Defending His Hope, page 12
“So you’re Hope.”
The urge to shrink behind Wyatt hits hard until Wren comes back down the hall. “Ry, you’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I ask.
As intimidating as Ryker is, Wren’s his complete opposite. She wraps her arm around Ryker’s waist and melts into him. The man’s entire demeanor changes when he peers down at her. His gaze softens, the tiny lines around his lips relax, and his eyes turn a deeper shade of…well…everything.
“Oh, you know,” Wren says with a wave of her hand. “Big, terrifying, black ops soldier ready to burn down the world? Don’t get me wrong. He could. He’s done it a few times. But he’s working on his inner teddy bear.”
“H-his…wh-what?”
Don’t laugh, Hope. Don’t…
It’s no use. Between the exasperation on Ryker’s face and Wren’s smile, I can’t help myself.
“His inner teddy bear.” She pats her swollen belly. “In just over two months, he’s going to be singing lullabies and changing diapers. In between all the death and destruction. This one is going to turn him into a puddle of mush.”
“For fuck’s sake, little bird.” Despite his words, Ryker’s expression is pure love and adoration, and he leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “I am not—nor will I ever be—a ‘puddle of mush.’”
Wren’s laugh breaks the tension in the room, and for the first time since we arrived in Seattle, I feel something close to normal. “Of course not, soldier. You’re a big, bad, growly fudger with a chip on your shoulder the size of the Space Needle.” Lowering her voice, she winks at me. “And a puddle of mush.”
“You should sit down,” Ry says and guides Wren over to the love seat. Wyatt and I take the couch, with Murphy at our feet. “You’re not supposed to be on your feet for long.”
“Oh, please. I’ve been on the couch all day. It took less than five minutes to get down here. The baby’s fine, Ry. And so am I.” Wren gestures to the messenger bag I’m still clutching to my chest. “Open it up. We brought presents.”
Inside, I find two brand new smartphones, two tablets, and two wads of cash banded around multiple credit cards. “What…? This is too much,” I protest.
Ryker snorts. “Standard relo pack. Tomorrow, we’ll take some photos and get you new IDs. Both of you. The names on those cards both have good credit scores, employment histories, and tax records. Memorize them and use them whenever you talk to anyone not on my team.”
My heart sinks. Will I ever be Hope Raines again?
“What’s wrong, darlin’?” Wyatt takes my hand and squeezes gently.
“I just…this is a lot. I thought maybe…once I got away from Simon, that I’d be able to be…me.” Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them away. “I was so stupid.”
“You will be exactly who you want to be,” Ryker growls, his voice so rough and commanding, I almost flinch. But like Wyatt, I get the sense that when Ryker gets angry, he keeps such a tight control on his emotions, he’d never hurt an innocent person. “This is what we do, Hope. It’s what we’ve done for years, and we’re really fucking good at it.”
“He is—they are.” Wyatt shifts to drape his arm around my shoulders. The heat of him helps center me. “Best in the world. Or at least the most stubborn.”
“So,” Ry says, settling back against the cushions while Wren opens her laptop and balances it on her knees. “Tell us everything we need to know.”
Wyatt
Hope is curled on the couch with Murphy when the intercom chirps. “Meal Dash, Mr. Rourke. I’ll have the bag here for you at the security desk,” the friendly male voice says. Roarke. Wyatt Roarke. That’s who I am for the next…however long. The name feels wrong, but if that’s what it takes to keep Hope safe, I’ll keep it for the rest of my life.
I glance over at Hope to find fear in her eyes. “I’ll be gone five minutes, darlin’. The apartment’s secure. You have the panic button?”
She holds up her new cell phone. On the back of the case is the smallest transmitter I’ve ever seen. A triple tap alerts Ryker, Ripper, and Graham that she’s in trouble, and they all have the code to this place. We spent hours going over the various security protocols with Ry and Wren this evening—until Wren started yawning and Ryker insisted they go back to their top-floor unit so she could lie down.
