Chapter 4
I was hanging on by the barest thread.
My control was going to snap any second and Bridget hadn’t even told me about why she’d run. Just knowing she’d spent four days with a trucker named Troy was enough to send me over the edge. But it was her backpack sitting on a hotel bed that was inching me closer to losing my temper.
A backpack.
That was it, that was all she owned.
After everything she’d done, all that she’d given up, all of her worldly possessions fit into a small bag. And fuck me, I knew how that felt. I knew the sickening feeling of leaving everything behind.
Christ, was it hot in here or was I sweating from the exertion it took not to throw that fucking backpack out the door?
“You’re worrying me,” Bridget softly said.
With effort I tore my eyes off the bag and looked at Bridget sitting on the edge of the bed. Once again her hands were clasped in her lap, back straight, and more worry than there should’ve been blemished her beautiful face.
Thank fuck the marks around her neck Troy had mentioned had faded.
My appreciation was two-fold. Most importantly the fading meant she didn’t have to see the bruising when she looked in the mirror.
It also meant I didn’t see the worst of the damage.
The last thing I wanted was Bridget getting a glimpse of the man I’d become, the man I’d been fighting to lay to rest since I’d gotten back to the States.
“I told you and I meant it, you’re totally safe here. After you tell me what happened in Clarksville I’ll reassess and we’ll move to a safe house tomorrow if necessary.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried my clothes are going to catch fire from the death rays you’re shooting at my bag.”
It was a strain but I fought my eyes dropping back to her bag and instead kept them focused on Bridget. She looked uncomfortable, confused, and tired. None of which I could ease until I understood what had happened and how we were going to solve her problems.
“Are you ready to talk about what happened?”
The tired slid out of her gaze and she went on alert.
“Bridget, the sooner you tell—”
“I know,” she interrupted me. “I’m just…” she trailed off and frowned.
“You’re what?”
“I’m just over it. All of it. You know it’s almost been a year?”
I did know. When Z Corps had taken over her protection detail we’d received a brief from the Marshals that gave the bare minimum.
It had been Garrett who’d done a deep dive into Bridget’s background and the case history.
It was likely I knew more about her former employer, Raven, than she did and I was certain I knew more about the owner Mark Shillings.
Though the company was now defunct and Mark was sitting his ass in federal prison for treason among the other charges he’d been found guilty of thanks to Bridget.
I didn’t offer her any platitudes or insult her by telling her she’d done the right thing coming forward. I had firsthand knowledge the right thing didn’t mean dick when your whole life imploded as a result.
Instead I simply told her, “I know.”
“It’s never going to be over, is it?”
My stomach clenched at her whispered question.
Or was it a statement?
She was likely correct that it would never be over for her. She’d be watched for the rest of her life. Instead of lying to her I said, “Let’s focus on the here and now. Tell me what happened in Clarksville.”
With a deep inhale she began, “I got home from the grocery store and took the bags to the kitchen. I went back to double check I locked the front door.” She stopped and shook her head. “Spoiler alert, I didn’t. There was a man standing in my living room. He—”
“Did you recognize him?”
Bridget shook her head again. “No.”
“Do you remember what he looks like?”
“Honestly, he looked like Roger Federer.”
“Who?”
“The tennis player,” she told me slowly like I was dim.
“I don’t watch tennis.”
Bridget’s head tilted to the side and her brows pulled up.
“You don’t watch tennis?”
She looked absolutely scandalized with her head tilted to the side and her brows pulled up. She also looked cute as fuck—which wasn’t helping my focus.
I refrained from explaining that for the last ten years I’d been dead, at least on paper. And during those years I’d been overseas hunting. What little downtime I had was not spent watching tennis.
“Nope.”
“Seriously? He won Wimbledon eight times—”
“Babe, I hate to cut you off, but I don’t know who he is.”
“Right,” she muttered. “Sorry.”
Christ, even her pout was cute.
“No need to be sorry. Just give me the basics.”
Bridget shifted on the bed, finally scooting back until just her feet were dangling off the edge.
One bed.
One bed and two uncomfortable hotel chairs. It was going to be a long, painful night.
“Brown hair, a little long on top. Brown eyes. Athletic build. Not overly tall, but tall. Strong jaw. He had on a pair of jeans, loafers, and a light blue polo shirt.”
“Loafers?”
