We slam the doors; the glass is triple-reinforced, tinted so dark the outside world goes black. Delilah’s shaking still, but now it’s down to a fine vibration, like a tuning fork. I don’t speak until I’m sure no one’s in earshot.
“Let me see,” I say, reaching for her right leg.
She flinches, more out of pride than pain. “I’m fine, Cade?—”
“You’re bleeding,” I snap.
Sure enough, her thigh is a mess. Bright red slides through her torn pants. Grazed, not punctured, but it’s ugly and deep. I rip open the medical kit, douse a pad with antiseptic, and clamp it to the wound. She hisses, eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
“Keep pressure,” I say. She listens, holding it steady.
My hands are still shaking—not externally, but I feel it in the way my fingers move, over-tight, over-precise. I press her leg, checking for bone or joint damage, then bandage it tight. When I look up, she’s not blinking.
“Anyone else would be dead,” she whispers.
I snort. “Anyone else wouldn’t be worth the effort.”
She laughs again, this time almost normal, and in that sound, my heart rate ratchets down a few. She catches me looking at her and doesn’t look away. Her pupils are huge, face gone soft and open. I’m not supposed to notice that. Not supposed to register how she’s breathing, how her hands have quit trembling only because she’s got them fisted into my shirt now.
“Thank you,” she says, and her voice is small, not in a weak way, but like the air’s been wrung out of her lungs.
I let my own hand drift from her thigh to her waist, not moving away. I know it’s the wrong moment, but the urge is animal and bigger than discipline. For a moment, neither of us has anything to say.
“Was this the plan?” she asks finally.
“Plan changed,” I tell her. “Security on the ranch is garbage. You’re the target now.”
She nods. “Dad’s going to lose his shit.”
“Don’t care. If he wants you alive, he’ll listen to me.”
Her gaze flicks to my lips, then back up. I should shut it down, re-establish boundaries, bureaucratic nonsense I’ve drilled for decades. But there’s blood on her leg, a gunman out there with her name on a bullet, and I want nothing more than to keep her pressed against me until the outside world is a rumor.
I put my hands on either side of her face and force her to look me in the eye. “You move when I say. You speak when I say. And from now on, I will not leave your side. Understood?”
She blinks once, slowly. “Understood.”
The SUV rolls, the driver following my silent signal to head for the safe house. I keep my body braced up against her, scanning the road and the vineyards as we pass them. The adrenaline’s making everything raw—colors too sharp, sounds too close. Delilah burrows in, face mashed against my chest. No complaints, no words for several minutes.
Then: “Cade, are you afraid?”
“Never.”
She smiles against my jacket. “Liar.”
But she likes that about me, and so do I.
I keep my hand on her, making sure the bandage doesn’t bleed through, but really just so she knows she’s alive. We drive in a cocoon, the world outside irrelevant, the rest of the day a problem for future me. Now, I have Delilah Munro’s pulse thrumming against my ribs, and the sound of her breath is the only thing I want to hear.
By the time we reach the security gate, the ranch is chaos—helos overhead, local sheriff in a tantrum, news choppers circling like carrion birds. I don’t talk to the Senator, don’t even acknowledge the man. I walk Delilah inside, both of us ignoring the noise of a world still in motion. Through three doors, two security scans, and finally to the room that’s been scrubbed and swept and triple-checked by my best guy.
We stand in the entry, me still holding her up, her breathing faster now—in pain or in fear, I can’t tell. She tries to pull away, but I don’t let her.
“You need to sit,” I say.
She does, finally, crumple into a leather chair.
Wind outside rattles the windowpanes, and the chills run right up her arms. I strip off my jacket, draping it around her shoulders. She doesn’t move to return it.