We’ve gone through access codes, pass phrases, who we could and couldn’t call, text, or email—everyone outside of Ryker’s team is off limits—exfil procedures, even which takeout places have been vetted. More than once, Hope looked so overwhelmed, I insisted we take a break. But every time, she shook her head and said she wanted to keep going.
But now, she’s utterly silent. Come to think of it, she hasn’t uttered a single word since Ry and Wren left.
“I need to hear it, Hope. Will you be okay for five minutes?” I know she’s overwhelmed, but this is bordering on dissociation. I should know. I’m a pro at it.
Blinking hard, she focuses on me. “I’ll be fine. Go.”
There’s no emotion to her words, but at least it’s an answer. “Be right back. I think there are some beers in the fridge. Lemonade and pop too. Wine’s in the cabinet. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
I wait until she gets up before I leave—the way she’s acting I wouldn’t be surprised if she stared off into space all night long. The large pizza, meatball sub, and two slices of cheesecake are waiting at the security desk in a secured lock box, and the guard makes me verify my new alias and the codeword before he’ll give me the combination.
An ambulance speeds by outside the glass doors, its siren blaring loud enough, I break out in a cold sweat. The takeout containers hit the counter, and I back into the corner.
“Mr. Roarke? Are you all right?” the guard asks.
Hell no, I’m not all right. I’m about to come out of my skin. The flashing lights bore into my brain. They’re all I can see. Until they fade away and my ass is on the floor. “Fuck.”
“Wyatt?” The man’s voice isn’t familiar, and I peer up into a face easily ten years younger than my own. His blue eyes hold understanding, and he offers me his hand. “I’m Graham. That pizza yours? Smells damn good.”
I let him help me to my feet. Shame burns my cheeks, but Graham just nudges the boxes toward me. “Better take those upstairs while they’re still hot. Big Mario’s is the best in town.”
“Ry told you—”
Graham nods toward the elevator. Once the doors close, he leans against the far wall, and I finally notice the bag of gourmet cat food balanced on his hip. “We’re all up to speed. The security guard’s on Ry’s payroll, but we still try not to say anything sensitive in front of him. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Tonight, you and Hope should relax. Besides,” he says with a wink, “I’ve got a home cooked meal waiting for me upstairs. And a very hungry kitten who’s pissed we ran out of her favorite kibble.”
I don’t know what to say. Small talk isn’t my thing. “Kitten?”
“Yeah. Clementine’s a year old and climbing the walls. Literally. Found her at the top of the drapes this morning.”
Before I can decide if I should laugh, we’re back on the fifth floor. Graham pauses before we go our separate ways. “You need anything, we’re right down the hall.”
“Thanks,” I say when he’s halfway to his door. “For earlier. Sirens…”
“You don’t need to explain. We’ve all been there.”
I find Hope at the breakfast counter with plates and two glasses of wine set out for us. The scent of the food seems to perk her up, and she puts away three slices of salami primo and a piece of cheesecake. In almost complete silence.
If only she’d talk to me.
Idiot. You’re not talking to her either.
What the fuck am I supposed to say? That one of Ry’s men had to rescue me from the lobby because of a stupid siren? That I hate putting Murphy on a leash to take him out for a walk even though he couldn’t care less?
Seattle hasn’t been my home in more than three years. Yet sitting in this luxury apartment with Hope, I feel equal parts unsettled and more at peace than I have since I left the SEALs.
“You want to watch TV, darlin’?” I ask when the food’s put away and the dishes are done. “Maybe a movie?”
Hope chews on her lip, her fingers stroking absently over Murphy’s head. “I guess?”
Sinking down next to her, I cup the back of her neck and wait for her to meet my gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know what I want, Wyatt. What I like. It’s been so long since I could make any decisions for myself.”
Her eyes shimmer with tears. Dammit. I want to find this Simon bastard and peel the flesh from his bones an inch at a time. Tomorrow, when Ry gets his team together, I’m going to insist he let me be the one to put an end to Arrens.
