37. Maeve
Maeve
It's almost midnight by the time Keaton finally gets everyone out of the house.
Gets might be too generous a word for what actually happened.
It took another hour of arguing, two separate conversations happening over each other, and Rachel insisting that no one was leaving until I had everything I needed for the night.
I still wasn't entirely sure what had just happened.
Less than six hours ago, I'd been standing in the garage wondering which version of my husband was the real one.
Now I was apparently hiding in a safe house belonging to a man named Bullet, holding a red phone he'd pulled out of a kitchen drawer filled with what appeared to be an alarming number of untraceable cell phones.
I'd stopped asking questions around the third phone.
Rachel had been standing beside me when she'd mentioned calling in the morning.
"I'll check in when you wake up," she'd said, squeezing my hand gently. "And I'll bring you some necessities. Whatever you need."
My stomach had tightened. "I don't have my phone."
Rachel's expression had changed immediately. "You don't?"
The truth had climbed into my throat. Ronan took it.
He wouldn't give it back. He took every way I had to communicate with anyone outside the house.
But there had already been too much truth tonight.
Too many people looking at me with concern in their eyes, and I couldn't bear to add one more thing to the growing list of ways my marriage sounded worse when I said them aloud.
"I forgot it," I'd said instead. "When we ran."
I'd felt Keaton's eyes on me from across the room. He knew I was lying. But he'd said nothing.
Bullet, however, had stood without a word and walked into the kitchen. I'd watched him pull open a drawer.
Then I'd blinked. "Are those all phones?"
He'd ignored the question, sorting through several of them before selecting a red one and walking back to me. "This one's yours."
I'd stared down at it. "Mine?"
"Everyone's number is already in it."
"Everyone?"
"Unfortunately," he'd muttered.
From the kitchen, Wheels had yelled, "I'm his favorite."
Bullet hadn't even looked in his direction. "I'd rather chew glass."
Then he'd looked back at me and tapped the phone with one finger. "It's secure. No one can track it."
No one. The words had settled strangely inside me. I hadn't realized how much fear I'd attached to a phone until someone handed me one Ronan couldn't use to find me.
Now the red phone sits on the nightstand beside me. I stare at it from the middle of the largest bed I've ever seen in my life. Then I stare at the bedroom door. Then back at the phone.
This is ridiculous.
I shift against the pillows and pull the blanket higher over my legs.
I'm safe. The cameras in the bedroom are unplugged. The curtains are closed. The door locks from the inside.
Keaton is twenty feet away. Maybe thirty. I don't know how big the house actually is.
The point is that he's close. Close enough. I glance toward the door again. Apparently, my brain disagrees.
With a sigh, I fall back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling.
The old band T-shirt I'm wearing is soft against my skin, the faded fabric worn thin from years of washing. The leggings are stretched at one knee, and I can't remember the last time I felt this comfortable.
I'd forgotten what it felt like to wear something simply because I liked it. Not because it was appropriate. Not because it matched the image Ronan wanted me to present. Not because someone had laid it out for me before an event.
I run my fingers over the faded lettering across my stomach.
Mine.
The word makes my chest ache. My shirt. My leggings. My choice. I turn onto my side. The bedroom is completely silent. Too silent. I close my eyes.
Immediately, my mind fills the space.
Ronan coming home. Walking out to the garage. A hand wrapping around my throat. A man appearing behind him. My own terror.
Then—French Vanilla. I open my eyes. My heart is beating faster. Not because of the memory of being grabbed. Because of what came after.
Taibhse. Keaton. Skee. I still have questions about that last one. Apparently, there are three different versions of the man sleeping on the couch, and I know none of them particularly well. Except that isn't entirely true. I know Taibhse.
I know the man who sends ridiculous messages and somehow always knows when I need a distraction.
I know the man who learned my coffee order.
Who played music when the house became too quiet.
Who got me to my parents when I needed them.
Who kept a box filled with pieces of me that someone else had tried to throw away.
I just don't know Keaton yet. And I definitely don't understand Skee.
My mouth curves slightly.
I close my eyes again. Thirty seconds later, they're open.
"Oh, for God's sake." I sit up. This is stupid. I'm an adult woman. I can sleep alone in a bedroom.
I stare down at my hands. Maybe that's the problem. I've felt alone for so long that now, when someone is finally close enough to reach, I don't want a wall between us.
That doesn't mean anything. It doesn't.
I'm in a strange house in an unknown location after what might be the most emotionally confusing day of my entire life. Of course I want to be near the one familiar thing I have.
Person. Keaton is a person. A strange one. But still. I feel safer when he's close. That's all.
