Because if Mark Renshaw—or anyone connected to him—comes for her…
They’re going to find out what happens when you threaten what I’ve decided to protect.
I lock the door. Check the windows. Double-check the perimeter feed. Then I sit on the couch, facing the hallway, listening to the quiet. Waiting. And hating how much I’m looking forward to hearing her voice again.
FIVE
EMMA
I slept like the dead. Like, snoring-on-my-face, drool-on-the-pillow, zero-regrets kind of sleep. It’s the first time I’ve actually felt safe in… I don’t know. Weeks? Months?
Stretching as I pad barefoot into the main room, I stop cold.
There, curled up on a couch way too small for his mountain-sized body, is Rhett. One arm flung over his chest. One boot still on. His jaw is slack, his dark lashes somehow annoyingly perfect even in unconsciousness.
Poor guy looks wildly uncomfortable.
He didn’t even try to kick me out of his bed. Just let me crash and claimed this lumpy couch like a sacrificial protector.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling way too warm. Not because of the oversized sweatshirt I’m wearing—which, by the way, might be his—but because… I don’t know. There’s something about the way he’s all angles and strength even in sleep that makes my stomach twist in confusing directions.
I take one silent step closer and tilt my head.
His chest rises in a steady rhythm. His lips are parted just a little. The arm slung over his chest shifts slightly, like he's dreaming.
And that’s when he speaks—voice low and gravelly.
“You gonna keep staring at me, or are you planning my funeral?”
I shriek and jump back about a foot. “Oh my God! I thought you were asleep!”
Rhett cracks one eye open, a sleepy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hard to sleep when someone’s breathing heavy at me from across the room.”
“I was not breathing heavy.” I cross my arms. “I was observing. There's a difference.”
He stretches, groaning as his spine pops. “You could’ve observed from the kitchen. Preferably while making coffee.”
I roll my eyes, though I do feel bad. “You gave me your bed. You didn’t have to do that.”
His eyes flick to mine. “You needed the rest. I’m fine.”
“You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“That’s just my face.”
“Could’ve fooled me last night,” I mutter, too soft for him to catch—hopefully.
But then he stands, and his shirt rides up just enough to flash a sliver of ab definition that could slice a bagel, and yeah. I’m not okay. Not even close.
Focus, Emma. Missing sister. Evil jerk named Mark.
Not… forearms and sleepy grins.
“You hungry?” Rhett asks, pulling me out of my internal thirst spiral.
“I can make something if you want,” I say, trying to sound normal. “It’s the least I can do.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, Chase and Boyd are probably already cooking over at the clubhouse. Come on. I’ll introduce you to a few of the women around here. Harper and Kayley. You’ll like ’em.”