Chapter 4
HOLDEN
Protection detail. Right. Like I can keep my hands off her when she's standing in the wreckage of her life looking like she might shatter.
Fallon moves through her destroyed apartment with mechanical precision, picking up pieces of a slashed quilt and folding them into a garbage bag. Pain flickers across her face when she bends to retrieve a photo frame, but she doesn't make a sound.
Three months of watching her from a distance taught me stubbornness runs deep in her. Five minutes of helping her clean teaches me she's also too proud to admit when she's hurting.
"Let me get that." The frame is in my hand before she can lift it.
"I've got it." She pulls it back from me, glass shards tinkling onto the hardwood. Blood wells on her thumb where a piece caught skin.
I grab her wrist before she can wipe it on her jeans. "Hold still."
She goes rigid under my touch. Not afraid, but wary. Like she's waiting to see if I'll cross a line.
Good instincts. Wrong timing for them.
A first aid kit comes out of my go-bag, and I guide her to the couch. What's left of it, anyway. Someone slashed the cushions with methodical violence, stuffing scattered across the floor like snow.
"You carry a first aid kit in your truck?" Fallon asks as I clean the cut with an antiseptic wipe.
"Always." I apply pressure to stop the bleeding. "Occupational hazard. SEALs tend to get creative with injuries."
"Is that what I am now? An occupational hazard?" Her green eyes meet mine, sharp despite the exhaustion pulling at the edges.
"You're someone who needs help whether you want to admit it or not." The bandage wraps around her thumb, my touch light and professional. "And I'm someone who volunteered to provide it."
She pulls her hand back as soon as I'm done. "Why did you volunteer?"
The question hangs between us. Honest answer?
Because I've been wildly attracted to her since the first morning I saw her crouched by a tide pool, auburn hair catching the sunrise, completely absorbed in whatever sea creature had caught her attention.
Because watching her has been the highlight of my morning runs for three months.
Because someone tried to kill her, and the thought of that succeeding makes me want to hunt down whoever's responsible and ensure they never get another chance.
Safe answer? "Because you needed help and I was available."
Fallon studies me like one of her research specimens. "You're lying."
"Not lying. Just not telling you everything." I stand and survey the damage. "Where do you want to start?"
She looks around at the chaos. Drawers dumped, books torn apart, even the kitchen cabinets emptied. Whoever did this wanted her to feel violated.
"Bedroom," she says finally. "I need to see what they did in there."
The bedroom is worse. Mattress slashed on top, but when I flip it, the underside is intact. Clothes pulled from the closet and scattered. Underwear drawer dumped on the floor in a display of deliberate invasion. Fallon's jaw tightens, but she doesn't break.
"Bathroom first," I suggest, giving her an out. "Get the glass cleaned up before someone steps on it."
She nods and disappears into the small bathroom. I hear the sound of a broom, the clink of glass into a trash bag. While she's occupied, I take inventory.
Minimal furniture. No artwork on the walls. One suitcase in the closet, half-packed. Passport in the nightstand drawer along with cash. Bug-out bag under the bed with clothes, toiletries, more money.
Fallon McKay has been living like a fugitive. Ready to run at a moment's notice. No roots, no connections, nothing that would slow her down if she needed to disappear.
The ex-boyfriend did this to her. Bruce Tanner, Seattle PD detective. He made her so afraid she changed her name and fled three thousand miles just to feel safe.
Rage burns hot and bitter in my gut. I channel it into work, mentally cataloging every security vulnerability in this apartment.
First-floor corner unit. Two windows facing the parking lot, one facing the courtyard.
Ground-level access from all windows. Door lock is standard issue, easily picked. No deadbolt, no chain.
She might as well have hung a welcome sign for anyone who wanted in.
My phone buzzes. Text from Griff:
Heard you finally made your move on the mermaid. Want me to bring celebratory beer?
I type back:
Bring coffee and food. This isn't a celebration.
Three minutes later, he responds:
On my way. And Holden? Don't fuck this up.
I pocket my phone and return to helping Fallon sort through the wreckage. I drag the mattress to the floor, flip it so the intact side faces up, and make it up with clean sheets from the linen closet. At least she'll have somewhere to sleep tonight.
We work in silence for twenty minutes, filling garbage bags with destroyed belongings, salvaging what can be saved. She moves with quiet determination, but winces when she reaches for something high or bends too low.
