Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
DAVIN
Fuck. Don’t reach for her.
My breath hitches in my throat. The last thing I need is my protectee sobbing. And yet, here she stands crying—silent, wrecked, trembling.
Nothing makes me feel more helpless than tears. I don’t know how to fix them. Not sure anyone can.
A part of me longs to wrap the curvy little woman in my arms and comfort her. But comfort’s a slippery slope.
It leads to intimacy. Intimacy is a promise. And I don’t make those anymore.
Suddenly, she turns away, heading for the couch. A relieved breath escapes my lips mixed with inexplicable disappointment.
The tan devil licks her cheek, and she hugs him tighter.
Never felt jealous of a pooch before. Her perfume hits again, soft and disarming, plum and sandalwood with a hint of vanilla.
Her dainty fingers shake as the whole world seems to close in on her.
The oversized flannel—my flannel—hangs off her shoulder, dwarfing her curvy frame.
Our eyes meet, and time stops.
I turn away before I say something stupid, stab my fingers through my hair. Never knew when I agreed to help McGregor it would prove this challenging … or tempting.
Arielle flops onto the couch, and I go for a blanket. Some way to express what she’s doing to my insides. I drape it around her shoulders, careful not to let our skin touch. I can’t think about anything else.
Her eyes catch mine again. Green flakes interspersed with brown. Warm, alive, begging for reassurance.
“Th-thank you,” she says, all the sass evaporated.
Something warm tugs at my ribs. Gruffly, I say, “Blanket’s clean. Don’t cover it in dog hair.” The words come out too gentle—like this woman’s getting under my skin.
“Gus isn’t a shedder.”
I believe that like I believe in Christmas miracles. “Okay,” I grunt.
Arielle sniffles, dabs at her eyes. I hate seeing her like this. So small. So vulnerable. It does something strange to my heart … and my mind. Before I realize what I’m doing, I squat in front of her, putting us on the same level. The air feels charged, alive, electric.
“You should’ve told me they came that close.” I mean it rough, scolding. But it comes out too tender.
“I didn’t want to…” She pauses, breathing through her mouth and fanning her face with her free hand. “…lose it.”
“What you went through is more than most people will ever deal with. You’re allowed to process things.” I lean forward, adjust the blanket at her neck.
She laughs as more fat tears splash her cheeks. “Since when does a big brute like you care about ‘processing’?”
Her hand comes up, fingers barely brushing mine. A spark hits like an electric jolt.
I bolt upright, moving away from her. Get it together, Davin. And don’t get attached.
I clear my throat, look away like a coward as I speak. “Better check the perimeter, make sure everything looks good.”
She nods.
Hearth. Windows. Door. Tight as a drum. I stomp toward the front door.
“Are you leaving again?” Panic edges her voice.
“No worries, Princess. Be back before you know it.”
Her brows knit. I ignore it.
The moment the cold hits my arms and face, I wish I’d grabbed my coat on the way out. But it’s the icy slap I need to wake back up. Quit thinking about the curvy redhead with her fruity sweet smell that makes my mouth water.
She’s not your type, Davin. Not by a long shot. The inner pep talk makes me chuckle to myself. After all, nobody’s my type at this point, unless seclusion and isolation can take human form.
I check the pump house and the well, then, the generator. The forecast says a big storm’s headed our way. Better prepare.
The white fog lingers, presses in on me like cotton sheets. The snow muffles everything around it. Makes the world feel too quiet. Like it’s holding its breath.
When I retrieved her stuff, I drove her car further into the woods, covered it with branches and brush as camouflage. But I won’t feel good until the next storm blankets it and my tracks.
Frigid metal hits my fingertips all over again as I trace one of two bullet holes in Arielle’s car. The memory fresh, vivid. I knew the woman needed protection, but I underestimated the danger of her situation.
Warm air greets me back inside. I stomp the snow from my boots and toe them off.
“Hot chocolate?” I ask.
She just nods, eyes glued to the floor. Loud-mouth sunshine, chaos wrapped in curves, suddenly staring at the wood like it personally betrayed her.
The blanket trembles in her hands. The dog whimpers in her lap. Every instinct in me goes razor-wire tight.
I put the kettle on the stove, then plant myself in the living room, arms crossed. “Tell me how you got in this mess.”
She swallows. “It wasn’t … it wasn’t just that they were following me.”
No shit. I already know that.
But hearing her say it?
That lands somewhere under my ribs.
“I didn’t walk into danger like an idiot, okay?” she says, voice thin. “I noticed something. Something bad.”
