Page 15 of Protected from Malice
“Yes, someone was here.” Anger laces his tone. “But they’re gone. They bolted out the back as soon as they heard me come in.” He stops. Lets out a frustrated growl. “I couldn’t go after them and leave you alone, Eden. No matter how badly I wanted to catch them.”
“Of course not.” Setting the scissors down, I try to pull myself out from my hiding spot. But somehow I got all twisted and now my hips are stuck. Plus, my bloody hand keeps slipping each time I try to grab onto the slick metal of the washer or the smooth linoleum tile.
“Eden?” The doorknob rattles again. “Can you unlock the door? I need to see you.” A rare spurt of emotion roughens his voice. “I need to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m trying.” My voice cracks. “I’m stuck. I can’t…”
“Shit.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how I got like this. My hips… I need to work out more, I guess. Do more cardio. I thought pilates and weights were better for toning, but?—”
My mouth clamps shut.
What am Isaying?
Am I seriously talking about workout routines right now?
And did I just tell Rafe that my hips are too wide?
I bang my head on the side of the washer, startling myself with the resulting clunk.
“Eden.”Rafe’s voice rises in concern. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I mutter. “I just… I’ll figure out a way out. Just give me a second.” I make another grab for the edge of the washer and my stupid hand slides off it again, leaving finger-sized trails of crimson behind. “My hand is bleeding. So I keep slipping.”
“What? You’rebleeding?”
In the distance, the rise and fall of sirens approach.
“I just cut my hand a little,” I reply.
“Shit!.” A pause, and then, “I’m kicking in the door, Eden. Keep your head down. Protect your eyes.”
I immediately oblige, taking a quick opportunity to wipe the dampness from my face.
Some of it, at least. Because the tears are still flowing; both from relief and residual fear.
There’s another splintering crash like the first one I heard, followed by a loud thud as the door flies open and hits the wall.
I can’t see Rafe come into the laundry room, but I can feel his presence. I catch his achingly familiar scent—amber and musk with a hint of honey, plus an indescribable something I’ll always associate with him. Even his footsteps have a comforting solidity to them, and I can feel my muscles unclenching as they near me.
Then I see him.
Crouched beside the washer, looking at me with those incredible eyes. His strong features are tense with worry, lines etched deep into his forehead and around his mouth. In the first moments I see him, I quickly catalog everything, searching for anything different.
But no. He looks just the same. The same five o’clock shadow he always has, no matter what time of the day it is. The same short-cropped hair, slightly messy, like he’s been running his hand through it. The same Romanesque nose with the tiny scar on the bridge from when he was first learning how to shoot a rifle and smacked himself in the face with it.
Should I be staring—well, ogling, really—Rafe when he’s here to help me? When the intruder could come back any minute? When the police should be arriving soon?
Probably not. But crap. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him.
“Ah, Eden.” Rafe’s gaze moves across me, darkening as he spots the blood coating my hand. His voice gentles. “I’m sorry. I should have gotten here sooner.”
Then he stands and shoves the washer aside, moving the heavy appliance as if it weighs nothing. Reaching down again, he gently takes the phone from me and slips it into his pocket. His hand comes around mine and he pulls me to my feet, then he quickly wraps his arm around my waist to steady me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs as I stumble against him. His arm tightens, pressing me close to his chest.
And oh.
