CHAPTER THREE
HENDRICK
Adora explores my house, padding around after she showered. I’m still in my old clothes though I’ve swapped my too-tight borrowed shirt out for a tee that doesn’t irritate the graze on my back. Drake’s work is decent and I send off a quick message to let him know that we’ve arrived.
I circle the house at a distance, following her. She either doesn't notice me or pretends not to as she discovers each room in turn, only lingering in the library. Adora refused the bedroom that I showed her, and binned the dress as soon as she walked out of the bathroom.
Now, she's dressed in one of my older long sleeved shirts, buttoned all the way down. Adora’s taller than I thought, though there’s next to nothing of her.
Slim legs are exposed along with bare feet.
My shirt hangs just below mid-thigh on her, and is decent, though the knowledge that she’s naked underneath leaves me with a visual I shove away.
That she’s absolutely stunning is in no doubt. Her elfin features are highlighted by her pale hair that is pulled away from her face for the first time since I’ve met her, wet and tousled in a knot on top of her head, secured with a pen she’s stolen from my kitchen.
Whatever her stalker’s reasons are for shooting at her tonight, I can see several before we start. And that’s without broaching the elephant that isn’t in the room with us. At least, not yet.
The slice of peace she’s garnered after trudging a mile and a half from the dirt road that her limo couldn’t make it into my place on its road tires and city-road worthy lowered chassis is the most valuable commodity we have right now.
That, along with sleep. But first…
“I promised I'd find out what your favorite foods are. And what you drink.” I used endearments with her back in the vehicle and when we were walking. That fact seems like insanity in retrospect, speaking to an asset that way, but she accepted my words without question. It’s that kind of night.
But the sun will rise in a few hours, a factory reset on everything as we start fresh.
For now, the terms dip alien on the edge of my tongue, raw and out of place.
Then, I was getting her to a destination. Achieving a goal. Here, in my house, if I speak to her that, I’ll cross a different sort of line.
Already, my barriers are shifting back into place, even as hers start to dissolve.
I saw it in the way she communicated with me, how she let me touch her.
When is the last time you let another human love you, Adora?
But that’s not the kind of question I can ask an asset, even if I want to.
Especially one walking around my house as I follow her, turning off lights as I go.
She’s still in my library, flicking through old versions of detective novels I devoured as a teen but have never been able to bring myself to throw out. That’s the definition of a collection, right? What grows over years of interests, even as they tweak and change.
“Do you read?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe as she turns pages with care. Her fingers brush each page, touching only the corners, and the spine is never cracked with her, even though I’m formidable with the things. She must hate the damage I've already done to each volume.
She hesitates, then nods, without closing the book.
“What do you like?” I don’t know why it matters.
I won’t stock anything that she’s read. We’re from two different worlds.
My shelves have some fiction, sure. But others—I’ve spent my life immersing myself in military history.
She’s a classical instrumentalist. Two quotes from Asimov and Verne about independence and fate mangle in my head.
Adora puts the book back on the shelf, making certain that it goes back exactly where it came from. I appreciate that, having set up the entire library by author, then book series, each arranged by publication year.
Not that she’d have a clue. I’ve never shared this space with anyone else. No one in my world knows it exists, which is why we’re here. To keep her safe.
And tomorrow, her world will invade mine.
“Here.” The faintest whisper leaves her throat as she walks forward a few paces, then raises her hand to brush her fingers across the bottom of a shelf that she can’t reach.
My eyebrows rise. “You read science fiction?” Is she agreeing with me just to make me feel better.
The corner of her mouth flickers, or it could be a shadow. I’m sure she almost smiled and the need to have her do it again burns low in my gut. I stalk across the room, closing my hand on her wrist. A gasp leaves her, but no other sound.
“Show me.” Why does this matter? It shouldn't.
But it does.
Adora looks over her shoulder at me. Her hand is still raised, and the sleeve of my shirt falls back where it's far too big on her body, oversized, exposing her slim arm. The material hitches at her waist. She’s so damn close that I can feel the heat of her through the fabric of the thin borrowed shirt, and mine.
