Chapter 25
Roman
I can’t tear my eyes away from Kayla’s face.
It’s been two years since I’ve been this close to her, close enough to count the freckles across her nose, to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, to watch the way her cute nose scrunches up when she’s angry.
And she is definitely angry. Her mouth is set in that familiar line that always meant trouble for me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she waits for an explanation I’m not sure how to give.
Every cell in my body screams to grab her, to pull her against my chest, to bury my face in her hair and breathe in the scent I’ve been dreaming about for two long years.
But I can see the fury radiating off her in waves, and I know touching her now would be like grabbing a live wire.
“Roman,” she says between gritted teeth. “I’m waiting. What the hell is going on? Why is there an unconscious man in my hallway, and why are you in my house?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. How do I even begin to explain?
Sorry, I’ve been watching you for two years to make sure my psychotic enemy doesn’t come after you again?
Yeah, that’ll go over well. To buy myself time, I search the unconscious man on the floor.
No ID. Nothing identifiable on his clothing.
I pull the mask off, but he isn’t anyone I recognize.
“It’s complicated,” I start, wincing at how pathetic that sounds.
“Complicated?” Her voice rises; the word sharp enough to cut glass.
I take a deep breath, but before I can launch into the explanation she deserves, I notice the masked man on the floor starting to stir. That’s not good. I need to deal with that first.
“Hold that thought,” I say, pulling out my phone. I need backup, and I need it now.
“Hold that—“ she cuts herself off, sputtering with indignation as I turn away slightly, already dialing Dragon.
“This better be good,” Dragon’s voice comes through, low and irritated. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“I need a cleanup team,” I say without preamble. “Kayla’s place. One package, alive but unconscious.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “She knows you’re there?”
“Yeah.” I glance at Kayla, who’s pacing now, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Came home early.”
Dragon sighs. “Fifteen minutes. Try not to make things worse until we get there.”
“No promises,” I mutter, ending the call.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, turning to face Kayla’s wrath head-on.
“Roman Sullivan, if you don’t tell me what’s going on right this second—“
“The cleanup team will be here in fifteen minutes,” I interrupt, moving toward the front window to keep watch.
I don’t see her coming. One moment I’m scanning the street outside, the next a sharp pain explodes in my shin. I jerk around to find Kayla standing there, hands on her hips, having just delivered what was clearly a well-aimed kick.
“What the—“
“Talk,” she demands. “Now.”
I rub my shin, surprised and oddly impressed by her directness. This isn’t the Kayla I married. This Kayla doesn’t back down, doesn’t wait patiently for me to decide what she should know. The realization sends a confusing mix of pride and regret through me.
“I’m not entirely sure who broke in,” I admit, deciding in that moment that she deserves the complete truth, no matter how messy or complicated. “We’ve been tracking some suspicious activity—“
“We?” she interrupts.
I nod. “Dragon—he’s the president of an MC called Drago’s Inferno. They’ve been helping me keep watch over you.”
“Keep watch over me?” Her voice drops dangerously low. “What exactly does that mean, Roman?”
I wince. Here goes nothing. “I’ve been guarding you for the past two years. Making sure you’re safe.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow again as understanding dawns. “You’ve been stalking me?”
“Not stalking,” I correct quickly. “Guarding. Protecting.”
“For two years,” she repeats flatly.
“Yes.”
“Two. Years.”
“Yes.”
“What gives you the right—“ she starts, but the rest of her sentence is cut off by the sound of vehicles pulling up outside.
I move quickly to the door, relieved by the interruption despite knowing it’s only a temporary reprieve. Gray and a couple of prospects step inside.
“Situation?” Gray asks, his eyes taking in the scene.
“Found him in the kitchen,” I say, nodding toward the intruder. “No ID. No colors. No obvious ties to any club I recognize.”
Gray crouches beside the man, who’s starting to groan, showing signs of regaining consciousness. He lifts one eyelid, then checks the man’s pockets again.
“We’ll find out who he is,” Gray says, standing. He gestures to the two prospects, who move in to grab the intruder’s arms and legs.
Kayla watches in stunned silence as they carry the man out the door, his head lolling. Gray follows them without another word, closing the door behind him. Through the window, I watch as they load the man into the trunk of the SUV and drive away.
When I turn back to Kayla, she’s staring at me like I’m a stranger.
“They’re going to hurt him, aren’t they?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe kill him?”
“They’re going to question him,” I correct. “Find out who sent him and why.”
“And then?”
I hold her gaze. “Depends on what he says.”
She closes her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. When she opens them again, there’s a new wariness there. “Who are you?”
The question hits me harder than her kick did. “You know who I am, Sunshine.”
“Do I?” She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t think I ever did.”
“Someone broke into your house tonight,” I say, my voice low and intense. “We suspect Demon sent him, but we don’t know for sure. We don’t know why you’re being targeted again. Maybe you can yell at me some more after I figure out who’s trying to hurt you.”
That seems to reach her. Some of the fire goes out of her eyes, replaced by a flicker of fear. “Why now? Why this again after two years?
“I wish I knew, Sunshine.”
“You’ve really been watching me?” she asks again, her voice softer now. “For two years?”
“I promised I’d never leave you alone in the dark again,” I say simply.
We stare at each other, the air thick with all the things we’ve left unsaid. I can almost see her sorting through her thoughts, deciding which emotion to land on. Anger wins.
“But you can’t do that. You can’t just stalk me for two years,” she says, her voice rising again.
I shrug, because what else can I do? “I will never stop protecting you.”
