“You could,” I agree. “But would you really feel safer with a squad car driving by every couple of hours than having me camp on your couch all night?”
Kayla closes her eyes briefly, as if gathering her strength. When she opens them, they’re clear and determined. “You can stay,” she says with a small nod. “On the couch. You can stay on the couch. Not in my bedroom.”
Relief flows through me so strongly I almost sway with it. I’ve spent two years watching her from a distance, powerless to get closer. Now she’s given me permission to stay, to be near her, to protect her properly.
Before she can turn to go to her bedroom, I reach out and grab her arm. The contact sends a jolt through me, the first time I’ve touched her in two years. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away as I yank her closer. Her eyes widen, and for a moment I think she believes I’m going to kiss her. God how I want to, but instead, I bury my face in her neck and inhale deeply, filling my lungs with her scent. Vanilla and something floral, just like I remember. Then I release her, stepping back before I do something stupid.
“Did you just… sniff me?” she asks, her voice somewhere between bewildered and amused.
“I missed you, Sunshine,” I say simply.
Kayla stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she turns without another word and walks away, disappearing down the hall. I hear a door close softly, and I’m alone in her living room.
I pull my shirt over my head, folding it neatly and placing it on the arm of the couch. My boots come off next, lined up besidethe coffee table where I won’t trip over them if I need to move quickly. My gun I place on the end table within easy reach. Then I turn out the light and stretch out on the couch, my feet hanging over the armrest.
The darkness settles around me, broken only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. I listen to the quiet sounds of the house; the muffled sounds of Kayla getting ready for bed, the occasional creak of the floorboards as the house settles, the distant ticking of a clock. I wonder if Kayla is as aware of my presence as I am of hers.
It’s strange being here in her space, surrounded by the life she’s built without me. I didn’t realize until now how much it would hurt, seeing tangible proof that she’s moved on. But I push the thought away. My feelings don’t matter right now. What matters is keeping her safe.
I’m just starting to relax when I hear the faintest scrape against the side of the house. Most people wouldn’t notice it, would write it off as a tree branch or an animal. But I’ve spent too many years listening for danger not to recognize the sound of someone trying to be quiet and not quite succeeding.
In one smooth motion, I roll off the couch and grab my gun from the end table. The sound comes again, but it’s more distinct now, the careful manipulation of a window latch. It’s coming from the kitchen at the back of the house.
I move silently across the room, grateful for the thick carpet that muffles my footsteps. Pressing myself against the wall beside the kitchen doorway, I wait, gun at the ready. The window slides open with a soft whisper of sound, and I hear the hushed thump of feet landing on the linoleum floor.
My heart pounds, but my hands are steady. I have plenty of experience waiting in the dark for an enemy to make himself known. The familiar rush of adrenaline narrows my focus to a laser point, every sense heightened.
A shadow moves in the kitchen, sliding toward the doorway where I wait. I catch a glimpse of golden blond hair in the dim light filtering through the window, and something clicks in my brain. I know that color, that particular shade that seems to glow even in darkness.
The intruder takes one more step, and I pounce, tackling him to the ground with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. We hit the floor hard, my weight pinning him down as I press the muzzle of my gun to his temple.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” I growl, my voice low and deadly.
26
Chapter 26
Kayla
The ceiling above my bed holds no answers, no matter how intensely I stare at it. Sleep refuses to come, my mind racing with the knowledge that Roman is just a few dozen feet away, sprawled on my couch as if he belongs there. Like two years of silence and separation never happened. Like he didn’t just casually drop that he’s been watching me this entire time, a shadowy presence on the periphery of my life that I never asked for, never wanted. Or maybe I did want it, deep down in the most hidden corners of my heart, and that’s what terrifies me most of all.
I roll onto my side, punching my pillow into submission before tucking it under my head. The sheets tangle around my legs as I shift positions for what feels like the hundredth time. Mochi jumps up onto the bed, padding over to curl against myback, his purr vibrating between my shoulder blades. At least someone in this house can relax.
Two years. For two years, Roman has been following me. Guarding me. The thought sends contradictory waves of fury and comfort washing through me. How dare he? Who gave him the right to insert himself into my life again without my knowledge or consent? And yet… knowing that he was there, that someone was watching over me when I felt most alone, stirs something I’ve tried desperately to bury since the day I signed those divorce papers.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing sleep to come, but images of Roman keep flashing behind my eyelids. There’s a weariness to him now that wasn’t there two years ago. The hunger on his face as he looked at me hasn’t changed, however. He still behaves with the same confidence, the same authority. The same audacity. He’s always been physically intimidating, and that clearly hasn’t changed; he certainly had no trouble dispatching the intruder in the hallway.
The intruder. My eyes snap open, my heart suddenly pounding against my ribs. Someone broke into my house tonight. Someone was waiting for me when I came home from my date with Todd. Someone who might have—
I swallow hard, suddenly very aware of how vulnerable I am, how fragile the security I’ve built around myself really is. I took self-defense classes when I first moved to Billings. I learned how to shoot a gun. Would any of it have been any good if I’d been taken off guard in my own home, however?
The memory of my kidnapping rises unbidden: the blindfold, the ropes cutting into my wrists, Kit’s voice in my ear. The complete powerlessness of being at someone else’s mercy.
It could have happened again. Tonight.
My breath comes faster, and I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees. I force myself to take deep breaths.
When my heart rate finally slows, I lie back down with a sigh and close my eyes, trying to empty my mind. Sleep tugs at me; my body finally surrendering to exhaustion. I’m drifting, nearly there, when something nags at the edge of my consciousness. Something I’ve forgotten. Something important.