Defending His Hope, page 5
Nothing in Wyatt’s cabin is out of place. The books on the shelf are in alphabetical order by author. I haven’t seen a single knickknack. Nothing personal. The wood plank walls are bare. I think I saw a photograph on his dresser, but that’s the only indication he does anything but exist here.
Opening the last drawer, I blow out a shaky breath. Still neat and tidy, but it’s definitely a mishmash of…well, everything. Tape, scissors, paperclips, safety pins, a small sewing kit, a notepad, and one very expensive fountain pen.
I tear off a three-inch strip of tape and secure the card under my left breast. Not the best place. The small of my back would be better, but there’s no way I can reach it without taking off the robe. And if I did that, I might not be able to get it back on again. Not with how useless my arm is.
With slow, careful steps—the short foray from the couch used up all the energy I have—I return to the living room. The tape isn’t comfortable, but keeping the card on my body is the safest option. Even if Wyatt has to change the bandages on my arm, he won’t be able to see under the shirt.
As soon as I pull the blanket over my legs again, Murphy curls up next to me like we never moved at all.
I stroke the soft fur behind his ears, and his tail thumps gently. “You like living out here in the middle of nowhere? Lots of squirrels and birds to chase?”
“He loves squirrels. Hates the crows who try to dive bomb him every spring.” Wyatt’s deep voice shocks me, and I yelp, sending Murphy to full alert. He presses his body to me like a shield, then noses my neck with a whine.
“Oh, God. Are you always that quiet?” My bruises protest when I twist around, and I hiss out a breath.
Wyatt shrugs, and his cheeks take on a hint of color. “Part of the training. I don’t even think about it. Murph, settle.” The dog relaxes instantly, and Wyatt skirts the couch to stand in front of me.
I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze, and his stare is so intense, I quickly avert my eyes. Panic starts to tighten a band around my chest. Shit.
Don’t let him see how scared you are. He hasn’t hurt you yet. Maybe…he won’t. Maybe he’s just a good guy. A good, scary guy. Just…breathe.
He crouches down so we’re on the same level, and his expression softens. “Look at me.” All I risk is a quick glance. I can’t read him, but a hint of warmth tinges his voice. “Thought you might be more comfortable with some pants,” he says, offering me a bundle of faded gray flannel. “I can cut the legs shorter for you.”
The gesture is sweet—and unexpected—but I won’t take anything else from this man. Except food. And shelter for one more night. We are snowed in after all. I already owe him more than I can repay.
“You don’t have to mutilate your clothes for me.”
“Hope...” There’s that tone again. The one that says he won’t take no for an answer. Every time Simon used that tone, I knew I was in for a beating. But with Wyatt...I think hurting me would kill him. “Put them on. Please? I’ll get the scissors.”
I would feel better if I weren’t half naked. More confident. Less like a wounded bird afraid to be stepped on. And he said please.
“Fine.” Slipping my feet into the pant legs, I maneuver the pajamas halfway up my thighs, then push up to standing. There’s a tie sewn into the waistband, but I’m so wobbly—and a little dizzy—I fumble with the strings. Nope. Can’t do it. Not with the robe in the way.
Even with the belt undone, it’s a challenge. My hands tremble, and fresh tears burn my eyes. This isn’t rocket science. Or a marathon. I should be able to manage one simple bow. But I can’t.
“Let me.” Wyatt’s fingers are warm, calloused, and gentle as he secures the tie, then lowers himself to one knee in front of me. From the lines tightening around his lips, the motion causes him pain, and I want to ask him what’s wrong.
Before I can find the words, I’m distracted by how the black Henley clings to his shoulders. By the scent of his soap—Irish Spring if I had to guess—and the way his hair curls ever so slightly over his collar.
“There.” Rising with two scraps of flannel in his hands, he arches his brows. “Better?”
“Yes.” It doesn’t matter that everything’s too big on me. That the thick socks are twice as long as I need, that the t-shirt hits me mid-thigh. Every part of me is covered and warm, and no one’s hurt me since Wyatt pulled me out of the SUV.
