Page 85 of Trade It All

Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance back.

“Make sure he gets there in one piece,” he says, each word clipped and vicious. “I need my goalie tonight.”

There’s movement behind him. A scuffle. Luka muttering something that sounds a lot like you are so fucked.

Then Tyler’s protesting voice gets farther away. And farther.

Until all I hear is Dean. His chest rising and falling against me. Hard. Fast.

His heart hammering so violently I can feel it through his shirt.

I stare at the center of his chest because I can’t seem to lift my eyes yet.

Can’t seem to do anything except stand here and let the realization wash over me.

He came.

The second I called for him—even without saying the words—he came.

There had not been one tiny part of me that doubted it either.

Not one.

Even when Tyler grabbed my phone. Even when I hit this wall. Somewhere under the panic there had been one solid truth holding me up.

Dean will come. Dean will find me. Dean will get to me.

And now he is here, wrapped around me like a human barricade, his body taking up every inch of space between me and the thing that scared me.

I know, with a certainty that sinks straight into my bones, that I will always be safe with this man.

Always.

Dean doesn’t speak until the hallway goes quiet. Until we are alone. Then he steps back just enough to look at me, both hands coming to my face so quickly and so gently it makes my throat tighten.

His palms frame my cheeks.

His thumbs sweep under my eyes.

“Are you okay, Baby?” I nod. His jaw flexes. “I need your words.”

A tiny laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Even now. Even in this. He needs my words.

“I’m okay,” I whisper. “I’m fine.”

His eyes search mine like he’s trying to read every hidden thing I’m not saying.

“He didn’t do anything,” I tell him quickly, because I can already see the storm building in his face. “He scared me, that’s all. But you got here in time.”

Dean steps back. Just one pace. But it feels wrong instantly, the air colder without him pressed against me. His hands drag through his hair.

“No.” The word comes rough. Angry. At himself. “I didn’t protect you.”

My brows pull together. “Dean—”

“I promised you.” His voice rises, not at me, just from panic, from guilt, from everything he is choking on. “I promised you I would keep you safe and I let you walk away from me and he got to you.”

He turns, pacing once in the small office like he can’t stand still with the amount of blame ripping through him.