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Oh my God.
I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel. But when his big hand slides into mine and he captures my fingers, I can’t bring myself to be angry.
Whether he screwed up or not, he saved my flippinglife.
“I fucked up everything, Delia. Nobody else. A man on our team had his home hit recently. My bosses ordered me to lay low—and that’s the real reason I came back. I wish like hell I could say it was for you, but I’d be lying. I did it for work.” He pauses, his eyes flickering with grief. “And I fucking hate myself for holding it to my chest. I should have told you. I should have warned you. I damn sure never should’ve underestimated the threat and let us go on this goddamned excursion.”
It hurts to see him hurting.
I turn to face him, running a hand along his cheek, tracing his strong jaw.
“Stop. You can’t blame yourself,” I say. “You didn’t make those men...”
But I trail off.
I can’t even bring myself to say what they wanted to do—the unthinkable—even in a roundabout way.
If it weren’t for Chris Triton charging to my rescue, I have zero doubt about the peril I would’ve been in.
My stomach gurgles, sick and hungry, but mostly so tired. It’s like I’ve had my soul sucked out of my body and then power slammed back into it the wrong way.
That takes its toll on everything.
“Sleep, Delia,” he tells me, turning me over again, so secure in his arms. “Rest as long as you need. I’m not leaving you ever again. I swear.”
Part of me wants to protest, to get up and move and try to force normalcy, but my shattered mind and a few sore muscles left by those men twisting me around tells me to listen to reason.
Listen to this man.
If there was ever good reason to trust him, he’s proven it a thousandfold.
* * *
We spendthe day sleeping off our trauma.
Every time I open my eyes, he’s still there, even when he’s speaking in low, harsh tones on the phone, so careful to stay quiet and so protective every time he looks at me.
I drag myself up sometime in the evening, wincing at the stinging in my shoulder—just in time to see Chris pull a cart loaded with food on silver platters into the room.
There’s salad, fruit, a big juicy burger with all the fixings, and a heap of truffle fries. Even with my stomach hounding me to eat until I’m sick, I can barely bring myself to pick at the food.
“This isn’t what you wanted,” Chris says, swallowing the last bite of burger he’s downed in record time. “I’m fucking sorry.”
I shake my head fiercely. “It’s not your fault...”
“Maybe not, but I’ll be damned if I let your vacation end like this.” I only absently notice him punching intently at his phone.
I sit limply through the rest of dinner, struggling to tear into my food and drinking my weight in water. The knock on the door is so unexpected I almost hit the ceiling.
“Stay put,” he says, running over from the small table we’re at to answer it.
“Delivery from the front desk,” someone says.
Chris mutters a “thanks” and slips the lady a tip.
Then he comes back into the room with a large box, sets it on the bed, and starts tearing the tape off.
I stare, totally baffled at what he’s ordered.
