Chapter 7

I don't bother knocking as I run up to the front door of Rory's place—just wrap my fingers around the doorknob and twist it, shoving the wooden panel inward so hard that it slams into the wall with a loud thud.

Because there's a car in the driveway.

And it's not fucking mine, not fucking Rory's.

Which means?—

I hear her cry out and my already increasing speed grows faster.

I'm up the stairs in a flash, pounding down the hall, looking through the open doors as I go.

Searching for her.

Finding her.

Crouched in the corner, wearing my tee and sweats, her sock-covered feet tucked beneath her as that fucker?—

I see red.

Because that fucker has his hands on her.

She cries out again and the red in my vision goes black. I barely recognize that I'm moving, reaching for the fucker, gripping his shoulder hard enough that he cries out. I jerk him back, send him flying across the room, skidding along the floor, crashing into the wall.

Rory's got tears streaking down her cheeks and she's clutching her hand to her chest, but I don't see any obvious injuries to her—any new ones anyway.

"Stay there," I order, turning around and intending to deal with the motherfucker that's her ex.

Only…he's not there.

There's a dent in the Sheetrock where the fucker hit it.

But there's no sign of Phillip.

Fucking hell.

I glance back at Rory. "Stay there, princess, yeah?"

She gives a shaky nod and I move through the bedroom, checking the space for any sign of the asshole, and when I don't find any, I cross into the hall, clearing each of the rooms as I move along it and down the stairs. I'm on full alert for the bastard to jump out at any point, to try to sneak attack me like the coward he is.

The front door is open, but I don't trust it as I systematically search through the space, checking closets and each room.

But there's no sign of the fucker, and when I finally look through that open front door, I see why.

Phillip's car is gone.

I exhale, grind my teeth together, and carefully close the door, secure the lock.

And then I'm climbing the stairs again, crossing that hall, moving into the bedroom.

Finding Rory, still on the floor, still with her arm curled against her chest.

But it's not, I realize now, because it's hurt—or I don't think so anyway. Because she's holding something close, protecting it against her body.

"Ror?" I ask carefully, moving slowly toward her, crouching down to meet her eyes.

"I'm fine," she whispers.

"Did he hurt you?"

A shake of her head. "No," she whispers then adds before I can press her about the cry of distress I heard when I came into the house, "He didn't get the chance to before you were here. He just"—her eyes flick down—"tried to take it." A beat. "Take them."

I follow her gaze, see that she's clutching a little box like it's her most precious belonging. It's battered and the corners worn, the paint chipped, the little brass hinges on the side I can see tarnished.

"Take what?" I ask.

"My box," she whispered. "And my bracelet." She holds up her wrist, showing me a cheap-looking bracelet with painted wooden charms hanging from it. "It's all I have left of him. My dad—" Her throat works. "He'd buy me a new charm for it every time he had to take a business trip. Until…" Her voice cracks.

I hold my breath.

Brace.

"…until he didn't come back."

Fuck.

I want to tuck her close, hold her tight, let her cry as she gives me the full story.

But now's not the time.

So, I touch her cheek, drawing her focus. "You kept them both safe, princess," I murmur. "Good job."

Her nod is shaky, her whispered, "Thanks," equally so.

And then silence falls.

And…I don't know what to say, how to make this better.

How to fix this.

You're not your father.

I clench my teeth together then exhale silently. "Can we get out of here?" I ask. "Or do you need to keep packing?"

Packing she was supposed to wait for me to do.

But even though that has a sharp rebuke sitting on my tongue, I don't allow it to escape.

Not the right time.

Especially as she nods again and says, "I'm going to Chrissy's."

Like hell she is.

Risk that bastard going after her somewhere I can't protect her? Fuck that.

But I don't say that out loud and I don't allow the logic that Chrissy's place—set up with panic buttons and a killer alarm system—would probably be safer than mine.

Phillip's been there before.

He hasn't been to my place.

That's enough for now.

The rest—the utter possessiveness that's boiling in my belly at the thought of her somewhere else—I push down.

I can't think about that right now.

I just…need her safe.

"That all you need?" I ask, nodding to the backpack propped next to the duffle and suitcase.

"Yeah," she whispers. "I just need my box. And my bracelet."

"Okay, princess," I murmur. "I'll load the car. You okay to sit there for another minute or two?"

She bobs out a nod, and I hate that she flinches when I stretch my hand out.

But something settles in me when my thumb brushes lightly over her skin, her eyes slide closed, and she whispers, "Yeah."

Right.

I pull my hand back, straighten, and snag the bags.

Less than a minute later, I'm back for her, scooping her up, careful with that box she's holding on to for dear life. I track the wince that crosses her face, adding it to the list of shit this asshole needs to make up for.

And then we're moving down the hall, out the front door, down the driveway.

"Buckle up," I order softly, drawing the belt across her middle, holding it steady until she grabs the metal clip.

I hear the soft click as I fold out of the car. I close the metal panel then hustle up to the front door, pulling it shut and starting to reach for the lock when I remember.

The animals.

"Shit," I mutter, thinking about the room that Chrissy has in her house for her rescues—and how it's full more often than not.

Crap.

What kind of menagerie am I going to have to Tetris into the back of my car?

Back down the driveway, to her door, cracking it open. "Where are your dogs?"

Her eyes come to mine.

Then slide away and my stomach sinks like a fucking anchor heading straight for the ocean floor.

"Where, princess?" I murmur.

"All adopted."

"No," I say. "I mean your dogs, baby."

Her throat works. "Adopted," she whispers, glancing back at me. "After Teddy died, I didn't take any more permanently. Phillip—" A shake of her head.

Fuck.

"They're all adopted," she whispers. "The final one went last week and my fosters have the rest. I need to check in with them. But they'll be good for a bit. I already made the arrangements for the honey?—"

She inhales sharply, exhales long and slow.

I touch her cheek, a gentle brush along that silken skin, a touch that could make me feel some things, could really make me feel something.

If I let it.

Which I don't.

But still I press, "Why don't you have any dogs at your place?"

Her eyes drift away, but then I watch her straighten her shoulders, lift her chin. Those deep pools of emerald come back to mine. "Phillip didn't like them."

The fucking man was marrying a woman whose passion was animal rescue…

And he didn't like animals.

What the actual fuck had he been thinking?

What the actual fuck had she?

But I don't ask either question, just nod and maneuver out of the car, round the hood.

And then I get into the driver's seat and take her home.

To my place.

Because that's where I can keep her safe.