Chapter Seven

Safiya

R eleasing his grasp on my throat, he gave me his commands. "Five minutes. Meet me at the car." He turned to leave.

I knew I did not have a choice. Wishing otherwise would be futile because he never did anything without a reason. He had warned me repeatedly over the years that at any moment he may have to relocate me and that I would need to move quickly if it came to that. He had explained what he called a go bag, and he had said to always be prepared. He had never made a promise that we would return if we had to leave, but neither had he said that we would not.

It was with that hope that I spoke the words frantically jumping on the tip of my tongue. "I do not wish to leave."

His steps paused for only as long as it took to look over his shoulder. "I know, Safiya." Then he scanned the lanai and walked away.

Wide shoulders, trim waist, the strength and gait of a silent warrior—his retreating figure was an image I knew well.

Inhaling the ocean breeze as deeply as I could in case it was the last time I ever got to breathe in the tropical haven of South Florida, I held the air in my lungs. Wishing I could capture a memory in the single breath, I stared at the pool where he had given me my first swim lesson, then at the ocean where he had kept his first promise.

I told myself that this was just like the waves.

I was the tide.

Ebb and flow.

This was life.

This was my life. Except it was at his command, and I was not a free-flowing tide, and until this moment, I had never resented it.

Wasting one of my precious minutes, I stared another few seconds at the view that had given me the only peace in too many years to count. Then I rushed across the smooth travertine tiles and committed their warmth on my bare feet to memory as I went inside the house that was too large for one person.

Rushing through the main living area, I was mentally making a list of the few items I would take when my gaze fell on the only picture I had in the house. The one that had made him go terrifyingly still the first time he saw it.

I had taken it without his consent, knowing all pictures were banned.

It was part of his protocols. Never be seen. No social media. No photos. Avoid security cameras when you went out in public. Keep your head down. Always partially cover or disguise some part of your face. Never leave a trail of your likeness anywhere. But that night, I had broken his rules for the first time and taken the photo.

It was after I had been in the house for almost a year. One evening at sunset, I thought I had seen the shadow of a man in the backyard. I had gotten frightened and immediately texted him. He had replied that the weather was fine, which meant that I was safe, but I was still scared. So scared, in fact, that I had closed the storm shutters along the back glass slider doors, then crawled into bed and gripped my cell phone until I had fallen asleep.

He came in the middle of the night.

Like a thief, he had silently breached my bedroom.

I never would have known he was there if the bed had not dipped and he had not covered my back with his chest before wrapping his strong arms around me.

It was the one and only time he had slept with me.

Just slept.

He had said nothing, and by the time the sun broke and my eyes had opened, he was gone. But in those few hours in between, when I was in his arms, I had been his and he had been mine.

His warmth, his heartbeat, his breath as it had steadily risen and fallen like a perfect metronome of hope—it had been everything.

He had been everything.

My anchor and my sanity, and I could not stop myself.

In the dark, with my cell phone on silent and the flash muted, I had taken a picture of us in the moonlight.

I knew I was going against his rules, but I was not sorry I had taken the photo of us with his arm protectively around me as sleep gave him the only peaceful expression I had ever truly seen on him. Next to my freedom, it was the most beautiful thing I had in my life.

Maybe more so.

It was also a crushing reminder of reality, but I had held on to that memory and the photo every day since, even after he had wordlessly taken it the first time he saw it.

It was defiant, but I had reprinted it once he had left.

Retracing my steps, I took the photo, then rushed to the main bedroom.

Two minutes later, I had a few toiletries, three changes of clothes, and an extra pair of shoes I could run in if I had to.

Not that the man who had made this life possible for me condoned running in public.

In fact, he had taught me the opposite.

The former Navy SEAL said running away, especially if there were witnesses, only drew attention and suspicion. Both of which were the very last thing I wanted.

Second to last.

The first was this—leaving.

Especially after all this time.

I had foolishly thought that maybe one day, when he came to check in, he would just… stay. I had thought a lot of things over the years, but that was my mistake. Thinking was too close to hope, and hope was not a commodity I could afford.

Not bothering to change out of my sundress that was appropriate for the heat of South Florida but could be a hindrance elsewhere, I breezed through the grand entryway and hastily grabbed a pair of flats.

Glancing one last time around the house perched almost on the ocean, I opened the front door.

The first thing I noticed was the expensive SUV idling in the circular drive as he got out from behind the wheel. On each visit, he had come in a different vehicle, except none had been this extravagant.

But an SUV that would draw attention, and the break in his own protocols, they were not even close to the shock of what I immediately noticed next.

He was not alone.

With his unrepentant steeled gaze stabbing through me body and soul, he opened the front passenger door and held it.

Crushing jealousy almost made me fall to my knees, and I realized just how much of a fool I had been. It was one thing to have him show up smelling faintly of other women and to theorize about what he did. But this? Actually seeing him with another woman in the vehicle? It was horrifically, immeasurably worse.

His blue-gray eyes never leaving mine as he watched me walk toward him, I knew he saw more than my steps.

He saw everything.

He always had.

As I placed my small bag on the floor of the front seat and gathered a careful handful of my dress, he grasped my upper arm without permission or comment.

Perfidious bursts of heat erupted across my skin as he helped me step up into the large vehicle. Barely able to murmur manners, I did not look at the other woman. "Thank you."

He said nothing, but for the briefest of moments, his gaze held mine as if he saw every one of my punishing emotions before he closed my door.

"Hello."

I turned in my seat and nodded at the blonde woman who was far too young and far too pretty. "Hello." I was not supposed to initiate or encourage conversation. Apparently, he had not given her the same instruction.

The driver's door opened, and I turned back around.

He got behind the wheel, and the blonde asked what I never dared to.

"Where are we going?" Her soft musical voice that was as carefree as her appearance fell into the cold, air-conditioned void of the cabin.

Putting the SUV into gear, he silently drove away from the only place that had felt like home in eight long years.

But it was not the house.

It was that one night, years ago, when he had held me that had made it feel like home.

Now all I felt was the deception of my own foolish heart.