Page 8 of The Vigilant

Don’t get me wrong, even scrawny, I could still knock a man out with a single kick, but shit. I stepped up to the mirror, wincing when I could not only see the distinct outline of my collarbone but also the blue of my blood running through my veins.

I returned to the bedroom, wordlessly eyeing the bed that I’d forsake in a minute for that living room couch if it didn’t live up to my expectations.

I slid open the closet door, looked down at my duffel bag, and then dropped the whole thing inside and shut the door.All moved in.

Hot bath first, and then hopefully, I’d find some frozen food in the freezer. If not, I’d survive on the sandwich Daws gave me earlier in his office until tomorrow—I stilled, my head whipping to the side.

The sound of a pot or a pan—something clanged in the kitchen. In an instant, I’d unzipped my bag and pulled my knives from inside.What the hell—and then the low, rough curse released all the adrenaline from my body.

He left.

He was supposed to leave.

“Shit,” I muttered right back, another stamp of anger branding my chest.

What was Tynan still doing here?

Stay calm, Sutton. You need him to think you’re calm.

I forced out a long breath, knowing I needed to keep calm as I set my knives on top of the bed and went back out to the kitchen. The sounds of paper tearing, knife sharpening, and bottle popping led me right to him.

“What are you doing?” I stopped right in the doorway, dumbstruck by the sight in front of me.

The teal-colored tiled kitchen had one entrance. The fridge, stove, and microwave were lined along the left-hand side, and on the right, the sink and dishwasher faced a half-wall counter that windowed into the living room.

And Tynan…he filled the space between the counters, standing next to the sink with a long knife in his hands and fresh salmon laid on a cutting board in front of him. His wrist and armmoved in a circular motion as he cut through the deep orange fillets. He’d removed his jacket, the black leather cut draped over one of the counter stools, and for a second, all I could focus on was the flex and pulse of his bicep as it moved—and the tattoos there that moved along with it.

Two strings of numbers, both partially obscured by his shirt. But the second line…my mouth parted. I didn’t need to see the whole number to know what it was. I had the same number tattooed on my left rib cage.Dad’s dog tag number.

My breath whooshed out, and then his answer delivered another blow.

“Making dinner,” Tynan said, my attention snapping back to his face.

There was the hard cut of his jaw. The scruff of a day-old beard broken up by a handful of scars that you had to be close enough to see. The bridge of his nose was rocky from being broken too many times to ever be straight.

He was making me dinner.It was obvious—would beobvious to a normal person, but not to me. I was turning into a broken record, but I couldn’t remember the last time someone had made me dinner. I wouldn’t count juvie because that food was manufactured, not made. The last time had to be when I was really little and Lolo and Lala had lived with us. That lasted for a few years before Lolo got cancer, and then Lala couldn’t take living with Mom anymore; they’d both passed within a year of each other before I was ten.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said through tight teeth. “I’m fine.”

The simple gesture slipped right past my defenses, just like the way he’d thrown me over his shoulder earlier had. It wasn’t the effort required that made my stomach flutter, but the intent. It was the audacity of someone to care enough about me tostop me from doing something reckless—and it was the way that audacity attracted me to him as equally as it frustrated me.

Tynan let out a low sound. A laugh, I realized a beat later. It was warm and unfamiliar the way it made my skin tingle.When was the last time I felt safe enough to laugh? When I’d had something happy enough to laugh about?

I blinked, and he was looking at me, his sea glass green eyes moving right through me like the whip of a winter wind.

“What?” I demanded.

He shook his head. “That must be the Brant motto.”

“What is?”

“That you’re fine—that you don’t need anything. Can’t count how many times Jon—your dad said that to me.” He returned his attention to the fish, carefully finishing cubing the fillets. “It’s all right to let someone help you.”

I stiffened and frowned. I didn’t need anyone interested in me or my emotions. Especially not him.“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you took your bag from my hand like the act of me holding it for you was the equivalent of a gun held to your head. I know you use defiance as a shield to deter anyone from getting close, especially someone who only wants to help,” he said, and as he grabbed the cutting board and took it over to the stove, he added, “And I know you kick like a fuckin’ freight train moving at full tilt.”

I swayed a little, my hand gripping the doorframe harder to steady myself.Was I that transparent?

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