My jaw locks.
“Go on.”
She takes a breath that sounds like it hurts.
“I was headed home from Sierra Belle, the little boutique shop I manage in Truckee. Traffic was backed up on Interstate Eighty, so I stopped at the Scenic Ridge rest area after work. It was supposed to be quick. Gus needed to pee. I needed to stretch. Nothing dramatic.”
My brows pull together. She’s rambling. Nervous.
Then the real thing slips out.
“There was a semi. Parked funny. Two guys at the back doors. Whispering. Looking over their shoulders like … like they expected someone to jump out at them.”
My pulse spikes. I know that behavior. I know men like that.
“And one of them kept touching his belt,” she whispers, “like there was something there.”
A weapon. I step closer before I realize I’ve moved. She doesn’t flinch, just wraps the blanket tighter around herself.
“What else did you notice about them?” I ask.
She gives this tiny, breathless laugh that damn near breaks me.
“They had tattoos…”
“Where?” I ask tightly.
“All over. But I especially remember their throats.”
I go still. But my mind races. “Can you describe the ink?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to stare, draw any more attention to myself. But if I saw them again, I’d know it.”
“What did you do next?” I push, because I have to know everything.
“I walked away. Called it in.” Her voice shakes. “I didn’t stay. I was scared. I just told nine-one-one something didn’t feel right and got back in the car.”
Smart. Instinctive. Exactly what she should’ve done. Still, I have to ask, “Why’d you call it in? Stick your neck out?”
She looks flabbergasted by the question. “Where I come from, people look out for each other. McGregors don’t turn a blind eye.”
My jaw ticks. Her words mean more to me than I’m willing to admit.
“And later,” she whispers, “a detective called me. They checked the truck.”
Every muscle in my body goes still.
“They found kids.” Her voice splinters. “Children. Locked inside. Cold. Terrified. And those men—”
Her throat closes.
The air between us crackles.
“Your cousin said they still haven’t been apprehended,” I say, voice dropping an octave.
She shrugs. “By the time the police arrived, they had vanished. But now…” She tries to keep it together, blinking hard. “After this morning, I know they’re still after me.”
My gut clenches. Cartel, like McGregor alluded to when he asked me to protect Arielle.
I feel it all at once. The cold. The rage. The primal, bone-deep instinct to tear someone apart.
Those bastards saw her. Saw her noticing them. And now they’re hunting her for doing the right damn thing.
“Arielle.” My voice comes out rough. “Look at me.”
She lifts her eyes, wet and shining, and that’s it.
That’s the moment I snap clean in half.
“I don’t regret calling,” she says, trembling. “Not for one second. I just … didn’t think they’d come after me.”
Gus whines.
She curls around him like she’s bracing for impact.
And I move.
No hesitation. No distance. No armor.
Sitting on the couch, I reach for her, hand closing over her shoulder, pulling her gently into my chest.
She stiffens, then breaks, sobbing into my shirt.
Her body is soft and shaking.
My hand curves around the back of her head before I can stop it.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, voice low, dangerous. “They won’t touch you. Not again. Not while I’m breathing.”
And in the back of my mind, a darker truth settles in.
For the first time in years, I want to protect someone for reasons that have nothing to do with orders. And everything to do with her.
She folds into me like she’s been holding herself together with twine and hope.
Small. Warm. Trembling.
Her breath hits my chest in uneven bursts, and my arms tighten around her before I even register the movement.
Hell.
I’m holding her. Really holding her. And I don’t want to let go.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But her fingers curl into my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish, and something inside me—something old, dented, rusted—shifts.
She’s been running alone. For God knows how long.
Her tears soak through my shirt. I feel every shudder in her body, and it guts me.
“Easy,” I murmur, the word scraping out of me.
She buries her face against me like she’s absorbing the sound.
We stay like that longer than I should allow. Longer than I’ve let anyone get close in years.
Her scent wraps around me, captivating and sweet—fruit and vanilla mixed with the leather and smoke of my flannel.
I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
Her breathing evens out eventually. Not calm, but coming down from the shock. She pulls back a little, sniffling, trying to wipe her cheeks with the edge of the blanket.
I grab a clean corner and do it for her.
Her breath hitches.
I pretend I didn’t notice.
“You all cried out?” I ask because I don’t know how to be gentle without disguising it as gruffness.
She nods, then laughs weakly. “You must think I’m a disaster.”
“I’ve seen disasters,” I say. “You’re not one.”
Her eyes go wide.