“Darlin’, you can make all the decisions now. Here.” I pass her the remote. “See what’s on. If you watch five minutes of it and hate it, find something else.”
“But…what if you—”
“No.” Leaning closer, I brush my lips to hers. “You don’t worry about what I want.”
From the look on her face, she’s about to protest—again—but I shake my head. “I want you to relax. To enjoy something—anything—as much as you savored that bacon the other day. Or the pizza tonight.”
With a nod, Hope flips on the television. It’s a full ten minutes before she settles on a station—some superhero movie from a couple of years ago—but when she leans against me and winds her arms around my waist, a lump swells in my throat. I’m falling in love with this woman. Anything she wants, anything she needs…I’ll give her.
14
Wyatt
I’m up at first light, the soft-as-fuck sheets and duvet rustling as I ease Hope from my arms. Her sobs pulled me from a deep sleep sometime after midnight, but when I asked her to talk to me, she shook her head and claimed it was only a bad dream.
At least she let me hold her.
I didn’t fare much better. Even got up at 3:00 a.m. to go sit out on the balcony with Murphy. This part of the city’s quiet at night. Or maybe that’s the five stories between us and the street. I could barely hear the sirens.
Murph follows me out to the kitchen and sits patiently as I start a pot of coffee—the good stuff, thanks to West—and dump a couple of scoops of food into his bowl. But he ignores it and pads over to the front door.
Fuck. Poor guy isn’t used to being trapped indoors. “Five minutes, pal. Can’t let Hope think we disappeared on her. Get your leash.”
As soon as the coffee’s done, I fill two travel mugs—one for me and one to leave on the nightstand for Hope—and scribble a quick note on the back of the takeout receipt from last night.
Taking Murphy out for a walk. Back soon. Call me if you need anything.
Call. On this hunk of plastic and glass I didn’t ask for, but now don’t want to be without. I shove the phone into my back pocket and pat my belt.
Shit. I locked my pistol in the safe built into the bedroom closet, and it needs to stay there. Without a concealed carry permit, I can’t just walk down the street armed.
“You ready?” I ask, taking the leash from between Murphy’s jaws and clipping it to his collar. He’s so happy, his ass is wiggling. Either that or he really needs to take a piss.
Gotta hand it to Ryker and Wren. No one’s getting past all these goddamn security protocols. I have to lock the front door with my palm print, and when Murph’s done, it’ll take a keycard, spoken passphrase, and a ten digit code to get back in.
The sun warms my back while Murphy waters the first tree he finds. Not many people out this early—thank God—and I start to relax.
Maybe this won’t be as terrible as I’d feared.
The ground shakes as something big barrels my way from behind. The travel mug hits the concrete. I scan the sidewalk. Run. Hide. But there’s nowhere to go.
A massive yellow and blue city bus rushes past us. Exhaust burns my nose. Along with the scent of coffee.
Murphy’s front paws land on my chest and his cold tongue swipes at my cheek.
Get it together. It’s a fucking bus. Not a Humvee. Or a tank. Or an RPG.
Yeah, tell that to my cross-wired brain. I’m shaking.
Stroking a hand down Murphy’s back, I focus on his eyes. My best friend. The noise didn’t bother him one bit. But he knew I needed him.
“Sorry, pal. Think there’s any coffee left?” My voice cracks, and after I blow out a shaky breath, I wrap the end of his leash around my hand and retrieve the partial mug of coffee.
At least it’s not all gone.
“Don’t tell West,” I mutter. “Or Hope. She doesn’t need to worry about me.”
Murphy trots along next to me, and we start doing circuits of the block so he can do his business and work off some of his pent-up energy. He’s going to go batshit trapped inside all day. There has to be a dog park around here somewhere. A place he can run.
Hope’s going to wake up soon, and I don’t want her to be alone. Not for long. The apartment might be locked up tight, but that’s part of the problem. She was a prisoner for three years. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna let her feel like one now.
After breakfast—and a check-in with Ryker—maybe I’ll take her shopping. Even though going out in public is the last thing I want to do.