As he turns to the kitchen, I grab his arm. “Thank you.”
“They’re just pants. Old ones.” He shrugs, preparing to shake off my hold, but I tighten my fingers on his wrist.
“I mean for everything. Taking care of me. Making me breakfast. Not…prying.” I take a step closer, but my legs aren’t steady. I pitch forward, right into Wyatt’s chest. His very warm, very hard chest. His arm bands around my waist, and we’re so close, I can feel the beat of his heart.
“Whoa. You’re not ready to be upright yet, darlin’. At least not for long.”
Oh, God. I didn’t know how much I needed someone—needed him—to hold me like this. It’s been so long since anyone’s touched me with kindness. Offered comfort. Safety. Right now, I have all of that and more wrapped up in this gruff, handsome package.
“Wyatt.” I breathe his name, and his groan tells me he’s as affected by this as I am. “Please.”
“Please what…?”
Sliding my uninjured arm around his neck, I pull myself up onto my toes and touch my lips to his. For a brief second, we’re one. Connected in a way I’ve never felt before. I think Wyatt senses it too, because when I break off the kiss, the look in his eyes? Desperation. Pure, raw need. And longing. But then he blinks, and all that emotion vanishes.
“This is a bad idea.” He deposits me back on the couch and, before I can say another word, strides for the kitchen.
Great. Just how much more grumpy, alpha male can I handle?
Wyatt
I can’t read Hope. One minute, she’s defiant and almost snarky. The next, timid and afraid. And just now? That kiss took guts.
As soon as I’m out of her line of sight, I touch my fingers to my lips. I’m no saint. I’ve had my share of one-night stands. Even paid for an escort or two when I was young and stupid and deployed overseas. Serious relationships aren’t my thing.
But with her? I’m starting to want something more. Something I can’t have. Leaning against the counter, I will my dick to calm the fuck down. Hope has only been here for twenty-four hours, and while I’ve managed to chain my demons so far, how long until they break free and Hope sees who I truly am?
If there’s a God, she’ll be gone before that happens.
And you’ll be alone. Again.
For the first time in three years, the idea of a solitary existence with only Murphy for a companion fills me with something other than relief.
Get out of your own head. Hope needs food, and so do you.
“Steak and potatoes okay?” I ask as I pull out the cast iron pan, then peer back around the corner. “Don’t have a lot of variety this time of year. Unless you want bacon and eggs again.”
“I can eat anything.” Frowning, she wrinkles her nose. “Except tofu. I don’t ever want to see another piece of tofu again. In any form.”
After I set a pot of water to boil, I start seasoning the steaks and scrubbing the potatoes. “No tofu here. I think Old Man Parker would laugh me out of his store if I asked him to order me some of that shit.”
Hope pushes to her feet and makes her way into the kitchen.
“Thought I told you to say put?”
The look she shoots me is nothing short of indignation. “You didn’t tell me to do anything. Just said, ‘this is a bad idea,’ and walked away.”
Well, shit. “You need to rest.”
“I need to feel like a human being.” Cradling her left arm with her right, she leans against one of the exposed wooden beams at the entrance to the kitchen. “Why do you live all the way out here?”
“Better for everyone.” At her huff, I turn my attention to the stove, hoping that’ll put an end to this line of questioning, but she doesn’t back down and clears her throat. Defiant Hope is back. I flick my gaze to hers, finding her watching me closely. “Too much noise in the city.”
“Noise. And that made you come all the way out here? You couldn’t have split the difference and moved to the suburbs? You’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“If I weren’t, you’d be at the bottom of the ravine.” It’s the wrong thing to say by a thousand miles, and Hope’s shoulders hike up to her ears. “Fuck. I’m sorry. This is why I’m better out here. I don’t do small talk. Or niceties. I’m an asshole. One hundred percent. And you should go back to the couch.”
Way to lean in.