“Yep. Brown suede with those tassels in the front. And they had white stitching around the toe.”
That was an interesting observation. Not particularly useful, but interesting, nonetheless.
“Any tattoos? Scars?”
“No.”
Now for the hard part.
“Okay, so he was in your living room. Then what happened?”
“He pounced. I didn’t have a chance to run before he had his hand around my arm. The first thing he did was slap me. I struggled but he was too strong. I couldn’t get away.” She paused, blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “He had spicy breath.”
How in the hell was breath spicy?
“Spicy?”
“Yeah, like he was chewing cinnamon gum. I was screaming my head off and he leaned close and shouted at me to shut up. His breath was spicy. And he kept asking me what I saw.”
Fucking hell .
Not that I ever thought Bridget’s attack was random but her assailant asking what she saw was the confirmation I needed to put that far-fetched theory to bed.
She went on to explain the man had repeatedly asked her what she’d seen while shaking her. That was until he’d gotten her on the floor. Then he’d wrapped his motherfucking hands around her throat and strangled her until her neighbor had come in.
Throughout her retelling of the story I stood, forcing myself not to pace.
I kept my gaze steady on Bridget. There was no emotion in her voice and I wondered if at any time in the last four days she’d processed the attack.
From the look of her, I had to guess no.
She was still in survival mode. A tactic I was all too familiar with.
“Bridget,” I started softly.
I watched as the rigidity crept up her spine until her back was straight and her shoulders tense.
“Please don’t,” she begged. “Whatever you’re going to say next, I’m not ready to hear it.”
She was likely correct but she needed to talk about what had happened to her.
“It’s more about you needing to get that fear and poison out—”
“I’m not ready for that, either,” she swiftly interjected.
My phone’s ringing stopped me from pushing, which was probably for the best. However, I didn’t welcome the interruption.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my cell, and saw Easton’s name.
Fuck .
My time was up.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“Where are you?”
I lifted my eyes to Bridget and said, “Something came up and I had to leave.”
“I can’t believe you bailed.” Easton chuckled. “No one was going to make you dance.”
He was right about that, though I didn’t have to get into a ballbusting session with my teammate so I cut to the point.
“Listen, Three, I’ll call you in the morning.”
He was silent for a beat. Then I knew he understood the situation when Easton went from teasing to all business.
“Do you need backup?”
The correct answer would’ve been yes, but I wasn’t ready to bring my team in yet. The moment I mentioned Bridget’s name, Zane and the rest of the guys would descend. If tonight was the only night I’d have Bridget all to myself, I was taking it. Tomorrow I’d call in my location but tonight was mine.
“I’m good.”
“Right,” Easton clipped. “We don’t go at it alone, Two .”
Funny, we’d been going at it alone for a decade. But Easton was right—now that we worked for Z Corps the rules had changed. Zane sent his men out as a team.
“I’ll call in the morning.”
“Is it your brother?” he asked.
Thankfully, for once it was not my brother causing issues.
“No. It’s all good. I’ll call you in the morning and brief the team but I need you to keep this to yourself until then.”
Easton blew out a frustrated breath.
“Only if you promise me you’re not in danger.”
“I’m not.”
Bridget was, but still I wanted one night without my team.
“I’ll wait for your call.”
Easton disconnected and as I was pulling my phone away from my ear Bridget asked, “Are you going to get into trouble?”
Get into trouble? No.
Was I in trouble? Yes.
That was, if the definition of trouble was in over my head with a woman who was just as much off-limits now as she was when I first met her.
I watched Bridget shift again. None of the tension had left her body and I thought back to the months I’d been guarding her.
At no time had she been stiff and anxious like she was right then.
She’d been rightfully irritated her life had been upended, annoyed that she had to move to a new location every time she was taken in for deposition.
But at no point did she look truly scared.
Now she looked like she was ready to come out of her skin.
I’d already told her more than once she’d be safe with me. I reckoned telling her again wouldn’t do any good so I tried a different approach.
“Tomorrow, I’ll call the team in and get you settled in a safe house. But tonight—”
“I know I’m safe with you, Theo,” she cut me off.
Christ, that felt good.
“Then why are you sitting so stiff you’re giving yourself a backache?”
It took her a moment to understand my insinuation but when it dawned she relaxed.
“I’m just…”
I knew what she was—scared out of her mind.
And the fuck of it was, she had good reason.
“Scared,” I supplied.