18. Sterling
18
STERLING
S eeing the softer side of Sloane digs into the hollow of my chest. She’s strong, and seeing her break, even just a little, makes me ten kinds of angry. I do what I can to keep her from seeing it, but that deep sorrow in her eyes when she finally lets her walls down has my heat spiking and my hands clenching.
The need to protect her billows through me like a wildfire, complicating my already conflicting thoughts, instincts, the gut feeling that after this is over, I’ll have to walk away, and I won’t want to.
But I look at her in those oversized night clothes and remember how young she is.
Closing her door after she crawls into bed with her daughter, I fold the towel in my hands—the one I untangled from her hair—and hang it up in the bathroom before I settle back on the couch. The small warmth from her body is still present in the cushions.
And I do my best not to think about the way she felt in my arms. How natural it was to lay a kiss on the top of her head. How much I want to still be holding onto her.
It’s been so long since I wanted something like that for longer than a passing fancy.
Which means I can’t let myself indulge in Sloane. Not if it will hurt her in the long run.
Fuck, I could use a drink.
I’ve already made my plan, and now all that’s left to do is wait. It’s not something I’m particularly good at without something to work on, something to keep my hands busy. Especially with what I want my hands to be busy with.
Which leaves me in the cycle of thinking about the woman in the other room, asleep and wrapped around her sweet little girl, and chiding myself for thinking of her. For the sexual fantasies, of what her skin would feel like under my callused palms, under my mouth, but also for the smaller thoughts that reach way deeper.
The ones of holding her against me with an old movie playing on the TV, of tucking her between me and the counter as we cook, of simply coming home to her after a long day and being greeted with her smile and a small kiss. The all-consuming hug given by tiny arms.
All of the things I miss about having a family.
I’m pulled out of the cyclone of wishing and reality when Shepard and Hastings check in. They weren’t able to find a safe house close to the base, and the others weren’t a good fit, so they’re securing my place.
It’s not the first time we’ve kept someone safe at my house.
Shepard will keep it under surveillance tonight, and Hastings will acquire the necessities to house the two young women that I don’t traditionally keep. It’s not furnished with much, but by the way Sloane and Reese are living right now, they won’t need much to make it livable for them.
A new set of sheets for the small bed upstairs. Maybe a few new stuffed animals, books, and art supplies will set Reese up nicely.
But what does Sloane need? Other than to stand on her own two feet.
It’s obvious she’s unwilling to give up her independence. How much will she balk at our moving them into my house?
The same thoughts tear through me again.
What will it be like to have her sleep in my bed? Or will she crowd in with Reese like she thinks she needs to?
I give in, letting the thoughts and daydreams take me as the hours pass by.
In the morning, when I first hear them stirring, I prop myself in the kitchen to make some scrambled eggs and toast since not much else is available.
Today, I’ve decided that I want the story about why she’s living like this, why she has so little, and why everything connected to her is brand-new. Everything but her car, which has someone else’s name on it. An Alistair Fitzwilliam. Her ex. Or that’s what I assume based on the information Shepard and Hastings have relayed to me.
That’s my starting point.
What I’ve learned about him so far—simply based on the way she reacts to us—is not good.
I just need to hear the specifics from her. I don’t like leaping to conclusions. Even when I do, my gut can only tell me so much.
Sloane is sleepy-eyed when she stumbles out of the bathroom. Her hair is a wild cascade of waves that beg for my hands to rifle through them.
I steer her toward the table and set a plate in front of her with a fork and do the same when Reese bounces into the room. I smile as Reese sits down, and Reese smiles back.
“You didn’t have to make breakfast.” The soft huskiness of Sloane’s voice rumbles with traces of sleep.
I shrug. “Wasn’t any trouble.”
Yet, Sloane doesn’t stop watching me.
“Do I have egg on my face?” I bite back a grin as that jars her stare free for a moment.
“No. Just trying to figure you out.” She takes a bite of eggs and sighs.
I’m sure hers are better. She acts like no one’s ever made her breakfast before.
Maybe no one has.
