Chapter 13 #3
The way she curled herself around him when he was left otherwise defenseless.
Fuck—but he never would have expected that.
He’d been a Stallion for a long time. He knew his brothers had his back, and he never questioned it. They proved it time and time again. But no woman had ever offered herself as a human shield for him.
His mother would have. He knew her fight against cancer was brutal and she did it not for herself, but for him. In his selfishness, he wanted her to go to battle for her life. He didn’t want to live in a world without her in it.
In the end, they both let go—the disease robbing them of the choice.
But Lyla didn’t know him. Hell, he was smart enough to admit she didn’t even have much reason to like him, let alone protect him.
Yet, she’d been so unafraid.
Watching her, he was reminded how much he didn’t know her.
It wasn’t simply a matter of lack of trust.
He straight up didn’t know her. Where she came from, where she’d been, and why the hell she raced across that room to prevent him from the state of unconsciousness knocking at his door.
“You’re dripping,” she said, yanking him free of his thoughts.
Lyla set two plates on the table before reaching for the soaked towel he had pressed against the side of his face.
“I should refresh the ice,” she continued, taking the other towel he still had against his side.
“Don’t worry about it. Sit. Eat.”
She hesitated, as if unsure whether or not she wanted to listen to him.
Pistol reached for one of his sandwiches and took a healthy bite, ignoring her indecision.
His groan of satisfaction was unconscious, but it sent a message.
Lyla dumped what remained of the melting ice into the sink, set aside the towels, then joined him at the table.
“So…what happens now?” she asked before taking her first bite.
His mouth full of his second, he chewed a couple times before he mumbled, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the one they’re looking for? They’re not going to find him. They suspect you and they’re not wrong so—what happens now?”
Pistol finished his bite, all the while studying Lyla as she waited for his response.
He killed a man, and she watched him do it.
Now, it was casual dinner conversation.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asked, leaning toward him. “Is it your head?”
He blinked, not sure how long he’d been staring, then took another big bite.
“They let me walk,” he finally spoke, talking around his food. “Which means they don’t know shit. As for what comes next, couldn’t say. Brother’s and I will figure it out.”
He finished his first sandwich and immediately started on his second. While his jaw protested all the chewing, his mouth rejoiced, and his stomach was silenced.
Lyla was making slow work of her portion. When he noticed her picking at her crust, he slowed down long enough to ask, “What?”
“Hmm?” she hummed in response, dropping what was left of her sandwich.
“You got somethin’ to say, say it.”
She wiped at her fingers before pushing her plate away from her and propping her elbows on the table. She then looked him square in the eyes.
“Why’d you do it?”
“Have my reasons,” was all he said in response.
Lyla nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his before she tried again.
“And are your reasons good ones or petty ones?”
He waited until his mouth was empty before he spoke.
“I’ve experienced death in more ways than one. Know what it looks like to watch a soul leave a body. Know what it feels like to lose someone you love.
“Fucked up shit he was into, can’t imagine he knew much love—but I bet he had a mama, and if she’s still around, it’ll hurt like hell to learn he’s gone. I did that. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again. Like I said, I’ve got my reasons, but they sure as hell aren’t petty.”
The curiosity he saw in her pretty blue eyes gave way to something softer.
Again, he replayed the scene at the Kings’ clubhouse. He saw her tugging at her brother’s arm—zero hesitation. Zero fear.
“I’m not going to finish that,” she said, pointing at her half-eaten sandwich. “You can have it if you want.”
Casual dinner conversation.
He didn’t know her story, but he sure was getting curious.
He ate the rest of his meal and polished off hers before he told her he was calling it a night.
She nodded then got up to clear the table.
He took his time toward his bedroom. The pain meds dulled the throbbing, but his body ached in ways it hadn’t in a while. What he said to his brothers earlier was true. He learned how to take a beating in prison, but it was never as one-sided as it was that night—and never had it lasted that long.
He paused when he reached the hallway, glancing back toward the kitchen as he thought once more of Lyla.
The weight of her in his lap. The warmth of her wrapped around him.
The scent of her hair—like berries in summertime.
She said she knew her brother wouldn’t hit her.
Pistol believed that to be true. He wouldn’t hit her on purpose, but she couldn’t have known he wouldn’t hit her on accident.
Fucking insane.
It wasn’t the first time she showed up where she didn’t belong—but she saved him.
There was an odd feeling of comfort, hearing her move around in his kitchen.
So odd, it didn’t feel right to trust it, so he didn’t.
He continued toward his bedroom instead.
He was pulling back the sheets when Lyla entered the room a minute after him.
Halting where he stood, he listened, peering through the darkness as she tugged off her boots, like she’d done such a thing in his room a hundred times.
“What are you doin’?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“What do you mean? I’m going to bed, too.”
He frowned at the sound of her jean shorts hitting the floor before she pulled back the sheets on the opposite side of the bed.
“Here?”
He couldn’t make out the look on her face, but he swore he heard her expression as she answered, “Yeah. Obviously. There’s no way you’re not concussed. What if you need something in the middle of the night? It’s easier if I sleep here.”
Lyla didn’t wait for him to reply but crawled into bed.
Too tired to put up a fight, Pistol didn’t argue. He climbed in beside her, easing down onto his back carefully. Relieved to be horizontal, he freed a heavy sigh.
“You okay?” she asked, a twinge of worry in her voice.
He closed his eyes and muttered, “Belly’s full. Wounds are tended. I’m fine.”
They settled into the darkness, silence filling the room.
For Pistol, in spite of his exhaustion, sleep didn’t come.
Instead, behind his eyelids, the scene at the Kings’ clubhouse played out again and again.
He saw her push her way through his brothers, not the least bit afraid of the Kings who stood nearby—or the one who towered over him—as she raced toward his chair.
She had no motivation to protect him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she watched with satisfaction while her brother beat him within an inch of his life. He’d done nothing to earn her bravery. And yet, she gave it.
“You’re not sleeping,” she whispered, shifting beside him.
He furrowed his brow as he turned his head in her direction.
“How do you know?”
“I can tell by your breathing.”
“Babe—quit your worryin’. Go to sleep.”
“You go to sleep.”
She was a bossy little thing, and a small smile played at his lips as he drew in a deep breath and attempted sleep.
Except, in the silence, he swore he felt his mother.
Not in the physical sense, but in the place where she lived on in his memories.
He knew, if she was still alive, she would have been just as bossy in her worry.
“Pistol?” Lyla whispered, testing to see if he was still awake.
Rather than answer her, he breathed deeper, hoping his silence would encourage her to relax.
He listened for a few minutes, waiting for her to drift into slumber, all the while marveling at the woman he made his wife.
His wife.
Thoughts of his mother still filtering through his mind, he wondered what she would have thought of Lyla.
Rosemary Wells believed in angels. Pistol never did—but as he surrendered to the pull of sleep, the last conscious thought that crossed his mind was how maybe, impossibly, he didn’t marry a stranger.
Maybe he married his guardian angel.
And maybe, incredibly, it was all Rosemary’s doing.
She always did like to meddle.