Tristan calling my name follows. Seconds later, he appears, running into view. His face is twisted with terror as he drops to his knees beside me. His mouth forms my name again and again as he checks my pulse, my breathing. Then he lifts me into his arms, my head lolling against his chest.
Tristan calls out for Brandon as he reaches the cabin. They’re both running. We’re in the bathroom, where Brandon is filling the tub with water, and then Tristan lays me in the tub. He reaches a hand toward me, I assume to take off my shirt because then the footage ends.
“Are you saying the only thing that happened out there in the woods is that I hit my head, then you brought me here andyou’ve been up all night, keeping watch, afraid I wouldn’t wake up?”
“Yes. I was scared shitless.” He rests his forehead on mine, his eyes squeezing as if in pain. “Don’t do this to me again. Please, Birdie. I can’t lose you.”
I stare at the screen, trying to reconcile what I’ve just seen with the vivid horror etched into my memory. “But it felt so real. I can, literally, feel him inside me.”
“I was there the whole time. There was no one else there, Birdie,” he says softly, holding my gaze. “But you hit your head pretty hard. I should have taken you to the hospital right away.” His thumb gently brushes near the bandage on my temple. “Get some rest. I’ll arrange for a secure trip to the hospital first thing in the morning. I don’t think what you had was just a nightmare. You may have a concussion.”
I lean into him, too exhausted to fight anymore—against the memories, against the evidence, against the comfort of his arms that defies everything. “No. We don’t have time for this. We must go to Florida. Now.”
“Birdie, we talked about this. I get that you want to send your stalker a message so badly you fantasized about it when you passed out, in a disturbingly dark erotic way of all things, but I can’t let you go see your stalker. Besides, we’ve already narrowed him down to two possible suspects. Both we can easily contact and subtly tell about your husband’s blackmail. There, message delivered.”
I draw back. “Are you sure I’m the one who hit my head and not you? Whether the creep bodyguard is Butterfly Man or not, maybe that would have been the easy way to do it, but if we tell the detective the truth and he turns out to be just that, adetective, what do you think he’s going to do with the crimes we voluntarily confess to him? He’ll slap our wrists and tell us not to do it again? Are you crazy?”
He just stares at me. He must know I have a point.
“Besides, we can’t rule out the possibility that Butterfly Man is neither of them, not yet,” I add. “We must go to Florida. You have Blake’s trail to follow from the prison in Jacksonville that will lead you to where he’s hiding his app to destroy it, and I must stall Butterfly Man in Miami until you do.”
His jaw tightens as he pulls away from me. The warmth that had been in his eyes moments ago hardens. “You still want to offer yourself as bait. After everything that’s happened.” His voice is controlled, but the fury building beneath the surface isn’t hard to miss.
“We don’t have another choice. You know that.”
He stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “No. What I know is that you collapsed in the woods today. What I know is that you’re having such vivid hallucinations that you can’t distinguish between reality and your own fears.” His eyes pierce mine. “What I know is that you’re in no condition to face anyone, let alone the man who’s been tormenting you for months.”
“Tristan—”
“But I also know that every minute you’re away from me is dangerous. I promised I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.” He nods to himself. “You’re coming with me.”
I sigh in relief. “Thank you.”
“But you’re not posting that video or meeting your stalker.”
And just like that, the relief slips away. “But—”
“No buts. I’m not gonna stand by and watch you walk into danger. Not again.” He turns off the light and moves toward the door. “Get some sleep. We leave first thing in the morning.”
With Tristan halfway out of the door, as the last flicker of light fades, panic surges through me at the thought of being alone in the darkness again. “Wait!” I call out, my voice breaking. “Don’t leave. Please.”
He pauses, hand on the doorknob, his back to me.
“I’m scared…of being alone tonight. Of what I might see when I close my eyes,” I whisper, hating the weakness in my voice, but I don’t care. “Would you stay with me tonight? Even if you can just sit in the chair until I fall asleep.”
For what feels like an eternity, he remains frozen, silhouetted in the doorway. Then, without a word, he closes the door and turns back to the room. He doesn’t move toward the chair. Instead, he walks to the bed.
“Scoot over,” he commands.
I blink, surprised by his directness. “Really?”
“I’ve been sitting for hours in that chair. My neck is still sore from watching over you all night. And I meant what I said about not letting you out of my sight.”
A smile sneaks up on me as I slide over, making room. “Of course.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, his back to me, and removes his shoes methodically. The mattress dips as he stretches out beside me, keeping a careful distance between us. He places his gun on the nightstand, within easy reach.
He lies rigid, staring up at the ceiling. Even in the darkness, the tension radiating from his body is palpable.
