“I think he’s already winning.”
“He’s not winning. I know I don’t deserve it, but try, please try, and have some faith in me.”
I kiss her hand and when I intend to stand up, she catches my arm. “I do have faith in you,” she says.
“You want to, baby. I know you want to, but you don’t. And that’s okay. We’ll get there.” I stroke her creamy white cheek, and this time I do stand up, shutting the door, sealing her inside.
He’s playing head games, I repeat in my head.
Don’t fucking let him win.
My jaw sets hard. He’s not going to fucking win.
I round the car and climb inside. “Home we go,” I say, giving Candace a wink. “Adam suggested you kiss my boo-boos and make them better. I vote yes.” I shift us into drive. My attempt at a lighter mood falls flat.
She doesn’t laugh. “Is it safe to go back to the house?” she asks.
“Tag needs us alive right now,” I say, pulling us onto the highway. “You’re leverage and I’m the murder weapon. So yes, it’s safe.”
“Right. You said that. The whole high-speed chase followed with me on the floorboard with a gun thing has apparently fixated my brain on those moments when I thought we might die tonight. But what about when this is over? Is Tag going to let us live?”
That fucktard won’t be alive to see us dead, I think, but me declaring: death to Tag may or may not be what she needs to hear about right now. I settle on, “Tag doesn’t want this to get messy. He wants it clean and over with.” I leave it at that and hope she doesn’t figure out how easily me as the ex-fiancé could be painted as a double murderer. She’s seeking comfort, not more fear.
Comfort doesn’t work. She’s too smart for that. “They could make it look like I had an accident months later,” she says. “How am I going to ever feel safe again?”
“Because you’re going to be with me. No one is ever going to get the chance to touch you.”
“So, you’re just going to guard me night and day?”
“Yes. And no. I will always keep you safe, but this is also going to end. And not well for those who mean you or your father harm.”
She hugs herself and sinks down in the seat, saying nothing else. And I know why. She’s too busy reading between the lines. She knows that yes, I believe Tag will come after her and yes, this is going to get bloody.
The rest of the short ride is in silence. I pull us into the garage and kill the engine. “I thought you were going to kill him,” she says, telling me exactly where her thoughts have been, and that’s no place good.
My spine straightens and I glance over at her. “And what if I would have?” I ask, not sure what I expect her to say, not even sure what I’m looking for or why I’m testing her, because I am. That’s wrong. I’m lying to myself. I know. I know what I want. Something, anything that says she really can live with who, and what, I am.
She swallows hard and cuts her stare. It feels like a door shutting—no, slamming—in my face. I don’t like it. I catch her hand, willing her to look at me. “Candace?”
Her gaze finds mine. “Is it bad that I think I might have been relieved?”
Guilt. She feels guilt and I don’t remember what that feels like unless it involves her. Just one of the many ways she’s the reason I’m still human. And just one of the many reasons why I refuse to let this hell turn her into something she isn’t.
“No,” I assure her. “You’re a general’s daughter who was well-educated on war. You know the difference between murder and survival. If it comes down to us or them, we’re the ones who stay standing.” Now it’s me who cuts my eyes, me who hides the truth there. And that truth is that there was a time when I forgot that line.
“I’ll come around and get you,” I say, opening my door and wasting no time exiting the car.
She doesn’t wait for my assistance. By the time I’ve grabbed a duffle from the backseat, she’s at the kitchen door, unlocking it, and I’m already there, standing behind her. She shoves the door open, but she doesn’t enter the house. She rotates to face me, her hands finding the muddy wall of my chest, and I swear this woman’s hands on my body rock my world. Everything else fades. That is until she says, “You didn’t forget.”
My brows furrow. “What does that mean?”
“You didn’t forget the difference between murder and survival, Rick. That’s what you didn’t say in the car, right? That’s what you were thinking. That you forgot that line. You didn’t. You took orders. You did what every good soldier does. Your job.”