Overture (North Security, #1)

All I can do is stand here and hold her—and hold her. And hold her. It’s woefully inadequate, but the alternative is to lose my fucking mind, and she needs me right now.

It feels like an eternity, the perfect clock in my head gone haywire. Three Explorers pull up, my brothers descending with harsh efficiency to handle the body, to check on Laney and Cody, to get the local law enforcement involved. That last one is a courtesy. We all know with grim and silent communication that we’ll find the fuckers behind this and dispose of them ourselves.

Josh tries to take her from me. “I’m not sure she can breathe,” he says.

Of course she can breathe. I have my hand on her back, feeling her lungs move. I’ve touched her pulse. Even the tears that dampen her lashes. I need to feel those signs of life.

Elijah shows up with a grim face. “No ID on the body. The tags are cut off his clothes. The VIN number filed off the car. The sheriff’s going to call in the FBI on this.”

Christ, this place was going to be a circus in a matter of minutes.

“I’m taking her back to the house. They can question us there once they’ve processed the scene.”

“They aren’t going to like the shooter leaving,” Josh says, rueful.

“Wait,” Samantha says, struggling to step back. “I’m not going to leave Laney and Cody here.”

“They’ll be safe,” I say, lifting her body into the air and hauling her to the nearest company car. She gasps in shock, fighting me before I click the seat belt into place and shut the door. Her loyalty to her friends is admirable, but they have a goddamn army to protect them in case there are any more mercenaries lurking in these woods.

And I’m not going to leave Samantha exposed out here for one more second, not for anything, not when I feel her trembling in my arms.

When we get home, I carry her upstairs, even though she protests she can walk. I consider taking her to my room—I want her in my bed, where she’ll be safe. And never leave.

Instead I force myself to carry her to her bedroom. I set her down on the warm tile of her bathroom floor as I turn the water to hot and fill the tub.

She works at the hem of her shirt, getting herself caught in the fabric. She’s too worked up to undress herself—and so I’ll do it for her. I unveil each inch of skin with undue care, mindful of bruises that might form in the next few hours, even days. Small quivers take her muscles, a reminder that she isn’t as composed as she wants me to think.

This is the first time I’ve ever seen her fully naked.

Even with danger so nearby, my body reacts to hers with intense arousal. As I pull her panties down her legs, exposing her slender thighs and the dark curls between them, my cock reacts with a throb. I want the ultimate sign of life, her cunt pulsing around me, slick and warm and soft. She looks like a dream, full of rosy peach hues and creamy vanilla. There is no end to the places I want to taste her. I could make her stand in the foyer as a living statue. It’s sick, the ways I want to see her, use her, the ideas her bare body gives me. Depraved.

Instead I help her into the bathtub, where I wash her with soap. Everywhere. Even when she blushes and murmurs in embarrassment, I slide the soap over her nipples and between her legs. Between the firm cheeks of her ass. There is a primal need inside me, to serve her, to care for her, and I’m as helpless to the urge as she is. She’s Venus with her upturned breasts and demure pose. Her hair falling around her in erotic abandon. There’s never been anything more beautiful than this. Enough to bring a man to his knees. Enough to make me wish I was anything other than her former guardian.

I use the peach-scented bottles to wash and shampoo her hair, my rough hands working carefully through the strands, making them lather and then cream and then clean again.

When she’s dry, I tuck her into bed with its pale pink sheets and white lace coverlet, with the cream-colored throw pillow with a brown violin embroidered on it. God, she looks so vulnerable in that bed. So vulnerable and impossibly strong. The urge to hold her runs through me, a physical sensation that makes me tremble.

I turn to leave her, forcing myself to let her rest. She deserves that much.

“Don’t go,” she whispers.

The bed is twin-size, which isn’t enough for the both of us. And it highlights how young she is, how wrong I was to ever let her climb into my king-size bed down the hall.

Shivers run through her, and I climb in behind her, pulling her close into the fortress of my body. My eyes are wide. Sleep will be impossible tonight. Tomorrow. Maybe ever. All I can do is watch over her. No one will touch her.

She drifts into a restless slumber, her body warm but still shivering.


SAMANTHA

Liam wakes me up just before midnight, nudging me gently out of the hazy, dark sinkhole of dreams. It takes me a moment to remember that the crash wasn’t only in my imagination. New twinges wake up throughout my body as I move to stand, and I can’t hide a wince.

“Dr. Foster’s downstairs,” he says, a knowing sympathy in his eyes. “And the police want to ask some questions. I’ve given them fifteen minutes. They know you need to sleep.”

I manage a wry smile. “If a question gets too personal, you’ll step in?”

He raises an eyebrow, bemused by my mood. I’m bemused, too. It’s a strange thing to realize I miss his overprotective tendencies. Maybe that’s how I truly know I’ve grown up—that I can long for the relative safety of my childhood with Liam North.

But the detectives are courteous and professional. Unlike the reporter, they haven’t been digging into my personal background before they show up. They aren’t aware there’s any connection between my father and what happened tonight. Did the driver interact with you before he rammed from behind? Do you know why he was chasing you?

They show me a photo of him, leaning back in the driver’s seat, a neat hole in the center of his forehead. I shiver, and Liam rubs slow circles on my back. Have you seen him before?

No, no, and no.

The doctor looks me over and declares me healthy—some bruising, he says, offering a prescription that is guaranteed to numb the pain.

“No,” I say because I think the nightmares may be worse.

Liam accepts the bottle with a grim nod, keeping it safe in case I need it.

Then he takes me back upstairs and tucks me into bed. “What about Laney?” I ask, pain and adrenaline making me jittery. “What about Cody’s truck? His dad—”

“I know,” Liam says, his green eyes fathomless. “I’ll take care of them.”

“You said he’s not your business.”

“I was wrong, Samantha.”

I clasp his wrist in a wordless plea, feeling the interplay of tendon and muscle, a silent string instrument in the form of a man.

He climbs into the bed behind me, his warmth an immediate comfort.

“You don’t have to stay.” I close my hand around his arm, pressing my fingers along the strings as if it were the neck of a violin—G4, D4, A4, E5.

He doesn’t move, but I feel his gentle amusement ripple the air. “Let me,” he murmurs. “After seeing the truck go off the road, I’m definitely going to have nightmares.”

And I sink back into the murky sleep, the one with my father shouting, pleading, cursing.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





In addition to being a composer and talented violinist, Vivaldi was ordained by the Catholic Church. He was given the nickname The Red Priest in reference to his hair color.


LIAM

In my dream there are soft hands exploring me.

These are the hands of a violinist, incredibly swift and strong and sure. I suck in a breath when they find a decades-old cut on my side. It feels like a lance, the gentle fingertip tracing the scar. They move lower, lower, lower. The backs of delicate knuckles brush against stiff denim, a butterfly beating its wings against a boulder—and breaking it apart.

I roll the warm weight of her beneath me, determined to extract payment. My dick throbs with years of unspent desire. My hands aren’t nearly so soft. I’m going to rip her silk-flutter skin the way I’m grabbing her, holding her, using her, but I can’t make myself stop.