Page 20 of Protected from Malice
The other calls?
Eden begged me to wait. On the way from her house to the hotel, she broke her tight-lipped silence to say, “I know you want to call Indy. And I’m not saying we shouldn’t. But to call him in the middle of the night… He has nightmares. His PTSD is especially bad at night. I don’t want to trigger him. Send him into a panic. Can we just wait until tomorrow?”
Already I was rearranging plans in my mind. Maybe I wouldn’t call Indy yet, but I could call Cole. See what he thinks about all of it. Or Dante, who leads the Texas branch of Blade and Arrow.
Then again, what can I tell them when I don’t know the whole story myself?
I do know a truck followed Eden on her way home from work, and that it bumped the back of her car several times. And that she used one of the driving techniques we taught her to get away, which both enrages me and makes me incredibly proud.
I knowweird things have been happening, in Eden’s words. Things she’s still hesitant to tell me about. Things she keeps trying to brush off as paranoia.
But what does Eden have to be paranoid about? I thought she was enjoying an uneventful life out here, working, doing her puzzles, going to the gym, seeing friends, possibly dating?—
My molars nearly shatter at the thought.
Eden dating.
I’m not dumb enough to think she wouldn’t. A beautiful woman like her, smart, sweet, quietly funny—any man would be thrilled to go out with her.
But knowing it in theory, while living over a thousand miles away, isn’t the same as facing the cold reality of it.
She could be dating someone right now. She could come out of the bathroom and say she needs to call her boyfriend. Just because Indy never mentioned Eden dating anyone doesn’t mean she isn’t.
Although, where’s thisboyfriend, if there is one?
Wouldn’t Eden have called him last night instead of me?
Dammit.
I hate feeling all twisted up like this.
Back at home in Corpus Christi, it’s simpler. I busy myself with as many jobs as I can take, searching for fugitives in Texas and the surrounding states. When I’m not working, I go hiking. I take my boat out on the Bay. At night, I usually stay home watching a documentary on Netflix until I pass out on the couch. A couple times a month, I head to the bars to satisfy my more primal urges, invariably regretting it immediately after.
I never wanted to deconstructwhythose hookups felt so empty.
But I think I know.
Deep down, I always have.
Just as I’m heading back to the door to check the locks again, the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam.
And from the steam, Eden emerges.
Small. Pale. Achingly fragile. Eyes pink-rimmed but dry.
But, fuck. She looks incredible, too.
Her hair is still wet, hanging in dark waves that frame her delicate features. The stretchy pants she’s wearing cling to her perfect curves, accentuating hips thatdefinitelyaren’t too wide and legs I’ve tried to ignore more times than I’d like to admit. She’s wearing one of her old Yale sweatshirts—oversized, worn, and on anyone else, it wouldn’t be sexy at all. But on Eden? It just reminds me of how smart she is. How hard she worked to get her PhD and all the good she does with it.
I know I shouldn’t want her.
I’ve reminded myself of all the reasons for years.
But it doesn’t erase how I feel.
“Sorry I was in there so long,” Eden says. She forces a tiny smile. “I just… I lost track of time.”
Or, more likely, she was trying to get her emotions under control because she didn’t want me to know how upset she was.
