. The realization still throws me, that she cares this much. That she loves me, despite everything—or maybe because of everything.
"Are you sure about this?" she asks, voice small but steady. "There has to be another way. We could go to the police, or—"
"No police," I cut her off, softer than I would have a week ago. "These aren't the kind of men who fear badges and courtrooms. This ends tonight, the only way it can."
She crosses to me, her small hands coming to rest on my tactical vest. Such a contrast—her softness against the hard Kevlar designed to stop bullets. To keep me alive. To bring me back to her.
"Promise me you'll be careful," she pleads, looking up at me with those eyes I'd kill or die for. "Promise me you'll come back."
I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "Nothing could keep me from coming back to you, little girl. Nothing."
I kiss her then, pouring everything I can't say into it. How she's become the center of my world in a matter of days. How I'd tear apart anyone who tried to take her from me. How I never knew I could feel this way about another human being until she crashed into my life.
When I pull back, her eyes are damp but determined. "What do you need me to do?"
That's my girl. No more arguments. Just ready to play her part.
"Stay in the panic room," I tell her, nodding toward the reinforced door hidden behind the bookcase in my office.
I showed it to her earlier, made her memorize the code.
"No matter what you hear, no matter how long it takes, you stay in there until I come get you.
The door will only open to my fingerprint or the code. You'll be safe."
She nods, swallowing hard. "And if you don't come back?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications neither of us wants to face.
"I'm coming back," I say firmly. "But if something happens…there's a burner phone in the supplies. One number programmed in it. Jensen. He'll get you somewhere safe."
Her fingers dig into my vest, clinging. "I don't want safe. I want you."
Christ, she undoes me with the simplest words.
"You have me," I promise. "Always."
I check my watch. Almost time. Based on the intel I've gathered, Donovan is meeting his new hired guns at the warehouse right now.
But he's smart—he'll have a backup plan.
And that plan almost certainly involves sending men here, to the cabin, to grab Priscilla while he thinks I'm occupied elsewhere.
Little does he know, that's exactly what I'm counting on.
"Time to go," I tell her, gently disengaging her hands from my vest. "To the panic room. Now."
She rises on tiptoe to press one more desperate kiss to my lips before turning and heading for the office. I watch her go, memorizing the sway of her hips, the fall of her dark hair, the determined set of her shoulders. My woman. My future. My reason for coming back alive tonight.
Once she's secured in the panic room, I make my final preparations. Motion sensors positioned strategically around the property. Trip wires that will alert me to any approach. Lights set to automatic timers to make it look like we're both here, going about our evening as usual.
Then I slip out the back, into the gathering darkness, becoming one with the shadows. I don't go far—just into the trees surrounding the clearing where my cabin sits. Close enough to monitor, far enough to remain undetected. And I wait.
They arrive two hours later. Two black SUVs, headlights off as they creep up my long driveway. Amateur. I can see the heat signatures of their engines from half a mile away with my thermal scope.
Six men. More than I expected. Donovan must really want Priscilla to pull this kind of manpower away from his main operation.
Too bad none of them are leaving my property alive.
They split up—four approaching the front door, two circling around back. Standard breach formation. They're professionals, but they're not special forces. Not like me.
I take out the two at the back first, silent and efficient.
One knife throw to the base of the skull for the first one.
The second doesn't even have time to register his partner dropping before my arm is around his throat, cutting off blood flow to his brain.
Unconscious in seconds, dead in minutes. I lower him soundlessly to the ground.
The four at the front are trickier. They've stacked up on either side of the door, ready to breach. I could take them out one by one from my position in the trees, but that would alert the others. Better to let them enter, separate, make themselves vulnerable.
They breach with surprising coordination—flash-bang through the window, followed by a synchronized entry. Professional. Organized. Dead men walking.
I give them thirty seconds to spread out inside, searching for Priscilla. Then I enter through the back door, into my territory. My hunting ground.
What follows isn't pretty. It's not a fair fight—was never meant to be.
I'm a ghost, a shadow, death incarnate moving through my own home.
The first man goes down with my knife between his ribs before he even registers my presence.
The second turns at the sound of his partner's dying gurgle, only to catch two silenced rounds to the center mass.
The third is quicker, managing to get off a shot that grazes my arm before I'm on him, driving my combat knife up under his jaw and into his brain. Quick. Clean. Final.
