Strong and Steady

I nodded.

“I’ve got the guest room set for you.” He headed to the bedroom door, and I followed him across the hall. “It’s a good thing I have a cleaning service because I know there are fresh sheets.” The covers were pulled back, and the room was lit softly by a small lamp. It was as if he’d changed the bulb while I was in the shower so that it was more of a nightlight, perhaps worried I’d be afraid of new surroundings and darkness.

I stood just inside the doorway, my fingers fiddling with the hem of the T-shirt. “Thanks,” I said softly. I wanted Gray to hold me, to tell me everything was going to be all right, that my house, my home, wasn’t dangerous, that someone hadn’t wanted to harm me, but I didn’t blame him. I was a hot mess and a burden. I’d interrupted his work and… and he’d done enough.

Gray eyed me, moved as if he were nervous, restless even, as if being around me was painful, then gave me a head nod and left, closing the door behind him. The room was quiet, the air cool and the bed looked inviting, but I couldn’t climb in. I couldn’t lie down. I just dropped onto the side of it, the tips of my toes touching the carpeted floor. The alarm clock by the lamp said it was almost two. Only a few hours ago I was in my own bed, asleep…

Everything from the night came back. The crash I heard from the kitchen, the creak in the squeaky floor, the hall light coming on, the panic, climbing out my bedroom window, the man's voice, the desperate need for Gray.

It was as if I’d been holding myself together until now, like a vase that had been dropped on the ground and put back together, only weaker. One little touch, and all the pieces shattered once again. I felt like that now, that I’d been holding myself together, but now that I was alone with my thoughts, I broke.

Scalding tears welled and fell down my cheeks and dripped onto Gray’s shirt.

The door burst open, and Gray charged in, startling me. “Emory, I can’t. I tried, but I can’t leave you in here—” His mouth fell open, and his eyes filled with pain as he looked at me. “Oh, baby, don’t cry.”

He crouched down before me, running his thumbs over my cheeks. I saw the concern and worry and… anguish on his face. “I thought you wouldn’t want to be in my bed, that you’d think I was pushing you, that it was too soon, but fuck. I need you. I need you with me. Can I just hold you? I need to hold you, to know that you’re right there with me, that you’re safe.”

At his words, I couldn’t hold back any longer, and I slipped to my knees before him and wrapped my arms around him, crying—no, sobbing—into his chest. I didn’t need to be alone any longer. With big hands and powerful muscles, he scooped me up and carried me down the hall and into his room. With one hand, he swept the covers back and placed me on the bed, sliding in behind me, then pulled me toward him, so I buried my face into his chest once again, the length of his body beneath mine felt warm and solid and real. And safe.

And so I cried as his hand stroked up and down my back, as he placed kisses on the top of my head. And cried some more, letting my fear bleed away, until I slept.

16

GRAY

* * *

Seeing Emory cry was like having a knife shoved into my gut and twisted, jagged and raw and excruciating. While I knew she wasn’t injured—thank fuck—her adrenaline had finally bled away, leaving the stark reality of the night exposed. I was glad to see her cry, to know she was working through the feelings, to let them out.

I’d been such a shit leaving her alone. It was what I thought she would want—peace and quiet and no worries that I had underhanded desires for getting her in my bed. Seeing her so… broken and lost, I’d tried. I really had tried to leave her be, but I didn’t have the strength or the willpower to do so. I needed her with a ferocity that scared me, but I didn’t fucking care about my own fears. I had to ease Emory’s. When she was happy, I was happy. When she was scared, I was fucking scared.

While I thought she might not need me, I needed to hold her, to know deep down that she was safe and whole. I burst back into the guest room to ask her if I could stay with her, to hold her so I could sleep, but her tears, fuck, her tears. I carried her to my bed where we could fit more comfortably, where, hell, I’d never taken a woman before. I wanted her there, in my bed, because she belonged there. She belonged with me, and if the first time I shared it with her was with her sobbing and me holding her and stroking her hair instead of having wild, hot sex, then that’s what we’d do. And when she fell into an exhausted sleep with her head on my chest, it wasn’t from working her body to orgasm over and over. Carefully, I settled her onto a pillow, stood, stripped down to my boxers and slid in behind her, gently pulling her into my chest with her head tucked beneath my chin.

This was the first time I had her in my arms like this, the first time I felt the lush swell of her ass, the curve of her hip, the soft cushion of the underside of her breasts against the forearm I slung over her waist. She fit against me perfectly. The idea of having a woman in my bed before had been a fucking nightmare; never once had I even considered someone sharing it. I slept with women in hotel rooms and even their own beds but never here. Being famous made my apartment my space. My sanctuary. There had been no plan, no thought to having Emory here with me. It was just right. It was exactly where she was supposed to be. But did I deserve her here?

I stared into the darkness and thought about what the hell was going on. My dad knew about Emory, knew she meant something to me. I knew that because of his fucking phone calls, but I knew now he had Emory’s phone number. When she’d been in the shower, I’d heard her cell beep from her bag, and I’d pulled it out, worried she might miss a call from her son. The number that had come up as a text had my body tensing and my fists clenching. Somehow Dad, the fucker, had sent her a text.

Heard your son’s a midshipman. You raised a son your way, I raised one mine.

It wasn’t overtly threatening to make the police take notice, but he had to know she’d show it to me and piss me off. It had worked, but I had to calm my rage and think. Just because he was a total asshole, did that mean he’d break into Emory's house? Hell, no. He’d send someone to do it for him. But would he resort to harming her or just scaring the shit out of her? Either way, it was fucked up. She was my weakness, and he knew it. He was using her to get at me, and it was working.

I’d called Reed while she was in the shower to get an update, told him about the text. He’d had a guy already replace Emory’s door and would deliver the keys for the new deadbolt to the gym in the morning. Emory’s house was locked up once again, but for how long? Would the guy try again? If it was my dad who had arranged the break-in, what would he do next? He wouldn’t try the same thing again, but that didn’t mean Emory was safe. Until this fucking mess was cleared up, she was staying with me.

That’s what I'd been telling Reed when she came out of the bathroom, all flushed pink, clean and in my clothes. The sight of her in my T-shirt and boxers was one of the hottest things I’d ever seen. It wasn’t the most alluring of outfits, no lace or satin or frills, but Emory didn’t need lingerie to make her sexy. It didn’t take much to make me hot for her, she just had to be in the room. Hell, I got hard just thinking about her or getting a whiff of tropical shampoo.

If it was my dad, then I’d brought my troubles to Emory, put her in danger. She’d climbed out her window and down a fucking emergency ladder to get aw

ay. Jesus, the idea of that made me sick. What would have happened if her son hadn’t been a Boy Scout? What if… there was a never-ending line of what-ifs. The biggest one was, what if I’d never met her? If we hadn’t met at the engagement party last weekend, it was possible she wouldn’t be in danger. The fucking kicker was she wanted to be in my arms, and yet the danger to her appeared to be all my fault.

I should let her go, should forget I ever met her, in order to protect her. To protect her from… me. But when she stirred in my arms, whimpering in her sleep, I knew I couldn’t do it. She began to thrash and fight against my arm, and I realized she was having a nightmare.

I turned her, so she lay on her back, my arm stroking over her belly. My T-shirt had bunched up, and my thumb brushed over the smooth skin just above the rolled-up waistband of my boxers.

“Emory, shh.”

“No!” she cried, her eyes closed, a V formed at her brow.

“Emory!” I said, my voice loud enough to hopefully penetrate her sleep. “Come on, baby, wake up. You’re safe. Shh.”