The explanation settles neatly into place. I throw the blanket back.
The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I cross the room. I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob, suddenly feeling ridiculous.
What am I going to say?
Hello, mysterious man who removed me from my home without telling anyone. Would you mind sitting closer while I sleep?
No. Maybe I could get water. That's normal. People get water at midnight.
Then, if I happen to sit on the couch for a few minutes—I open the door. And nearly step on Keaton's face. A scream tears out of me as I jump backward.
Keaton comes off the floor so quickly that I barely see him move.
One second, he's lying on his back in the hallway.
The next, he's on his feet. "What's wrong?" His eyes sweep over me. "Are you hurt?"
"What?"
"Did something happen?"
"No."
His hands hover near my arms without actually touching me. His eyes move over my face, then my shoulders, down my arms and back again.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Did you hear something?"
"No."
"Nightmare?"
"No."
His shoulders lower approximately half an inch. I stare at him. Then I look at the floor. There's a pillow. A blanket. And, unless I'm hallucinating from exhaustion, a handgun sitting on the floor beside them.
I look back at Keaton. "What are you doing?"
He follows my gaze. "Sleeping."
"In the hallway?"
"Attempting to."
"Why?"
He stares at me as though the answer should be obvious. I wait. Keaton looks toward the living room.
Then back at me. "The couch was too far away."
I blink. "Too far away from what?"
"You." The answer comes without hesitation.
Something inside my chest trips over itself. "Oh."
Keaton glances at the floor again, then bends to pick up the pillow. "I tried the couch."
"You did?"
"Forty-seven minutes." Of course he knows exactly how long.
"And?"
"It wasn't working."
"The couch?"
"No. Me."
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Keaton picks up the blanket and folds it once before setting it against the wall.
"I couldn't sleep because I couldn't see the hallway from there."
I look past him toward the living room.
Then back at the place where he'd been lying. Directly outside my door.
"You've been sleeping on the floor because you wanted to see my door?"
"Technically, I haven't been sleeping."
"Keaton."
His eyes meet mine. "I know you're safe." The humor leaves his voice. "I checked the perimeter. Twice. Bullet's security system is irritatingly competent, and no one followed us."
"Okay..."
"But knowing those things wasn't enough."
My breath catches. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and for the first time since I met the man behind Taibhse, he looks uncomfortable.
Not nervous. Keaton doesn't seem like a man who gets nervous.
Just confused. As though he's trying to explain something to me he hasn't managed to understand himself.
"I feel better when I'm close to you." The words settle quietly between us. His brow furrows. "I don't know why yet."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
His eyes narrow. "I'm glad my psychological crisis is amusing."
"I'm sorry."
"You're smiling."
"I know."
"Which suggests you're not sorry."
"I'm a little sorry."
"Statistically insignificant."
I laugh again. And just like that, some of the tightness in my chest disappears.
Keaton watches me. Not the way Ronan did.
There is no silent demand for me to stop.
No look that makes me wonder if I've laughed too loudly or smiled at the wrong person.
He simply watches. Like the sound is something he wants to remember.
I look down at the pillow. Then back toward the giant bed behind me.
An idea begins forming. A terrible idea. My father would hate it. My mother would probably have questions. Rachel, based on the way she'd smiled at Keaton earlier, would understand immediately.
I push that thought away. I still don't like the way her eyes softened for him even though I saw the love she has for Matt.
"There's enough room in here."
Keaton goes completely still. "What?"
I gesture toward the bed. "It's huge."
"I noticed."
"You could sleep in here."
His expression empties. Not in a frightening way. In a way that makes me think every thought in his head just disappeared at once.
I suddenly become very interested in the hem of my shirt. "Or not. That's fine too. I just thought since you were sleeping on the floor, and apparently the living room is a dangerously excessive distance away..."
"I'll sleep on the floor."
I look up. "In here?"
"If that's okay."
The relief that moves through me should probably concern me. It doesn't. "Okay."
He nods once. "Okay."
Neither of us moves.
I glance down the hallway. "You need your pillow."
"Right."
"And the blanket."
"Yes."
Still, he doesn't move.
I smile. "Keaton?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
He blinks once. Then twice. "No." I laugh softly. His mouth twitches. "I've had a confusing twenty-four hours."
"You kidnapped someone."
"Extracted."
"That sounds like kidnapping with better marketing."
He considers it. "That's... not wrong, exactly."
I step back into the bedroom and leave the door open behind me. For the first time tonight, I don't feel afraid of the silence. Because a few seconds later, I hear Keaton pick up his pillow. And then I hear him follow me inside.