Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"I'm trading one cage for another," she mumbles.
I open my mouth to tell her that isn't true, only to snap it closed again because she isn't wrong. This life—protective custody—is a cage. And I'll be the asshole with the key, the one locking her away. Part of me—a fucked up part I don't even want to acknowledge—doesn't hate that thought, even knowing she does. That part wants to be responsible for her, wants to stand between her and the world like a shield…wants to cage her simply so she's where I can find her at all times.
And that part is honest enough to admit it has nothing to do with bringing down Tarasova…and everything to do with the unfamiliar feelings clawing through me every time I look at her.
That part is a motherfucker.
I've always considered myself honorable, someone who does what's right because it's right. Turns out…I'm just a fucking man, after all. One willing to play dirty to get what he wants. And right now, what I want is seriously fucking complicated.
I take note of the watery sheen in Faith's eyes and the growing distrust. Her shoulders slump like the weight of the world just settled on them. The sight prods at me, stinging. I'm the world's biggest bastard.
"Fine," she agrees, her face set in stubborn lines and her expression closed off. "I'll go into this protection program, Detective Hernandez."
Her agreement doesn't make me feel any less like a bastard.
"I'll set it up," I say and then climb to my feet. I've pushed her far enough for the time being. Once she's had a little time to come to terms with this, we'll talk again. Right now, the best thing I can do is get out of her personal space.
I stride toward the door, my fucking heart in a vise.
"For what it's worth," I murmur, hesitating on the threshold, "I think what you did out there was brave as hell."
"There's a fine line between courage and stupidity, Detective Hernandez," she says, sighing sadly. Her tone leaves no questions about which she believes her actions were.
Chapter Three
Octavio
Three days later, I tap on the door to Faith's room at the hospital, nervous energy zinging through me. I feel like a teenager knocking on his crush's door. It's ridiculous. I've never been thrown off-kilter by a woman like this before. But Faith Donovan isn't like any woman I've ever met before.
I've spent the last few days trying to convince myself that things between us need to be strictly professional. I'm not sure I've accomplished it. Actually, I know I haven't. She's on my mind far more often than I'd like to admit.
If Roman Gregory, the massive ATF agent at my side, notices my nerves, he doesn't comment.
"Come in," Faith calls out, her lilting voice muffled by the door.
Her private room is in a mostly empty ward on the third floor. For the last several days, access to the unit has been restricted to only those who were directly responsible for her care, LAPD, and the ATF. The hospital has been pumping her full of antibiotics, fluids, and nutrients while I worked out arrangements for her care once she leaves.
Two officers have been stationed at her door around the clock with two more posted at the doors to the ward. Despite their presence, Tarasova's people have tried seven different times to sneak into the unit. They're getting more desperate the longer she's here. It's not safe for her, so we're moving her to a safe house today.
I push the door open and step inside, my gaze instantly landing on her. Just like every other time I've seen her, the sight of her sends a frisson of desire shooting through me, stiffening my cock. She's sitting up on the side of the bed in a pair of pink scrubs, her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head. With it pulled back from her face, her eyes seem even wider, her lips fuller. She glances up at me, far too beguiling for her own good.
I haven't stepped foot inside a church since I was a kid. I believe strictly in what I can see, and I've never seen heaven or God. But looking at Faith feels exactly like I always imagined looking at an angel would. I don't think she has a clue how truly beautiful she is. Or how badly I want to reach out and touch her, just to assure myself she's real.
"Hi," she whispers to me, the tip of her tongue darting out to touch her bottom lip in a move that's becoming familiar to me. She does it when she's nervous. I doubt she even realizes she does it. She'd make a terrible poker player.
Roman steps inside the room behind me, drawing her attention. She has to tilt her head back to look up at him. Fear slides through her eyes as she takes him in, sending my protective instincts soaring. I trust Roman implicitly, but I loathe seeing that look on her face.