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“Stupid men,” I mutter.
It’s with regret and sheer will to keep my ass planted in the bed that I manage to fall asleep. I wouldn’t even call it sleep. It’s that second right on the cusp that you grow weightless when a loud bang wakes me. The sound of something breaking forces me fully upright in the bed, but then silence surrounds me.
I know I didn’t dream it. The sounds were too real, as real as the sheer terror that fills every cell in my body. I ease out of the bed, using trembling hands to pull random clothes from the pile still on the bed. I shove my legs in jeans and put on a top before pressing my bare feet into a pair of shoes.
There’s nowhere to hide in this room. I discovered that the first night I arrived when Deacon left me here alone for a short period of time. Designer clothes won’t protect me, and since we’re on the nineteenth floor, climbing out of a window to get to safety isn’t an option.
I can hear every breath rushing past my lips, every pound of my heart, every single step I make toward the bedroom door. What I don’t hear is a single sound coming from the other side. I scream when the door swings open before I can reach for it, and nearly collapse on the floor in relief when I see Deacon rather than a masked murderer enter.
“Wh-what’s going on?”
He’s rumpled, sweat dotting his forehead and upper lip. He leans to the side filling the doorway, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing past him if only for the briefest of seconds.
A sob escapes my mouth, but my hand isn’t fast enough to cover it.
“There’s been an incident.” How can he be so calm?
“Is he dead?”
I can no longer see the guy on the floor right outside the bedroom door, but the ever-growing pool of blood surrounding his body will be burned into my brain for eternity.
“He’s dead.”
Deacon fills every inch of my line of sight, and I’m honestly grateful. I didn’t want to see the dead man once, much less getting another glance at him.
“Russian?” I manage when it’s clear Deacon isn’t going to reach out and touch me.
“He’s a local street thug,” Deacon answers before I feel his arms wrap around me.
He kicks the bedroom door closed before walking me over to the edge of the bed. I sit down; he doesn’t.
Before I can ask any more questions, the doorbell to the suite rings.
“Stay here,” he insists before walking out of the room.
He doesn’t need to worry. There’s no way I’m going out there. The door opens again, only it’s Flynn walking in, not Deacon. I reach for him immediately, and in kind he doesn’t hesitate to cross the room and wrap his arms around me. He doesn’t seem bothered by my tears when I sob into his shoulder.
Seeing bloody EMTs and a trashed apartment have nothing on what has happened tonight. Short of deceased, elderly relatives, I’ve never seen a dead body, certainly not one so recently deceased. Not one that was clearly feet away from getting into this room. Was he coming after me? What if Deacon wasn’t here? What if that guy came in here last night or any other night this last week?
This realization makes me cry harder, but Flynn takes it in stride, rubbing my back and assuring me everything is going to be fine. I don’t think it will though. How can everything be fine when there was a guy coming to hurt me? How will things ever be normal again with me knowing that?
The doorbell chimes again, causing me to jerk and hold Flynn tighter.
“That’s the police.”
I snap my head up looking toward the door. I didn’t know Deacon had entered the room behind his friend. He made no move to comfort me, and that stings. I’ve known him for years. He’s literally the closest person I have around right now, and he didn’t even try to interfere when Flynn took me in his arms.
I shove my face back into Flynn’s neck when Deacon’s hand reaches for the doorknob. I can’t stand the thought of seeing that body again, but it’s also nearly impossible to watch Deacon walk out of the room again.
“Are you okay?” Flynn asks. I cling to his British accent as hard as I cling to his arms. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can wish myself away from this moment in time. “Anna?”
“I d-don’t think so,” I answer honestly. “Will Deacon be in trouble?”
“No, love. He won’t be.” He pulls back, cradling my face in his huge palms. “We need to pack. Can you help me?”
I nod even though I’m unsure how helpful I’ll be right now. He urges me to stand, holding me around the waist when my knees nearly buckle. He’s patient, waiting until I assure him I’m okay before he releases me and takes a step back.
