Page 17 of Breaking the Rules
Xavier shook his head. Micah had had his back for as long as they’d known each other and especially in the days after Waverly’s kidnapping and attempted murder. When Xavier had broken it off, he’d thrown himself into a spectacular downward spiral that only ended when Micah broke into Xavier’s apartment, threw him in the shower, and then shoved him on a plane headed for home.
He’d spent two weeks with his family until he couldn’t stand the smothering and had come back to the job emotionally bruised and battered but alive.
It had taken a long time for him to get his feet under him again. The what-ifs of Waverly’s abduction had haunted him. What if he’d insisted she stay home? What if he hadn’t picked a fight with her that night? What if he hadn’t left her side in the club? What if they had been one second later on Hollywood Boulevard?
He’d never gone back out in the field after that. At first, his confidence had been too shaken. Visions of the knife flashing above Waverly’s head still stalked him at night. But as he regrouped, he realized he could still be an asset to Invictus. He’d developed a tiered training program for new recruits and seasoned staff. It had allowed them to field some of the best assets in the private security industry. Today, Invictus wasthename in security.
He rolled his shoulders and drafted a response to Micah.
Micah,
First of all, pigs are actually very clean animals. So your “pig in shit” metaphor lacks a realistic foundation. Secondly, I’m not running down some personal vendetta against Wrede, even if he does dress like a douche.
I’ve got a reliable source who claims he’s been missing for almost a week. Just doing my due diligence. Humor me.
X
P.S. I am currently enjoying a very tropical beach view and may seek out an umbrella drink at some point.
Voices from Waverly’s room carried down on the breeze, and he heard laughter. God, he’d missed her. Yes, their time together had been short. But the connection they’d forged ran fast and deep. He felt it again now and knew Waverly did, too. It was a vibration in the air between them, an awareness, a hunger.
“Next time you get shot, can you do it in a less conspicuous area?” Kate’s voice carried down to him.
“Next time, I’ll be sure to ask the shooter to aim for the feet. No one would miss a toe or two,” Waverly answered with sarcasm.
But the rest of the conversation was lost to him as Xavier slammed into the house and stormed up the stairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
He didn’t bother knocking, just threw her bedroom door open. Kate and Marisol were gathered around Waverly who stood on a footstool modeling a black halter dress. Kate was trying to yank fabric over gauze until she saw him, and then she jumped back a good foot. Marisol ignored him and busied herself in her sewing kit on the dresser.
“Out,” he said, his voice eerily calm.
“Excuse me, you’re not in charge here,” Waverly turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. But Kate and Marisol were already jumping ship, muttering excuses of packing and imaginary phone calls.
“Cowards!” Waverly called after them from her perch on the footstool in front of the mirror.
Marisol shut the door quietly behind her.
Xavier didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, for a moment. Whatever trouble he’d imagined for Waverly, it didn’t involve her getting shot.
“Show me.” His voice was ragged with suppressed emotion.
“I don’t have anything on under this.” She wore a black halter dress with a hint of shimmer that bared an acre of back.
“I’ve seen it before,” he reminded her a little harshly.
“And you think that’s a pass to see it again?” she snapped.
Xavier sighed and looked down at the floor. He wanted to rip the dress from her, to look at the wound, to yell and rage at her, but that would get him nowhere. And she had a point. “No, of course not.”
“Good answer,” she said, simmering. “I don’t have to show you anything. I didn’t ask you to come here. I don’t need you, Xavier.”
“Please, Waverly.” He didn’t know if it was the please or the tremor in his voice that got her. But she stepped off of the footstool and stomped over to the dresser. With her back to him, she pulled a tank top out of the drawer, yanked it on over the dress and then untied the halter.
“Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he heard her mutter under her breath. She pulled the tank up under her breasts baring another swatch of gauze just inches to the right of her navel.
“It went through?” he asked, trying to look at it clinically, coldly.