Touching her again is a terrible idea.
Hauling her from the car wasn’t my finest moment either, but she finally fell asleep ten minutes out, and I couldn't bring myself to wake her.
So, carrying her until she did rouse was the only option I could come up with unless I wanted her to sleep in the car, and that was the more dangerous choice I could find.
She pulls her hand free of my grasp, ribbing her wrist as though my touch stings.
I stare down at her, memorizing the way her midnight eyes are shot through with moonlight and silver.
Just like in the car, she seems content with observing me back, and I wonder at the life she’s lived until now.
A girl in a snow globe, ever looking out, and everyone looking in.
No one able to touch her.
I reach out, and grip her waist, squeezing her hip through my shirt. Letting the material gather and hitch in my hand, baring her thighs. Hell, she can slap me for it. But for a single moment, I want her to feel.
Nails rake lightly across the back of my hand, but she doesn’t push me away.
Her eyes flutter shut, then sprung back open, and her face sets, determined.
Pushing me away, she steps back and turns in a tight pivot.
Her eyes scan the room, as though she's cataloguing every title I own in the floor to ceiling shelves that are jam packed with a lifetime of collecting.
Who knows? Maybe she has a photographic memory.
“Pick what you like, Adora. I’ll get anything down for you.” I keep my voice low, so I don’t interrupt her trance. It doesn't take a genius to realize that she hasn’t pushed me away; she’s simply taking on the task I’ve given her.
Adora sends me a graceful look, then turns back to a corner that holds a stack of old conspiracy theory collection of dime store novels, all with a science fiction bent. I rub my hand over my mouth as she runs her fingers over the spines and selects a handful, then looks up.
I’m there in a second, pulling down the ones she picks out, along with several mediaeval and Tudor mysteries. “I wouldn't have guessed,” I murmur, placing the stack in her arms, and straightening the edges for her.
Touching her and being near her is addictive. None of this should be happening. I should have brought her back, made sure she showered, given her food, tucked her into bed and written up a report on the whole event before I started research on the shooter.
What I shouldn't be doing is picking out library books for her to read for the next week while I search out the man who has hunted her to the point where she can’t sleep and, from the look of her, she probably isn’t eating, either..
We’re gonna fix that, love. I’ll make sure you’re cared for under this roof. I promise.
Again, our conversation falls into the realm of silence. But she watches my face, and reads my eyes. I don't think there's a single concept that she misses as she hugs the books to her chest.
Thank you. Adora mouths the words. I swear I hear them in her voice even though no sound comes out.
My hand drifts to her cheek. I freeze, knowing I shouldn't touch her, but I want to anyway. She's so damn warm and soft and close. And no part of her objects right now when I brush my knuckles along her jawline.
“When did you stop talking, love?”
Her eyes flare wide, and she retreats a step. The long breaths she’s subsided into become short and sharp. I curse myself for lulling myself into my own trap and don’t follow her across the floor.
“I’m sorry, Adora. I won’t ask again.”
Those wide eyes watch me, wary as she frowns. Uncertain if she can trust me or not. Because the only frame of reference we have is of me launching myself at her to stop her from bleeding out in my arms a half dozen hours earlier.
As though reading my mind, she taps her shoulder.
My lisp quirk in recognition. “Yeah, love. It hurts. A hell of a lot. But you know what? I like pain. It reminds me who I am and why I do what I do.”
I lean back against the bookshelf I've ravaged behind me, and keep my eyes on her. The graze flares in my shoulder, the edges twinging, giving lie to my words that will never show on my face.
Fine. I prefer a certain sort of pain to others. The sort that will never hinder my work.
“This is your space, now. Use the house as you like, but don’t wander too far outside unless I'm with you. Will you do that for me?”
She shivers, the memory of the gunshot and the building still fresh between us, and nods.
A breath glides from my lungs, knowing she’s not going to be the pain in my ass that her file promised me after all. Adora is so much more than everything that piece of paper promised. It’s as though whoever wrote it didn’t know her at all.