Page 15 of Protected By Her Daddy

No wedding ring, I note absently. Can I trust my instincts that he’s a good guy? Would I know if he weren’t? Apart from my dad, who I barely remember, and Mom before she succumbed to the drugs, I’ve had no positive role models in my life.

I try to focus on what he’s saying, but the pain meds are making me woozy again. Or is it his intoxicating scent muddling my senses? Musk and man. It’s delicious. Soothing. Grounding. I could become addicted to it.

I shift my hand, twining our fingers as I sink further into the soft pillows with a tired sigh. It should be weird holding hands with a stranger, but it isn’t. It’s a relief to switch my brain off after weeks of running on adrenaline and constantly worrying about how I’m going to survive.

Gabriel squeezes my hand gently, his thick fingers woven through mine strangely intimate and sensual. The heat of his skin travels through my veins, warming me from the inside out. Despite the pain in my shoulder, this is the warmest and safest I’ve felt for a very long time. Possibly ever.

This man has treated me like a human being, like my life was worth saving. Do I dare hope that things are starting to get better? Is trust possible when given to the right people? Maybe the world isn’t as terrible as it’s always been to me. Maybe my shitty luck has finally run out.

All good things come at a price, my cautious mind whispers.

“How can I repay you for all you’ve done?” I murmur drowsily as my eyelids grow heavy. “What... what do you want from me?”

I can’t be sure, but as I relinquish the battle for consciousness and sink into sleep, I think I hear Gabriel murmur, “There’s only one thing I want, little bird. You.”

Chapter 6

Wren

Sunlight filters through the blinds, too bright and cheerful for the nightmares plaguing my sleep. My chest tightens for a moment as I blink, trying to piece together my new reality that still feels like a fantasy.

I’m in Gabriel’s penthouse. How insane is that? A girl who used to curl up on broken box springs and, later, behind garbage containers for safety is now drowning in Egyptian cotton sheets.

I sit up, stretching my arms slowly above my head and wincing as I pull a tender spot on my left shoulder. But the pain is duller now, a background noise instead of a scream.

The room is silent, the kind of hush you get when everything around you is made of marble and velvet. My room. I can’t believe I get to say that.

“Okay, Wren, don’t screw this up,” I caution myself, like I have every morning for the last three weeks.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, or should I call it my personal cloud? I’ve never slept on pillows like these. They don’t hold my head so much as cradle it in a sumptuous embrace. I almost laugh. Who knew pillows could be this…pillowy?

I stand, pacing the room. It’s all creams and golds, fancy but not in-your-face. The wall art probably costs more than someone like me could imagine. But it’s not stuffy. Somehow, Gabriel has made his home warm and inviting.

And he’s spent more time with me than I expected. After all, he’s a busy man. Still, he’s taken time to monitor my recovery and ensure I have everything I could possibly need, including a brand-new iPhone that appeared on my bedside table my second morning here, preloaded with games and books while I recovered.

During the day, he works from his office down the hall or somewhere on the lower floors, but he always eats lunch and dinner with me. We’ve talked about everything from unemployment statistics, inflation, and fiscal policy—which would put most people in a coma but fascinates me as part of my business degree—to our favorite movies and foods.

Ed has been a constant presence and has joined us for dinner a few times. I enjoy his company, and he’s taken an active interest in my recovery. He often engages me with stories of his and Gabriel’s childhood and tales from their navy days.

He and Gabriel snipe at each other like an old married couple, but it’s clear to see how close they are. His loyalty to Gabriel is unquestionable. They both served their country. They protect people on a daily basis. That makes them the good guys, right?

The question swirls in my mind. I need to remember that nothing comes for free. Not even kindness. Gabriel has been a saint, but saints have their causes. What’s his cause where I’m concerned? Can I trust him? Because I have no safe place to land if one more person lets me down.

I’m not stupid. I know how these things usually go. When a guy picks up a girl from the streets, there’s always a price tag. But Gabriel hasn’t demanded any form of payment. Not yet, anyway. I mean, it’s not like he has some weird fetish and has asked me to take pictures of my feet. He hasn’t asked anything of me except to eat the delicious meals that appear in front of me and to heal.

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t an invoice coming,” I mutter as I head toward the bathroom. I may as well continue to enjoy the luxury shower before whatever debt I owe comes knocking. If life’s taught me anything, it’s that the other shoe always drops. Always.

I shower and throw on my robe—just one of many items of clothing that have miraculously appeared since my arrival, all in my size. Gabriel said the clothes are mine to keep and that he’ll buy me more soon, but can I afford whatever it will cost me later? Like everything else in this place, his kindness is almost too much.

I glance at the bedside clock—8 AM as I slide my left arm into my sling. Gabriel will already be up. He’s in the home gym by 7 AM every morning. Since I’ve been well enough to get out of bed, we’ve eaten breakfast together, prepared by a chef somewhere in this vast building. He then heads to his office while I read or watch trash TV. Sometimes, I talk with the cleaner, who comes once a day, but she doesn’t speak much English, so we’re limited to pleasantries about the weather.

All in all, in a short period, Gabriel and I have settled into a routine that’s oddly… domesticated.

“Morning, Wren.” Gabriel greets me as I step into the ultra-modern kitchen.

My stomach dips with pleasure as I take him in, reminding myself to breathe. No one should be allowed to look this good so early in the day. Damn, he’s like a walking advertisement for silver fox sophistication, the flecks of gray at his temples highlighting experience rather than age. His presence fills the room with an energy that’s reassuring yet stimulating.

“Good morning,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the tremor that his proximity causes. “Have you heard from Cassio?”

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