"Take a break," I tell her when she pauses to press a hand against her ribs.
"I'm fine."
"You have bruised ribs and a concussion. You're not fine." I take the garbage bag from her hand. "Sit down before you pass out."
"I don't need you to—"
"I know. You can handle yourself." I meet her gaze, keeping my voice level. "But you also nearly drowned this morning, got discharged from the hospital an hour ago, and you're running on adrenaline and stubbornness. So sit down, catch your breath, and let me finish the heavy lifting."
She looks like she wants to argue. Instead, she sinks onto the edge of the slashed couch and closes her eyes. The win feels hollow because I know it's exhaustion, not my argument, that made her give in.
I'm finishing with the bedroom when footsteps echo in the hallway outside. My body positions between the door and Fallon, hand reaching for the go-bag where my weapon is stowed, before I consciously decide to move.
"Holden, relax. It's just me." Griff's voice carries through the door before he knocks. "I brought sustenance and moral support."
Griff holds a carrier with three coffees and a bag from the deli down the street. He grins with entirely too much amusement.
"Heard your protection detail started with a bang," he says, pushing past me into the apartment. "Literally." His gaze lands on Fallon. "Dr. McKay. Hell of a morning you've had. Griff Holland, EOD. Friend of this guy, unfortunately."
The coffee carrier passes from his hands to mine. "Not funny."
"Little bit funny." He drops the deli bag on the kitchen counter, one of the few surfaces not completely trashed. "Also brought sandwiches because Holden forgets to eat when he's in mission mode."
"I don't forget to eat," I mutter.
"You absolutely do." Griff pulls out sandwiches, chips, bottles of water. He hands Fallon a coffee and a turkey sandwich. "Eat. Doctor's orders. Well, not a medical doctor, but I did take a first aid course once."
"That's reassuring." Fallon accepts the coffee and sandwich. "Thanks for the food, Griff."
"Anytime." Griff waits until she unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite before catching my eye and jerking his head toward the door. I follow him outside, pulling the door mostly closed behind us.
"How bad?" he asks quietly.
"Apartment's a disaster. Someone wanted her scared." Exhaustion starts creeping in around the edges, making me lean against the wall. "Slashed everything personal. Took her laptop, probably her research files."
"And she's okay with you being her neighbor?"
"Hartwell assigned me the guest quarters next door. Non-negotiable protection detail." I run a hand through my hair. "Fallon accepted it, but she's not thrilled about having a babysitter."
Griff studies me with the expression that means he's about to say something unwelcome. "You know this is a bad idea, right?"
"Keeping her alive is a bad idea?"
"You keeping her alive when you've been mooning over her for three months." He keeps his voice low. "I've watched you, man. Every morning run, you time it so you pass by when she's doing her surveys. You know her schedule better than your own."
"So I'm observant."
"So you're into her." Griff crosses his arms. "And now you're playing bodyguard while someone's actively trying to kill her. That's a recipe for complicated."
He's not wrong. Doesn't mean I'm backing down.
"I can handle complicated," I tell him.
"Can you handle it when she looks at you like you're just another man trying to control her life?" Griff's expression is serious now. "Because the way I hear it, that ex did a number on her, Holden. She's going to be watching for signs that you're like him."
"I'm nothing like him."
"I know that. You know that." He nods toward the apartment. "She doesn't know that yet. So tread carefully, yeah?"
My phone buzzes before there's time to respond. Commander Hartwell's name flashes on the screen.
"I need to take this," I tell Griff.
He nods and heads back inside while I answer. "Lange."
"Update on your protection detail." Hartwell's voice is all business. "Crime scene analysis came back. The explosive device was professionally constructed. Military-grade components, timer-triggered, placed with precision to maximize damage to the engine housing."
"Not something a civilian would have access to."
"Exactly." Papers rustle in the background. "We're running Bruce Tanner through every database we have. Seattle PD confirmed he was on administrative leave for an excessive force complaint, but the complaint was withdrawn."
My jaw tightens. "What kind of excessive force?"
"Domestic disturbance call. Tanner allegedly assaulted the male suspect after the situation was already contained." Hartwell pauses. "Witnesses say Tanner lost control. Beat the guy unconscious."
"Anger issues."
"Significant ones. And he's got the time and motivation to come after Dr. McKay." Another pause. "But Holden, the bomb concerns me. Tanner's a detective, not demolitions. Where would he get the expertise?"