Page 32 of Protected from Torment

At the mention of Webb’s name, Melissa looks uneasy. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she does, she spots her driveway coming up on the left and leans forward eagerly.

I only just stop myself from pushing her back against the passenger seat, so it’s safer. But that would be presumptuous and overbearing, so I tighten my grip on the steering wheel instead. “Here we are,” I announce. “Home, sweet home.”

Melissa shoots me a look of surprise.

“My dad always said it,” I explain. “Whenever we’d go on a trip, he’d say it as soon as we hit the driveway. Home, sweet home, he’d say. There’s nothing like it. I guess it just stuck with me.”

She smiles. “I like it. And I definitely can’t wait to be home. Even if—” Her smile fades. “Anyway. It’s good to be out of the hospital.”

I was hesitant to bring Melissa back to her house after she’d been attacked there—back to the scene of the crime, and all that. I don’t want her to be triggered when she walks into the living room, or not be able to sleep because she’s scared the attacker will come back.

Aside from it scaring Mel, I wouldn’t mind if he did. Because if he shows up this time, he’s going to have more than just an innocent woman to deal with. He’ll be faced with trained operatives who really don’t like men who beat up women.

But after talking to my team, we decided that bringing her back here would be the best strategy. That way, if anyone gets the idea to pull another prank on Melissa, or send another damn druggie to her house in search of drugs she doesn’t have, we’ll be right here to take care of it.

As I turn into the gravel driveway, I get my first in-person glimpse at Melissa’s rental house. It’s a two-bedroom, one and a half bath ranch, which should make it interesting considering we’re going to have five people living there for the foreseeable future. I looked at the photos online, of course, plus the layout of the interior, so I could plan for the new security system I’m going to install. But seeing it in person is different. In person, I can see the little touches Mel added since the photos were taken, like the planters on either side of the porch and the wind chime hanging from it, plus the cheery welcome flag blowing gently in the breeze.

While I’m quickly taking everything in, Melissa seems to read my mind again—something she’s been doing more frequently the more time we’ve spent together. “I hope it’s not uncomfortable for you guys,” she says. “My house isn’t very big. And if your friends are anything like you...”

Her gaze flickers to my chest. Then her cheeks go red. And damn it, if I don’t feel my pride puffing up.

But shit, the way she looked at me—it was like she liked what she saw. Like she noticed the muscles I work out almost daily to keep, and appreciated them.

Back in the old days, I never gave a second thought to how I looked or what women thought of me. I’m not proud of it, but I just took it as a given that women wanted me. There I was, this guy in the prime of my life, who stayed in shape through grueling, hours-long PT sessions and had the body to show for it.

Then I met Kaia, and I didn’t care what other women thought of me anymore. And after I lost my leg, I didn’t want anyone looking at me at all.

But now? Feeling Melissa’s gaze on me? Watching her blush and quickly avert her gaze, like she’s embarrassed to admit she likes what she sees?

I like it. A lot.

I don’t say that, of course. Or even let on to it. Instead, I say, “Don’t worry about it. We’ve slept in places much tighter than this. A couple airbeds, and we’ll be all set.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she replies. “But still, I wish you’d let me take the couch, so you guys could have both bedrooms. It would be more comfortable⁠—”

“No way.” Pulling up in front of her garage, I use the opener Indy brought to the hospital so I can open it. Then I pull inside, next to Indy’s rental car, turn off the engine, and hit the button to close the door behind us. “You need your room, Mel. So you can have privacy. And you need a quiet place to rest. You won’t be able to do that if you’re sleeping on the couch in the living room.”

“I guess,” she concedes. “But if there’s anything I can do to help, please, let me know. I’m not a great cook, but I can manage some basic stuff. Chicken stir-fry, pasta, chili...”

There’s no way I’m letting her cook for us while she’s recovering. Not a chance. She needs rest, not to be rushing around cooking and cleaning for us. But I also understand why she might want to feel useful. I remember when Bea was staying at HQ while we worked on her case, and she cooked all the time. Indy kept telling her she didn’t have to. But she insisted. “It helps me relax,” she explained. “And I like making food for you and your friends. It makes me feel good.”

“Maybe once you’re feeling better,” I allow. “Not at first, though. You heard what the doctor said. Get plenty of rest, and⁠—”

“He said light physical activity is fine,” Melissa interrupts.

“Not in the beginning.”

Her chin lifts. “It’s already been two days.”

“Then take another two,” I bargain. “Let’s see how you feel in a couple of days. If your symptoms are getting better, maybe. But with one hand, it’ll be harder, remember.”

The corner of her mouth quirks. “Not if I have help.”

One thing I learned from being married was when to accept I’m not going to win. And really, if Mel wants to make some chili, and I’m right there to help her, would it really be that bad?

Suddenly, I’m struck by a mental image of me and Melissa cooking together. I’m chopping vegetables, and she leans against me to watch, her soft curls brushing my chin. Oscar is snuffling around our feet, searching for crumbs, and when I cave and give him a small treat, Mel teasingly scolds me. But she’s laughing as she does it, and her eyes are bright and happy. Then I wrap my arm around her⁠—

Wait. Where did all that come from?