Hope
Clutching Wyatt’s note—and my new phone—to my chest, I open the French doors and step out onto the balcony. A gentle breeze ruffles my long hair.
“Tomorrow, we’ll take some photos and get you new IDs.”
I need scissors. Going to a stylist is so far out of the realm of possibility, I won’t even ask, but I have to do something to feel more like me again.
In front of the bathroom mirror, I part my hair into sections and pick up the kitchen shears. Can I really do this?
Simon locked up everything sharper than a ball point pen, and for three years, he refused to let me touch my hair. “It looks better long, my sweet.”
Yeah, right. He just wanted it long so he could grab it to control me. I lost count of the number of times he dragged me by my long locks to that tiny room in the center of the compound. Once, I was so desperate, I tried to saw through the strands with a nail file. He found me. Then started bringing in a manicurist every two weeks. One he paid very well not to listen to anything I had to say.
The first strands cascade into the sink. It’s so liberating, my eyes burn. Following the line of my jaw, I keep cutting. The back probably looks like shit, but all I can see in the mirror is a short, angled bob, longer in front, that frames my face and makes me look like a completely different person.
Or maybe that’s just how I feel.
My phone vibrates on the counter, and the scissors clatter to the floor. Shit.
Wyatt: Coming back up with Murph.
My hands shake, panic sitting like a lead weight in my stomach. The bathroom’s a mess. Why did I think this was a good idea?
The door locks thunk from the other room, and drop to my knees, frantically trying to push the errant strands of hair littering the tile floor into a pile.
“Hope?” Wyatt calls.
Don’t come in. Don’t come in. Don’t come in.
“Um, give me a minute!”
It’s too late. He towers over me from the doorway. My heart leaps into my throat. “I…I’m cleaning it up. Just need—”
“Stop, darlin’.” He crouches down next to me to cup my cheek. I expect anger. Disgust. Anything but the mix of awe and concern in his eyes. “You cut your hair.”
Unable to answer—or breathe—I swallow hard.
His fingers slide through the short strands, and his lips curve gently. “I’d tell you I love it—because I do—but it doesn’t matter what I think. You’re the only person you have to answer to now.”
Wyatt pushes to his feet, holds out his hand, and helps me up.
“I made such a mess…” I hate how small my voice is. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll clean it up.”
One eyebrow lifts slightly. “Hope, did you think I’d be angry? At the haircut or the mess?”
I can only nod.
“There’s only one thing you could ever do that would make me angry.” Careful not to step in the pile of hair on the floor, he leans closer. Twining our fingers, he squeezes gently. “Hide who you are. Or who you want to be. As long as you’re true to yourself—whatever that means—I’ll be happy.”
“I don’t know who I am anymore.” The truth breaks down the wall I built around my heart three years ago. Shaking, I stagger back against the counter and cover my face with my hands. There aren’t any tears. I’m not sad. Not scared. I’m numb.
“Hope. Look at me. Please.” Wyatt keeps his tone gentle, and he doesn’t move—not that I can see him in my current position. “What do you need from me? Space? Breakfast? Hell, I’ll dance naked on the balcony if that’d help.”
The idea of Wyatt dancing—let alone naked and in full view of the street—is so ridiculous, I drop my hands and offer him a weak smile. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” He strips off his Henley, turns, and heads for the French doors.
Racing after him, I catch him with one foot out on the balcony and his belt buckle undone. “If you’re going to dance naked, you’re doing it in the bedroom. For my eyes only.”
Abject relief washes over him as goosebumps cover his torso. “Thank fuck. It’s colder than I thought it would be out here.”
I trail my fingers over his chest, tracing the line of shrapnel scars down his side. Until my stomach growls loudly. “Put your shirt back on. For now. We can have a dance party after we eat.”
Any hope of getting naked disappears not long after we devour a stack of pancakes and try to figure out what we need to order from the grocery store.
Wyatt’s phone rings, and he frowns as he taps the screen. “Ry? You’re on speaker.”
