Page 90 of Protected from Torment

Then she’ll leave. My life will go back to the way it was before her. Not that it was terrible, like those first awful years after Kaia died. But it won’t be like it’s been with Mel, either.

Everything will be emptier without Melissa.

Maybe I could convince her to stay longer. Maybe. I could promise her safety. Tell her about all the new precautions we’re going to take to keep everyone involved with B and A safe—expanded security, the upgraded cars with bulletproof windows and tires that will never go flat, and the NDAs we’ll make our clients sign before taking their case. I could apologize a hundred times, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll forgive me.

“She would,” I say to myself as I emerge from the trail and into my front yard. “She’d forgive me. I know she would.”

But should she?

Even if she does, she’ll never forget. She’ll always be worrying, wondering if that day is the one where another enemy will appear. If that day is the one when I let her down again.

I come to a stop just short of the front porch of the cabin and bend over to put my hands on my legs while I catch my breath. I shift my weight off my aching leg to give it a brief reprieve before heading up the short flight of steps to the front door.

Before I open the door, I knock four times in quick succession to let Mel know it’s me. It’s something I started doing when she first came here, after the first time I came back inside without knocking and practically gave poor Mel a heart attack. She says I don’t need to do it anymore, that she feels safe here, but…

Before, I kept doing it out of habit. Now, I’m afraid she needs the reassurance again.

Mel is already hurrying towards me when I walk through the door, a worried expression pinching her features. “Are you okay?” she blurts. “You’re not usually gone this long.”

Instead of rushing across the room to her, like I usually do, my footsteps drag like they’re moving through mud. “I’m fine,” I reply. “Just lost track of time while I was running.”

Once we’re an arms-length apart, Mel moves like she’s about to hug me. But I lean back and hold my hands up. “I’m really sweaty,” I tell her. “I don’t think you want to touch me.”

Her brow furrows. Then she takes a step back. “Oh. Okay.” She gives me a tight smile. “That makes sense.”

Then she turns and gestures to the kitchen island, just past the open-concept living room. On it is a loaf of bread, a paper towel-lined bowl with strawberries, and a mixing bowl and pan sitting beside them. “I was thinking I could make French toast for breakfast, if you’d like.”

My stomach churns unhappily at the mention of food. “Maybe. After I shower.”

Noticing the coffee maker still sitting on the counter, dark and empty, I head across the kitchen and grab the bag of coffee from the cabinet above it. “Didn’t you have coffee?”

Melissa leans on the island, watching me with an unreadable expression. “No. I was waiting for you.”

Guilt jabs at me. Of course she waited. Because we always have coffee together after I work out. I just made her wait longer than usual. “Right,” I mutter, while filling the coffee filter with coffee grounds. Then I take the small jar of cinnamon from beside the coffeemaker and sprinkle some over the grounds. Once I have the coffee going, I turn back around. “It’ll be ready in just a minute.”

“If you don’t want French toast, that’s okay.” Melissa picks up the bowl of strawberries, takes it over to the fridge, and sets it inside. “It might be too heavy to eat after a long workout.”

“We can have French toast,” I reply. “I’m just really gross right now. With the weather getting hot again, and the extra long run…”

“It’s alright,” she says as she picks up the loaf of bread. “I think there are still some of those protein bars. Or I can scramble up some eggs.”

The guilt gets even heavier. More suffocating. “You don’t have to cook for me. I can cook something myself.”

Hurt flickers across Mel’s face. “I know I don’t have to. I just thought—” She stops. Sighs.

I want to say something to take the hurt look away. But my words get all tangled up.

Fix this, I tell myself. She didn’t do anything wrong. Apologize for being short with her. Just fix this.

And prolong the inevitable? When I know damn well how this will end?

Mel sighs again. Oscar gets up from his favorite napping spot beside the couch, walks over to her, and bumps her leg with his head. She reaches down to scratch between his ears, but she doesn’t look at him. Her gaze is still on me.

“Mel,” I start, feeling at a loss of what to say.

“Tyler,” she starts at the same time.

“You go,” I urge.