The fourth—the leader, judging by his equipment—is smarter than the others. He's taken cover behind my overturned dining table, radio in hand, calling for backup that will never come.
"They're all dead," I tell him, my voice cold as the grave. "Just like you're about to be."
"Walker," he snarls, recognition in his voice. "Donovan said you might be a problem."
"I'm not a problem," I correct him, moving like a wraith through my own shadows. "I'm a fucking catastrophe."
He fires blindly in my direction, rounds splintering wood where I was standing a second ago. But I'm already moving, already flanking him. One moment he's alone, the next I'm behind him, my knife at his throat.
"Who sent you?" I demand, though I already know the answer. "Donovan?"
He swallows, the movement making the blade nick his skin. "Just following orders, man. Nothing personal."
"It became personal the moment you came for what's mine." I press the blade harder, drawing a thin line of blood. "Where is Donovan now?"
"Warehouse on Elgin," he gasps, self-preservation winning out over loyalty. "Meeting the new crew. Planning the grab for tomorrow night."
"There won't be a tomorrow night for Donovan," I promise him. "Or for you."
His death is quick—quicker than he deserves for coming after my Priscilla. But I'm efficient, not cruel. At least, not when I have more important targets to eliminate.
The cabin is silent again, save for the drip of blood on hardwood. Six bodies. Six problems eliminated. But not the source. Not Donovan.
I check for any survivors—there are none—before heading to the office. My fingerprint on the scanner, the heavy door to the panic room slides open, revealing Priscilla huddled in the corner, eyes wide with fear that immediately transforms to relief when she sees me.
"Woodrow!" She launches herself at me, nearly knocking me back with the force of her embrace. "Oh my God, are you okay? I heard gunshots—"
"I'm fine," I assure her, wrapping my arms around her trembling form. "Just a graze." I don't mention the blood soaking my sleeve—not all of it mine. Don't mention the six cooling bodies in our living room. She doesn't need those images in her head.
She pulls back, her hands frantically checking me for injuries, finding the graze on my arm with unerring accuracy. "You're bleeding!"
"Barely." I capture her hands, bringing them to my lips. "Nothing that won't heal. The important thing is you're safe."
"Did you...?" She doesn't finish the question, doesn't need to.
"Yes." No point sugar-coating it. "They came to take you. I stopped them."
She swallows hard, processing what that means. What I've done in her name. Then, surprising me yet again, she rises on tiptoe to kiss me fiercely. "Thank you," she whispers against my lips. "For protecting me. For coming back."
Something primal and possessive surges through me at her words, at her acceptance of the violence I've committed to keep her safe. Before I can stop myself, I'm backing her against the wall of the panic room, my hands already pushing up the hem of her dress.
"Need you," I growl, all finesse gone, replaced by raw animal need. "Need to feel you. To know you're safe."
"Yes," she gasps, already working at my belt, at the zipper of my tactical pants. "Please, Woodrow. Need you too."
I lift her easily, her back against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist. In one smooth thrust, I'm buried inside her, her tight heat enveloping me, grounding me back in the present, in what matters. She's safe. She's mine. Nothing else matters.
"Feel me deep inside, little girl?" I grunt, setting a brutal pace, claiming her with every thrust. "That's where my baby goes. Going to fill you up, breed you right here to prove you're mine."
"Yes," she moans, her head falling back against the wall, exposing the long line of her throat, the mark I left there days ago. "Yours, Woodrow. Always yours."
The adrenaline of combat, the relief of finding her safe, the primal need to claim what's mine—it all combines into a perfect storm of lust and possession. I fuck her hard against the wall, my hands leaving bruises on her perfect thighs, my mouth leaving fresh marks on her neck.
"No one takes you from me," I growl against her skin. “I can’t lose you, baby. Can’t ever lose you.”
"Please," she begs, her nails digging into my shoulders through my vest. "Fill me up, Daddy. Make me yours."
The endearment pushes me over the edge. I slam into her one final time, grinding against her as I come, flooding her womb with my seed, marking her from the inside out.
She follows me over the edge, her inner walls clamping down on my cock, milking every last drop as she shudders through her own release.
For long moments afterward, we stay joined, panting, her legs still locked around my waist, my forehead pressed to hers.
“It’s over now?” she asks softly.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, baby. It’s over. You’re safe.”
And I’ll make damn sure she’s always safe. With me.