Page 45 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

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That night, after watching Annie down on the pathway, my dreams were vivid, filled with her and James. Annie was there, right in front of me, James holding her. She was laughing, her eyes sparkling, and he was blowing her a kiss. We were in a place that felt both familiar and surreal—a playground, maybe, or our backyard. The details were blurry, but the feeling was crystal clear—a sense of everything being okay, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I reached out to them both in the dream, my arms open. James let go of Annie’s hand and she ran towards me, her small feet pounding on the soft ground. The moment she reached me, I scooped her up, lifting her into the air as she giggled. The sound of her laughter was beautiful, and then James was there, and I was promising to keep them both safe.

As I held Annie close, spinning her around, I felt a surge of emotions—love, relief, a fierce protectiveness, a certainty that I would do anything for this little family. In that dream, Annie could know me, because I wasn’t a murderer driven by revenge and a thirst for killing.

But the dream changed, as it always did, James took her from me, making me promise to call, to tell him I was safe.

You need to be safe. Stay safe for me.

Then, there was blood, and pleading, and I woke myself up, with tears on my face, shaking, and so damn angry it burned, panting, and trying to catch my breath, scrubbing at my eyes.

I wouldn’t get any more sleep now.

I checked my watch, five a.m. I used the bathroom and showered, then dressed in the loose sweats that formed half of my wardrobe, along with a collection of generic T-shirts in various colors. At least, it was better than a hospital gown, but still, the sweats sat low on my hips, weighing nothing, and felt wrong when I was used to wearing tight jeans and a holster. I made a coffee, searched for a halfway decent snack, then, finding none, stared out at the ocean as best I could, given sunrise was still an hour away.

At least, I could hear it.

I let myself out of the room, passing the cameras and sketching a wave at whoever might be watching before I headed down to the kitchen to find a real snack.

Chocolate.

Cookies.

One of those frosted cupcakes from Ryder that I’d turned down.

Low lighting ran through the entire house and only the main doors were locked at night, so any one of the guests—me, the staff, or the kids—could walk around any part of the interior. There were several intriguing corridors, one with extra cameras and a key card lock, which I assumed was where the kid’s dorms were, a tall woman armed to the teeth sat at a desk by the hall, and we exchanged nods.

Should I try to find Ryder’s room? He might be awake, and the thought crossed my mind that he could make things better.

I had all this burning anger, and maybe if we sparred, I could get it out of me? My belly gave a sympathy wince, and I sighed. Fuck this shit. All these days, and I was done being an invalid, fucking Amos shooting me, fucking Amos deceiving me when I was trained to identify guys like him. Fucking everything. Finishing my walk to the kitchen, I grabbed a family-size bag of Doritos, stared at it, swapped it for candy bars, then with a put-upon sigh, put those back as well, and instead, grabbed a pack of chocolate-covered raisins, which were as healthy as it gets, I guess. Then, I made a hot chocolate and rounded the corner to a seating area, shocked to find someone else already there. Ryder. Snoozing on the sofa, the television on an infomercial about some magic stew pot thing. I stopped dead and backed out slowly.

“It’s okay,” Ryder murmured, his voice sleepy. “Come in and join the one-pot-wonder marathon.” He stood, stretched tall, and I couldn’t help but look. Come on, he was there, and his belly was flat, and he had a six-pack, and his low-hanging pajamas left nothing to the imagination.

Nothing.

“I should go,” I said, scrunching the pack of raisins and grasping my mug tight.

“No, you have to watch. Did you know that this pot cooks two to six times faster than traditional methods?” Ryder asked, and I wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer. “Imagine, I’m making a stew, and it cooks in minutes.”

“You do that? Cook I mean?” I asked, intrigued. The most I’d ever cooked was heating up MREs when we were on mission.

“I am a master cook,” Ryder chuckled. “I can do a mean mac ’n’ cheese.”

I watched as he crossed to the snack cupboard and pulled out the Doritos, pouring some into a bowl, then sitting back down, and through all of it, I stood there, not quite sure what to do. Then, he patted the sofa next to him, and somehow, it felt right that I sit with him.

We watched the infomercial repeat, as it did every twenty minutes, and I relaxed as the dregs of the dreams faded away. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d dreamed of impossible things and woken up angry, but I’d never considered infomercials to send me back to sleep.

With soft light coming from the muted glow of the television screen, I felt a strange sense of calm. It was late, the rest of the world asleep, leaving Ryder and me, plus the guard outside the kids’ part, in this quiet bubble of time and space. My belly didn’t even hurt, and the raisins were enough sweetness to keep me happy.

Ryder stood, turning off the TV, plunging the room into near-total darkness. I followed suit, standing, feeling a mix of uncertainty and something else I couldn’t quite name. There was a tension in the air, a charged silence that seemed to speak louder than words.

“Bed,” he announced, breaking the epic stare-off we had going on, and I fell into step with him as we headed up the stairs to the medical wing.

“Your room is up here?” I asked, confused.

“Nah, I’m walking you to your door.”

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