I bend to speak softly in her ear, teasing her. “Welcome to the club.”
That finally garners me a smile, and it lights me up inside.
I clean up as Sloane gets Reese ready for school. The morning breezes by, and I’m ushering them to my car in no time. When Sloane doesn’t fight me, I take it as a good sign that she’s beginning to trust me.
I hope she does. Even though it’s hard won from her. Even if it’s only to keep her physically safe. For now.
Reese needs no help getting out of my car when we arrive at her school, and she offers me a cheery wave before she jogs over to a kind-looking woman who leads her inside with the other kids.
Once we’re on the road to the base, it’s time to broach the subject I’m most curious about.
“Who’s Alistair?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her go rigid, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”
“That’s not necessarily true, and it’s not the only reason I’m asking.” It’s hard to keep the rigid authority out of my voice, but I do try.
Sloane stares out her window, shoulders tense, arms folding across her chest in a defensive posture.
I wait less than thirty seconds before I prod again. “He’s your ex.”
Supplying that start doesn’t make her budge.
“Do you want me to list all the things I found and give you my picture of what happened, or do you simply want to tell me?” Well, there went trying not to press my luck.
“I don’t want to talk about him.” She’s gone cold, stuffing the softer bits of her away again, that delicate thread of trust snapping.
“Are you answering the texts he’s sending you?” I will get some sort of answer from her, even if I have to pry it out of her the old-fashioned way. By being relentless.
Sloane turns to glare at me. “No.”
Good. “Are you reading them?”
She looks back out the window again. “Only in the preview. I haven’t opened any.”
No inflections. Flat voice. Watching her shut herself away infuriates me. I just want to reach across the seat and shake her, tug her into me until she finally lets it all break. Unless she can free herself from whatever guilt or fear that’s keeping her trapped like this.
All the signs of abuse, they’re written across her every move.
“You need a new phone.” Something else that’s not news to her. That has that man’s name on it. I’m surprised it’s still working. But then again, it’s his only connection to her currently. The only way he might find her again, convince her to come back to him.
Fury seethes between my breaths.
“And a new phone number.” My hands squeeze the steering wheel, taking the brunt of my frustration easily.
“I know. I haven’t been able to afford a new one.”
“I’ll get you one today.”
Steadying my breath, my heart rate, my anger, I let Sloane stew in the silence for another minute, but we don’t have a long drive. It makes me press again too soon.
“Did he hit you?” I should win some kind of award for how gentle I sound.
She squirms in her seat, still avoiding my gaze. “No.”
“Did he hurt you?” I press a little harder.
And her yes is almost silent.
He’d have had to for her to have been left with so little. With the methodical way she plans, all of her attention to detail. Her ex didn’t have to swing a fist to abuse her.
From the cursory look I had online, he’s around my age. A professor. The story fills itself in, and I am fuming at how it unfurls in my mind.
My knuckles are white where they grip the steering wheel. We pull up to the gate, show our IDs, and it’s only minutes until we park.
Sloane is out of the door fast, but she’s not speeding away. Which makes it easy to catch up to her. To block her path so that she has to look at me.
Fuck, the raw pain that flashes across her face is utterly heartbreaking. I barely refrain from reaching for her.
“You can’t protect me from him. You’re already five years too late.”
This time, she holds her ground again, staring up at me and daring me to contradict her.
She’s right. I can’t protect her from what’s already been done, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep him from doing it again. To her or to someone else.
It also doesn't mean I can’t devise a way of paying him back what he’s owed.
My every muscle screams to touch her, a simple palm to her cheek, a short hug… something. Because what I truly want more than delivering karmic justice is to erase the damage that man has caused the only way I know how.
By showing her how worthy she really is.
A car door slams shut somewhere behind her, jarring us from our stare down. I step to the side to allow her entrance to her office.
She’s halfway to her desk when her steps falter and she freezes. I nearly collide with her. One arm braces around her shoulders as I slide to a stop.
A plain cardboard box is waiting on her desk. No postage or markings other than her name written on top.