Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
TRISTAN
An ear-piercing shriek jolts me awake. I bolt upright in bed before I realize where I am and who is beside me.
Daphne stirs and sits up, her eyes wide as she stares at me in terror.
Another shriek sends icy worry splashing over my skin, and I launch myself out of bed.
Shit, my clothes are fucking everywhere. Grabbing my briefs, I shove my legs through them and hurry out of the bedroom.
My bare feet slap against the wooden steps until I unlock the front door and bolt outside.
Daphne follows behind me, her robe haphazardly knotted around her waist with her gun in hand. She shuts the door behind her, keeping Hawkeye’s barking inside the house.
Another scream echoes from the side of the house. Daphne’s elderly neighbor hovers by the trash cans against the fence that separates their house from Daphne’s.
The woman’s eyes fix on us, and she waves us over. “Call the cops!” she shouts.
She’s not running. No, she’s stuck in place. Was someone hurting her?
“What’s wrong?” I call out as I make my way over…
Oh, shit.
As I step closer to the neighbor, it’s clear why she’s screaming
Hidden behind Daphne’s trash cans is a body. Blood pools around a man’s head, his glossy eyes staring at the woman’s bunny slippers in surprise. He’s stripped naked.
“What is it?” Daphne asks from behind me. She steps closer and gasps. The sound pierces my ear. “No.”
“Get inside,” I tell her. Checking over her shoulder, I searched for the Secret Service. Damnit, where was that nosy agent when we needed him? Where the hell is her security?
“Doug,” Daphne says.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m getting the police,” the neighbor says and turns back into her house.
“That’s Doug.” Daphne’s face blanches as she gazes in horror at the corpse by her trash cans. “He’s one of my usual security details. He’s… he’s…” She doesn’t finish.
Daphne jolts sideways and vomits against the gate and onto the neighbor’s petunias. She retches hard until a sob finally makes its way out.
“Who… who could do this?” she gasps before spitting into the grass.
Ghost _M110.
The persona I still haven’t identified. Fuck, if it is him, I’ll burn down the entire damn city to find him and make him pay.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. It’s half a lie, but I don’t need to tell her my theory—that her stalker has upped his game.
“Princess,” I say as I crouch down beside her, keeping her hair away from her mouth in case she’s sick again. “You need to call your Dad. Or the Secret Service. They need to get to the bottom of this.”
Daphne only nods as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
She slowly rises to her feet, and I carefully guide her inside.
As we enter, the blare of sirens whirs in the distance before red and blue lights flood her street.
Police clamber out of their cars, hands poised on their guns as they scan the area.
“Take care of Hawkeye,” I tell her.
“But the cops,” she hisses. “They’ll interrogate you.”
“Well, I’m your boyfriend. They can know the real me.” My eyes flick down to the swell of her breasts, nearly spilling out of her robe, with the tie loosened. “And get dressed. I’ll talk to the cops.”
Daphne nods, not looking at me. She’s gone into a daze, retreating into some corner of her mind where I can’t reach her.
The woman’s in shock. Can’t say I blame her.
I close the front door and make my way down to the front of the lawn. Some of the officers stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. Granted, I’m in my fucking underwear with a corpse ten feet away. One of the officers glances down at my crotch, an appreciative smile twitching on his lips.
At least I’m not sporting a boner. Dead bodies are an effective way of stopping morning wood.
“Officers,” I call out and wave them onto Daphne’s front lawn before pointing to the cans.
Half a dozen of them hustle over as two hulking men in bulletproof vests stomp towards me. “The next-door neighbor found him. She screamed, and it woke us up,” I explain quickly.
Tweedle-dee nods and strolls across the grass, over to the neighbor’s house. She’s already standing on her porch, watching the officers clamor around the dead man—Doug.
As I’m explaining what happened to Tweedle-dumb, a few more officers join us. They ask question after question, and I don’t know how long I’m standing there until I hear a door behind me open.
Daphne steps out, and before I can get to her, an officer steps in her way, blocking my view of her.
They keep us separated for an hour. Officers rotate; another person asks the same questions, wondering if they might get a different response from us. I don’t tell them about my suspicions.
