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So I found an apartment with some friends and moved out.
My mom soon followed, stating it was better to live with her sister in a rundown house with no money than to stay with a man she no longer recognized.
The separation only made my father worse.
He hounded me to move back home. Phone calls. Text messages. He even showed up at my apartment on a weekly basis.
I held out hope of things changing once I made it into the Bureau. I told myself I’d be able to understand him and the pressures of his position. But by the time I got my badge, he was gone.
Disappeared.
All he left behind were the whispers of him turning to a life of crime, and the one damning photo taken by an anonymous source of my father participating in a money exchange with a well-known Idaho criminal.
The reason for the transaction is still up for speculation.
Everyone has a theory. Some claim it was a drug deal. Others say it was payment for classified information. Nobody knew which way the cash went—from my father to the criminal or vice versa.
I was among many who tried to figure it out.
I spent months trying to clear his name. Each day it grew harder to maintain the workload when he didn’t make contact. His trail died with a one-way ticket to Spain.
Not long after, my mother died, too.
Car accident. Heavy impact. Dead at the scene.
I’d been orphaned in the blink of an eye, although, technically my father is still alive.
He makes his presence known every now and then. Sometimes there are unsigned postcards or packages delivered from overseas. And I know he’s responsible for the flowers on my mother’s grave.
“Nissa?”
I jolt from the memories and rub my nose, wiping away the tingle.
“Are you still down here?” Cole’s footsteps approach along the hall.
I close my eyes and remain still. I don’t speak, don’t even twitch, as he enters the room.
“Nissa?” he whispers.
The bed jolts. I don’t know if he’s seated on the far edge of the mattress or leaned against it. He’s close enough for his aftershave to sink into my lungs.
“I know you’re not asleep. I’ve watched you do the real thing for long enough to know the difference.”
I don’t bite. I keep my inhales measured. Deep.
The mattress jolts again. More footsteps follow, the pad of his feet coming around to my side of the bed. “You may not want to believe me, but we’re on the same side. At least temporarily.”
I suck in a longer breath and exhale with a whimper, bringing out my A-game acting skills.
He chuckles, friendly and masculine as hell. It’s the most frightening sound I’ve ever heard because it seems genuine.
“Okay,” he drawls. “Have it your way. I just want you to rest assured I’m going to get you home safely.”
The plate scrapes across the nightstand, his footfalls recede, and I’m left alone to refute his claim.
There’s no resting assured. There’s no ability to rest at all.
I lie there through the sound of the kitchen clean-up and his soft conversation with Luca as the night carries on without me. I’m still lying there, plagued with thoughts of him, when they both retreat to their rooms. And I’m still thinking of him when sleep finally drags me under.
Nightmares wake me. I launch upright, gasping for breath.
The panic-infused dreams were of Cole.
He’d been shielding me from an unseen enemy, one arm wrapped around my shoulder as he fired his gun into the darkness. The betraying feel of his overwhelming protection continues to haunt me as I blink to consciousness and measure my inhales, trying to calm my pulse.
The sound of the gunshot still hums in my ears. The vibration continuous.
No, it’s a rumble. A growl.
And it grows. Getting louder.
Shit.
It’s not recollection. It’s a fucking boat.
I scramble from the bed and rush into the hall. I reach Cole’s door, the light from the other side glowing against the carpet.
“Knock. Make sure he’s awake.”
I gasp and turn to see Luca standing in the open doorway behind me, pulling a shirt over his head.
“It’s time.” He jerks his chin at me, telling me to hurry up. “Luther’s here.”
I’m not ready.
I need a weapon. My gun. I’m entirely vulnerable without it.
He disappears into his darkened room, leaving me to rely on autopilot. My hand rises to Cole’s door, my knuckles rapping against the wood before I know what I’m doing. I knock. Hard. Over and over. My staccato pulse matches the rhythm of my banging.
There’s no response, only the increased volume of the rumble from the approaching boat.
I grasp the handle and push inside, not sure what to expect, but it isn’t an empty room. The bedside lamp is on, the room bathed in light, and he’s nowhere in sight.
“Cole?” I take a step, swallowing my apprehension. “Cole?”
“I’m here.” He stalks from the walk-in robe, suit pants the only thing covering his perfect body as he tugs on a collared shirt. “Don’t worry, I got a call twenty minutes ago. I’m ready for him.”
“You didn’t think to wake me?” I’m shaking, fucking trembling from adrenaline.
“I didn’t wake you because I didn’t want this to happen.” He flicks his hand in my direction. “You don’t need to panic; we’ve got time.”
“I’m not panicking.” I’m not. This is…different.
He shoots me a look of disbelief and walks to the bed, grabbing the suit jacket spread out on the mattress.
“I’m unarmed,” I offer in explanation. “I’m vulnerable. If something goes wrong—”
“Nothing will go wrong.” He tugs his shirt collar into place, looking entirely suave while he does it. “By this time tomorrow, you’ll be on your way home, relaxing in a private jet with a glass of unspiked Beluga while you reminisce on how I completed a task the Bureau failed for years.”
My pulse spikes, my face heating from anger and frustration. “And what about you?” I step closer. “Will you be celebrating? Are you entirely immune to what’s about to happen?”
His eyes harden. His jaw tics. “You know I’m not.”
Do I?
I’d give anything to believe hell is raining down on his shoulders right now, but it’s hard when he carries himself so well. He looks as if he’s preparing for a day of business, just like any other.
“Scamper into the panic room, little fox, and don’t open the door until I come get you.”
I stare into those eyes, the ones now devoid of emotion.
He’s deflecting. Again. Trying to hide behind animosity.
Has he done this the whole time? Does he poke at me when he’s trying to deflect from something important—his fear or regret?
The realization is like a lightbulb bursting in the dull shadows of my mind.
“I won’t ask again.” He storms for the hall.
Shit.
I’ve fractured his calm.
He had his game face on, and was ready and waiting for action, until I came in and fucked it up. I’ve added to his burden and gained a dose of guilt to go with it.
“Cole, wait.”
He pauses, not looking over his shoulder.
I don’t want to say anything else. I should leave this how it is in the hope I don’t make a bigger mess. But my life is in his hands. And the lives of so many other women, too.
“What?” he growls.
“I’m sorry.” The apology mumbles past my lips. It’s pathetic, and probably entirely unbelievable, but at least it’s out there, clearing my conscience. “I hope everything goes to plan.”