“Yeah, you were a great protector when Kit kidnapped me,” she fires back, the words aimed to hurt.
They find their target with deadly accuracy. The guilt that’s been my constant companion for the past two years twists in my gut like a knife. “I failed you then,” I admit. “And I’ll regret it every day for the rest of my life.”
My words seem to catch her off guard. Her expression softens for a fraction of a second before she looks away, crossing her arms over her chest again. Not in anger this time, but almost like she’s hugging herself for comfort.
“This is insane,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.
I don’t say anything in reply because, what can I say?
She’s right. None of this is normal. None of the last two years has been normal.
Instead, I walk over to Kayla’s couch and lower myself onto it, stretching my legs out in front of me.
I let my gaze roam around the room, taking in the details of her life without me.
Plants everywhere; that hasn’t changed. Photographs on the walls, books stacked on end tables, bright colors and soft fabrics.
It’s so undeniably Kayla that it sends an ache through me.
Kayla says my name, drawing my attention back to her. She’s standing in front of me, hands on her hips, looking like she’s trying to decide whether to scream or throw something at my head.
“You should go get some sleep,” I tell her, making myself comfortable among the throw pillows. “I’ve got this covered.”
Kayla stares at me as if I’ve just suggested we go skinny-dipping in the Arctic. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asks.
“Making sure you stay alive.” I pat the cushion beside me. “This is a nice couch, by the way. Comfortable.”
“You are not hanging out in my living room all night,”
“You’re absolutely right,” I say, standing up suddenly. The movement makes her take a reflexive step back. “The best way to keep you safe is to be right next to you all night.” I give her my most innocent smile. “Where’s your bedroom?”
For a moment, Kayla seems genuinely speechless. Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, but no sound comes out. It’s almost comical, and under different circumstances, I might have laughed. But the reality of the danger she‘s in keeps my amusement in check.
I close the distance between us, dropping the teasing tone. “Someone broke into your house tonight, Sunshine. I promised I’d never leave you unprotected again, and I meant it.” My voice softens. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
She searches my face, her own expression a complicated mix of emotions I can’t quite decipher. There’s anger there, yes, but also confusion, fear, and something that looks almost like longing.
“I should just call the police,” she says finally, but there’s hesitation in her voice.
“You could,” I agree. “But would you really feel safer with a squad car driving by every couple of hours than having me camp on your couch all night?”
Kayla closes her eyes briefly, as if gathering her strength. When she opens them, they’re clear and determined. “You can stay,” she says with a small nod. “On the couch. You can stay on the couch. Not in my bedroom.”
Relief flows through me so strongly I almost sway with it. I’ve spent two years watching her from a distance, powerless to get closer. Now she’s given me permission to stay, to be near her, to protect her properly.
Before she can turn to go to her bedroom, I reach out and grab her arm.
The contact sends a jolt through me, the first time I’ve touched her in two years.
She stiffens but doesn’t pull away as I yank her closer.
Her eyes widen, and for a moment I think she believes I’m going to kiss her.
God how I want to, but instead, I bury my face in her neck and inhale deeply, filling my lungs with her scent.
Vanilla and something floral, just like I remember.
Then I release her, stepping back before I do something stupid.
“Did you just… sniff me?” she asks, her voice somewhere between bewildered and amused.
“I missed you, Sunshine,” I say simply.
Kayla stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she turns without another word and walks away, disappearing down the hall. I hear a door close softly, and I’m alone in her living room.
I pull my shirt over my head, folding it neatly and placing it on the arm of the couch.
My boots come off next, lined up beside the coffee table where I won’t trip over them if I need to move quickly.
My gun I place on the end table within easy reach.
Then I turn out the light and stretch out on the couch, my feet hanging over the armrest.
The darkness settles around me, broken only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains.
I listen to the quiet sounds of the house; the muffled sounds of Kayla getting ready for bed, the occasional creak of the floorboards as the house settles, the distant ticking of a clock.
I wonder if Kayla is as aware of my presence as I am of hers.
It’s strange being here in her space, surrounded by the life she’s built without me. I didn’t realize until now how much it would hurt, seeing tangible proof that she’s moved on. But I push the thought away. My feelings don’t matter right now. What matters is keeping her safe.
I’m just starting to relax when I hear the faintest scrape against the side of the house.
Most people wouldn’t notice it, would write it off as a tree branch or an animal.
But I’ve spent too many years listening for danger not to recognize the sound of someone trying to be quiet and not quite succeeding.
In one smooth motion, I roll off the couch and grab my gun from the end table. The sound comes again, but it’s more distinct now, the careful manipulation of a window latch. It’s coming from the kitchen at the back of the house.
I move silently across the room, grateful for the thick carpet that muffles my footsteps. Pressing myself against the wall beside the kitchen doorway, I wait, gun at the ready. The window slides open with a soft whisper of sound, and I hear the hushed thump of feet landing on the linoleum floor.
My heart pounds, but my hands are steady. I have plenty of experience waiting in the dark for an enemy to make himself known. The familiar rush of adrenaline narrows my focus to a laser point, every sense heightened.
A shadow moves in the kitchen, sliding toward the doorway where I wait. I catch a glimpse of golden blond hair in the dim light filtering through the window, and something clicks in my brain. I know that color, that particular shade that seems to glow even in darkness.
The intruder takes one more step, and I pounce, tackling him to the ground with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. We hit the floor hard, my weight pinning him down as I press the muzzle of my gun to his temple.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” I growl, my voice low and deadly.