I’ll keep my theory about Ghost_M110 to myself. If I haven’t caught the fucker yet, I know the police aren’t competent enough. Maybe the FBI is. And given the fact that a dead Secret Service agent was found outside in the President’s Daughter’s home, that might warrant their assistance.
But I’m not handing that information over to some cop with a praise kink, eager for a pat on the back for getting information he didn’t discover on his own.
I’m released and permitted to put some fucking pants on. Daphne is sitting on the front step, waiting for me.
She stands, and I usher us both inside, waiting until the front door closes and locks the rest of the world out.
Hawkeye whines loudly and scratches the back door. “I’ll let him out.” Daphne’s voice is so hollow and distant that she sounds like a completely different woman.
Not my woman.
“I called the head of the Secret Service,” she says as she opens the back door and lets Hawkeye out to do his business. “He got my dad on the phone. I told them what happened.”
Relief warms my muscles. Good. They’re taking this seriously. “When are they sending out new—”
“They’re not,” she cuts me off. “Dad’s not sending anyone else. He said I’ll be fine with light patrol.”
“What!” I snap so loud that Daphne recoils. Damnit, she’s having the morning from hell. I don’t want to scare her. “What do you mean they won’t give you more security? Someone killed a man and practically dumped him on your front lawn.”
“I know,” she snaps back. Finally, she sounds like herself. “They’re going to have someone parked outside my house and someone else patrolling around the neighborhood every hour, but that’s it. No extra detail.”
The hollowness in her eyes hurts. “At this point, I’m better off dead to him. At least then he’ll get to pull the sympathetic grieving-parent card to voters.”
Closing the gap between us, I sweep Daphne into my arms. God, I never want to let her go. She’s trembling as tears start to fall. Over her shoulder, Hawkeye’s chasing his tail around the grass, blissfully unaware of the commotion happening on the other side of the fence.
“Move in with me.” At this point, it’s not a request. “The police will need you to move out anyway for a while. Your house is a crime scene. I have high-level security on the entire property. You and Hawkeye will be safe there.”
Daphne nods against my chest, and I’m relieved she’s not putting up a fight.
She’s gone through enough today. All I want is to get her to my place, draw up a bubble bath in the Jacuzzi for both of us, and then spend the rest of the day in bed with takeout—anything to help her after the shock of this morning.
“Go pack what you can,” I instruct. “We’ll move the rest of your things tomorrow.” I doubt I’d get both of us, Hawkeye, and more than a couple of suitcases into my Porsche. I lean back and kiss her forehead. Wet trails glisten down her cheeks, but she nods and wipes them away with her fingertips.
“But Hawkeye?” she says with some uncertainty in her voice.
“I’ll pack up his stuff,” I tell her. “Besides, I have plenty of supplies at the shelter. I can swing by and grab some things from our warehouse.”
“Okay.” Daphne’s voice has gone weak and pillowy soft. She steps out of my arms and slowly trudges her way to the stairs. “Tris.” Her voice wavers as she calls out to me. “Thank you. No one’s ever taken care of me like this. I don’t know how to handle it.”
“Come back here.” I wave her over, and Daphne rushes back into my arms. “Daphne, did you ever consider that I genuinely enjoy taking care of you? I love seeing you smile, and I fucking hate seeing you upset like this.”
Her gorgeous ocean-blue eyes gaze up at me with haunting sadness.
God, I could drown in that color and die a happy man.
“You deserve to be cherished,” I say. “You should have been all along, and I promise I will spend the rest of my days showing you, if you’ll let me.
I care about you.” I emphasize the word, driving it home.
“You deserve special treatment, Daphne Fox, because you are so damn special.”
Her breath hitches and, for a lingering moment, there’s uncertainty in the air. I don’t know if she’s going to cry, laugh, or speak.
And I can’t take the uncertainty.
“Tris, I—”
I capture her words as I kiss her, not waiting to hear what she might say. I need her to know. To know that she’s mine, and she’s safe, and she’s so damn perfect the mere existence of her hurts like a bruise on my soul.
Tonight, she’s in my home. Sleeping in my arms. This feels monumental, like my life’s forever altered because of this wondrous masterpiece of a woman in my arms.