I don’t expect her to straighten. Or take two steps closer as I add the salt and potatoes to the boiling water. “You’re a smart guy, Wyatt. Your bookshelf is full of nonfiction and classics—along with the oddest collection of science fiction, thriller, and fantasy novels I’ve ever seen—and they’re not for show. All the spines are broken. You can’t tell me you don’t know how to make conversation. And I don’t believe for a hot minute that you’re anywhere near as much of an asshole as you think you are.”
“I know how to talk to people.” My voice takes on a hint of exasperation, and some of my demons start clamoring to be released. “SEALs don’t just know how to fight. We’re trained to blend in. We need to be able to operate on foreign soil without raising any eyebrows. We spend as much time in the classroom as we do in the water. So yeah. I’m smart. Smart enough to know I’m too fucked in the head to be around people on the regular. That’s why I live way out here. Because if I didn’t, I’d go off on my neighbors for slamming their door one too many times or shooting off fireworks on the Fourth of July. Or worse. I’d spend half my nights huddled in a closet because it’s the only place I’m certain no one’s going to sneak up behind me.”
My outburst has her stepping back, horror and sadness welling in her eyes.
“Go sit down,” I snap. “It’ll be another fifteen minutes until the food’s ready, and I’m not going to spend the whole of it explaining myself to you.”
Watching her slink away is harder than all the work I did today. Harder than anything I’ve done in months. Maybe years. And when she eases herself back down onto the couch and wraps her good arm around Murphy, tears glisten on her cheeks.
But it’s her whispered, “I’m sorry,” that has me wanting to punch a hole in the wall—even though it’s solid wood. It was barely loud enough for me to hear, and the way her back shakes as she clings to my dog is enough to destroy me.
I can’t be…human. Can’t be around people. No matter how much I want to change, I’ll never be anything more than a broken recluse who’s better off alone.
6
Hope
Murphy doesn’t leave my side until I stop crying. As soon as I let go and sit up straighter, he pads into the kitchen to join Wyatt. Alone—despite the six-foot-four self-proclaimed asshole cooking me dinner twenty feet away—I stare at the flames flickering in the stove until my eyes unfocus.
Why didn’t I listen? Just mind my own business and let him have his secrets?
Because you needed someone to talk to. Because he saved your life. Because you’re wearing his pants. His shirt. His robe.
With every reason I tick off, I feel worse. The past three years have been one bad decision after another, and now I’m snowed in with a man who hates me.
No more crying. Certainly not in front of Wyatt. He may think he has some social skills, but he’s wrong. Or he just doesn’t care to use them. I’m not sure which is worse.
I’m so tired of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. Of second guessing everything. Of being afraid. I used to think I was strong. Independent. Able to take care of myself. Until Simon.
Now the idea makes me laugh. I didn’t stand a chance against a master manipulator with a plan. Simon turned breaking a person down into an art form, and by the time I realized what he was doing, I was trapped. No way out. Cut off from the world. My friends. My whole life.
The sizzle of the steak in the pan helps distract me. As does the scent. My stomach growls and twists in on itself. I’d offer to help if I thought I could stand for more than a few minutes at a time.
Who am I kidding? That would involve talking to Wyatt again. Not going there until I have to.
Peering out the window, I’m shocked at how utterly dark it is outside. No street lights. No city glow. The glass is pitch black. I can’t even see the snow. Are Simon’s men looking for me? Or do they think I died in the crash? I reach down and feel for the memory card taped to my skin. Simon owns the police in Salt Lake City. The FBI agents too. Seattle was the closest big city that felt safe. But what if I was wrong? What if I get there—somehow—and he finds me anyway?
“Dinner,” Wyatt announces, breaking through the thoughts racing around in my head. “What do you want with it? Only three choices, really. Water, coffee, and bourbon.”
“I haven’t had a drink in three years. Bourbon would probably knock me right out.” The number of things I’ve missed could fill a football field, and I brace my hand on the back of the couch as the weight of it all slams into me. “Water’s fine.”
After a beat, Wyatt frowns, but fills two glasses from the tap and sets them on a small dining table in the corner of the main room. Food has never smelled so good. Not since breakfast, anyway.
