Page 82 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
Bailey stands firm, glaring at him. “You’re done here. Leave. Or they’ll make you leave.”
He turns then, crouching to Maeve’s level, ruffling her hair like he hasn’t just set the air on fire. “You be good for your mom, alright?” He straightens and looks at Eli, his smile flattening. “And you—watch your step. Don’t want to end up in another cast, do we?”
The words are casual, almost playful. Almost. But Eli flinches. That’s all I need. The proof is in the boy’s body, the way fear is baked into his bones.
I warned him. I told him if he touched them, if he hurt them, I’d end it. And now he stands here smirking, lying through his teeth, turning their pain into props for his show.
I step forward and pray he flinches. Reacts. Anything to give me a justification to take him out.
Instead, he hums a jaunty tune on his way back to his SUV. The car rolls back down the drive, taillights winking as the gate shuts behind him. My fists stay clenched at my sides long after the engine fades.
Eli’s cast. David’s smirk. The lie in his voice when he saidhe fell.The way he bent down and told his son to “watch your step” like it was a joke. Like it wasn’t a threat.
I warned him. I gave him the line. Told him not to cross it. He crossed it anyway. And now there’s only one answer left.
Not the courts. Not the endless motions and hearings and delays. The law doesn’t save kids like Eli and Maeve from men like their father.
But I will.
27
WESLEY
I almost missher at first. The hall is dim, one of the sconces flickering low, and she’s tucked against the wall under the big framed photo of the family. Her knees are pulled up, her arms wrapped tight around them, face buried so deep she looks like she’s trying to fold herself into the wallpaper.
I stop. “Maeve?”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide and red-rimmed, cheeks blotched. She swipes fast at her face with the heel of her hand. “I’m fine.”
She’s too young to know the wordfineis the worst camouflage there is.
I lean against the wall across from her, trying not to loom. “Don’t look fine.”
She shrugs, trying for nonchalant, but her chin wobbles and she presses her lips together to hide it. “I’m just—tired.”
“Uh-huh.” I cross my arms, tilting my head. “You know, sometimes when I’m tired, I cry too.”
Her head snaps toward me like I just said the dumbest thing in the world. “You?”
“Sure.” I make my voice casual, like it’s no big deal. “I cry when I’m overwhelmed, when I don’t have an answer, when the world feels too loud. Last week I cried watching a video of a soldier surprising his dog.”
Her mouth opens. Then shuts. Then opens again. “You’re serious?”
“Completely serious.” I put a hand on my chest. “I’m an equal-opportunity crier. Commercials, sad songs, the end of a book that hits me hard where I pretend the dust in the room is the problem—yeah, I’m a mess.”
Her brows furrow. “But…you’re, like…you.”
I arch a brow. “That’s very descriptive.”
“You’re, like…” She waves her hand at me, as if I should understand what she means. “Big. You don’t cry.”
I smirk. “Well, I hate to ruin my image, but big guys cry too.”
She makes a face, trying not to laugh, but a tiny snort escapes anyway.
I point at her. “Aha. That’s a laugh. Don’t deny it.”
“I didn’t laugh.”
