Page 16 of Protected from Malice
Oh.
I’ve known Rafe for years. We’ve touched each other, of course.
But those were quick, friendly moments of contact. A pat on the arm. A joking shove. A lightning-fast hug after exchanging gifts during the Christmases he spent with us.
Rafe has never held me likethis.
Our bodies flush against each other; so close I can feel his heart beating against mine.
His delicious aroma seeping into me, filling my lungs.
His strong arms holding me tightly, as if he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll disappear on him.
“Eden,” Rafe says. His breath ruffles my hair. “Let’s get you out here. Okay? I want to take a look at your hand. Check you out to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere else.”
He stops. Cocks his head. The sirens approaching sound closer. No more than a few streets away. “The police will be here any minute,” he adds. “They’re going to come in armed. So I’d like to be in the living room, where they can see us.”
Right. Of course.
Here I am fixated on how good it feels to be held by Rafe, while he’s actually using logic and common sense.
I give Rafe a jerky nod. “Okay.” As I start to pull away from him, he tugs me back.
Tucks me against his side.
As he guides me out of the laundry room, he explains, “You’re still shaky. You could be in shock. Plus. If someone tries to…” Trailing off, his jaw goes hard. “I just want you near me. Okay?”
It’s only once we’re in the hallway that I notice the gun tucked into his waistband. And the bulge in his pocket, which I know from experience is a knife and not a sign that Rafe is happy to see me.
I mean, I guess thatwouldbe weird, given the situation.
Still. I wouldn’t complain if he were.
“When the police come inside, it’ll be scary for a minute or two,” Rafe explains. He leads me into the living room, which looks much different from the last time I saw it. Mainly because the front door is now hanging loosely off one hinge with scraps of wood scattered on the floor in front of it.
Although on my second look around the room, I notice other damage, too.
Like the coffee table flipped over with one leg snapped off.
The shelf on the way to the kitchen—the one that holds my framed photos of my family and friends—is toppled over. Light glints off the cracked glass, reflecting spiderwebs in it.
Through the kitchen doorway, I notice the wheeled butcher block island on its side with the vase of flowers I set on top of it a mess of broken stems and spilled water.
A dismayed sound creeps up my throat.
I know they’re small things. Things that can be fixed or replaced. But it still hurts to see my home like this. Damaged. Invaded. Tainted.
“Hey. It’s okay, Brain.” Rafe jostles me gently. His expression is still hard. Intense. Angry. But there’s a softness in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
As he wraps a towel around my bleeding hand—I don’t remember him grabbing that from the laundry room, but I guess that’s not surprising, given the state I was in—he adds, “We’ll get everything fixed. I promise.”
“It’s okay,” I reply automatically. “They’re just things.”
But as I look around again at the proof that no, I wasn’t paranoid, and someone really did break in, a shudder runs through me. My teeth chatter.
“Shit,” Rafe mutters. He closes my hand around the fluffy towel and clasps his fingers around it for a second. “You really need to sit down. But the cops?—”
And as if he summoned them, he’s interrupted by the screeching of tires in the driveway. Sirens shrill, the sound making me wince. Flashing lights illuminate the front yard and bounce into the house through the open door, turning the living room into an eerie red disco.