I suppose when you spend three years eating all the foods you hate—tofu, vegetables with every ounce of flavor boiled out of them, and wheatgrass—anything might smell and taste amazing.
Wyatt reaches for my arm when a wave of dizziness hits me steps from the table, but I wave him off and lean against the wall until it passes. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are.” He checks my forehead, and some of the worry lines etched around his lips ease. “Your fever hasn’t come back, but fuck, Hope. You almost bled out twenty-four hours ago. Let me help you.”
“You’ve made it very clear you’d rather not talk or interact beyond the minimum. I’m trying to respect that.” Despite my words, I let him help me to the hard wooden chair. “I just need rest. And food. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
He snorts, but doesn’t argue, and when he sets a plate twice the size of my head in front of me, my mouth waters.
“I didn’t ask. Is medium rare okay? I can let it cook another few minutes...”
“And ruin what looks to be a perfect cut of meat? Don’t you dare.” The first bite is so good, I moan, and the corners of Wyatt’s mouth twitch. I used to dream of meals like this. The first few months, all I wanted was a hamburger. French fries. After a year, I would have killed for a piece of toast with butter. Carbs. Sugar. Caffeine.
We eat in silence for several minutes until Wyatt clears his throat. “Hope? Don’t ever apologize to me like you did earlier. I was the asshole. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Instinctively, my shoulders curve inward, and I hold my breath. In my world, men don’t admit they screwed up without an ulterior motive, and whenever Simon apologized, it was usually followed by, “But I have to punish you now.”
“Hope?” Wyatt asks, reaching across the table to skim his rough fingers over the back of my hand. “You were fine, and now you’re not. Who is he and what did he do to you? Because once this snow clears, I’m gonna hunt him down and beat the ever-loving fuck out of him.”
“No! You can’t!” My fork clatters to the plate, bounces, and ends up on the floor, where Murphy pounces on it like it’s prey.
“Dammit, Murph. You’ll get your own bowl when we’re done. Sit and hold.”
The dog immediately returns to his place by Wyatt’s chair, drops down to his haunches, and does his best impression of a statue.
After he passes me a clean fork, Wyatt rests his hands on his thighs and pins me with an unwavering stare.
“I’m a grown-ass man, Hope. Pretty sure I’m still able to throw a punch. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t teach that asshole a goddamn lesson.”
“Because he’ll kill me. And you.” The idea of putting Wyatt in danger—any more than I already have—leaves my stomach in knots, and I push the plate away.
He slides it back in front of me, the defiance in his eyes sending my gaze to my hands clasped in my lap. “I’m damn hard to kill, darlin’.”
“Not for him!” I cry. My panic spills over until my wheezing breaths catch in my chest and I brace both hands on the table. Murphy rests his head on my thigh. The warmth and weight are enough to pull me back from the brink, but just barely. It takes Wyatt’s hand on the back of my neck and several minutes before I can form even a single word.
Swallowing hard, I meet his gaze. “Simon Arrens is the leader of the biggest human trafficking operation in the western United States. Thousands of barely legal men and women are brought in over the Mexican and Canadian borders every year, all put to work for him in one brothel or another. He owns more than a hundred of them. There are dozens in each of the major cities, and he gets away with it because he has police and FBI on his payroll. If he ever finds me…” I can’t go on. I don’t want to think about what he’ll do.
Wyatt’s chair tips over. The bang as it hits the floor makes me jump. “Hope. Were you...?” His voice fades, and Murphy paces between the two of us, nosing my hand then Wyatt’s hip.
“No.” I cradle my injured arm, and the memory card under my breast digs into my skin. “I’m thirty-six, Wyatt. The girls age out of the brothels at twenty-five or so—if they don’t die first. I was only…his…for three years. He had other plans for me.”
“You are not his.” His growl sends goosebumps racing down my spine. I didn’t know men like him—men who simply exude protectiveness—existed outside of romance novels, but here he is, standing less than ten feet away from me.
