Page 75 of Beautiful Scars

Z nods, his deep voice filling the room. "My team's the best at what they do, Sunny. I trust every single man under this roof with my life.” He pauses, his jaw tight. "I know that doesn't mean shit to you right now, but I need you to trust me, trust them. If there were any other way..."

The raw honesty in his voice makes me look up. He knows how much he's asking of me.

Chase emerges from the kitchen, his massive frame filling the doorway. He's the one who helped me to the car after Z got me out. He's huge. Easily the biggest man I've ever seen. His gentleness surprised me. "House is clear," he reports. "Security system upgrades are online. Added motion sensors to all entry points." He gives me the same reassuring smile he'd offered when Z handed me off to him.

Ty's set up at the dining room table with multiple laptops open in front of him. The bruise on his temple is a stark purple against his pale skin. The guilt hits me again—he was protecting me when that happened. From what I understand, all these men have agreed to protect each other with their lives if necessary. I was never part of that agreement.

He catches me staring at him through the doorway and gives a slight nod, as if reading my thoughts. "I'm fine," he says in a voice loud enough to carry through the room. "It wasn't your fault."

"Something smells amazing," I manage, trying to change the subject.

"That would be Jayce," Z explains.

"Making pasta tonight—an old family recipe. It's going to be delicious." A warm voice calls from the kitchen.

I freeze for a moment, my brain struggling to reconcile the domesticity in those words with everything going on around me. Less than an hour ago, they'd moved through my apartment like a tactical unit, weapons drawn, voices clipped and professional. I give up on trying to make it make sense and stretch out in the chair I'm sitting in.

Through the kitchen doorway, I can hear Jayce humming while he cooks. Wolf and Chase are discussing camera placement in low voices. Ty's fingers click steadily on his keyboard.

I sink deeper into the chair, the adrenaline crash hitting me hard. My clothes still smell like fear-sweat from being trapped in that bathroom, and my hair feels stringy and gross. Z must notice something in my expression because he straightens from his spot by the door.

"Come on," he says, offering me his hand. "Let me show you to your room. You look like you could use a shower and some space to breathe."

The thought of being alone makes my heart rate spike, but the idea of washing away the last couple hours is too tempting to resist. I follow him through the house, noting how the others subtly shift their positions as we move. Even heading up the long wooden staircase, they're protecting me.

"This one will be yours." Z opens the third door on the right.

The room is simple but comfortable. It holds a queen-sized bed with crisp white sheets, a dresser, nightstand, and a cushioned window seat overlooking the backyard. I can tell from here the window is the same thick plexiglass convenience stores hide their clerks behind.

"It's not much," Z says, leaning against the doorframe. "But it's secure. This is one of the only rooms with a private bath. You'll be safe here Sunny. Nobody knows about this place except for us."

I walk to the window, taking in the view of the well-maintained yard surrounded by tall trees and fencing. It feels isolated, protected.

"Once I finish debriefing the guys and we come up with a plan, we can head back to your apartment to let you get some things." Z's voice is steady, reassuring. "Clothes, personal items, anything important to you."

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to process everything that's happened in the last few hours. "Z, I-"

"I wish there was a way to make it easier for you." He cuts off my protest before I can voice it. "I know this isn't ideal, and I know you've got every reason not to trust us. But right now, this is the best option."

Seeing him standing there, his eyes so sincere, I want to believe him. After years of taking care of myself, of not letting anyone get close enough to help, it's terrifying to put my trust in someone else. But, he's right. For now, this is my best option.

"So those guys downstairs?" I ask, my voice smaller than I'd like. "They're… good?"

Z's expression softens slightly understanding what I’m asking. "The best. Each one of them has their own story, their own reasons for being here. But they're family. And now, for as long as you need it, they'll do everything they can to make sure you're safe."

I nod, sinking down onto the window seat. "What happens now?"

"Now, you get settled in. Lock your door, take a shower if you want, try to rest. I need to talk to the guys, figure out our next steps." He straightens up from the doorframe. "Jayce really is making pasta—he's actually a great cook. I'll have him bring you up a plate when it's ready."

"Thank you," I whisper, even though the words feel inadequate for everything he's done today.

Z just nods, his expression unreadable. "Get some rest, Sunny. Make yourself at home. We'll handle everything else."

He steps out, pulling the door closed behind him. I listen to his footsteps fade down the hallway, then get up and turn both the locks. The click as they slide into place is comforting.

I sit on the edge of the bed, running my hands over the cool blankets. The house is quiet except for the muffled sounds of conversation downstairs.

How did things manage to get so fucked up?

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