She gives a nod and without looking at me, rounds the chair and heads to the door, exiting and shutting it.
“Whatever this is,” I begin, only to be cut off with, “Holy hell, Kyle,” Royce snaps. “Is she fucking wearing your shirt? She’s Kara’s fucking sister.”
My irritation is instant, and while I would gamble he’s guessing on the shirt, I don’t even try to deny it. “I seem to remember Lauren ending up in your t-shirt when you were guarding her.”
“She wasn’t traumatized by a madman,” he bites out. “And she wasn’t Kara’s sister. And yes. You are right. Lauren’s my wife. She wasn’t just a fuck and a conquest on an undercover job.”
Now he’s pissing me off. “Myla isn’t just a fuck and conquest.”
“You just met her.”
“I’ve been looking for her for a year.”
“You look for a lot of people. You don’t take them to your bed.”
“Exactly the fucking point. Back off, Royce. And now, unless you have something other than a lecture, I’m going to open the door before I end up losing the trust I want from her.”
“If you hurt her-”
“If I don’t die saving her life, feel free to finish that sentence.” I end the connection, scrubbing my now heavily stubbled jaw, then do the same of the now longish layers of my hair that need a cut as bad as I need a shave. Inhaling, I walk to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and then stare into the mirror. I wait for the self-flagellation to start, for regrets over Myla to follow, but it doesn’t happen. I don’t regret touching her any more than I question why she’s important to me, beyond the obvious family connection. She just is. And I damn sure don’t regret the year of looking for her that created this connection I feel to her in the first place, because I found her, and I’m going to take her home.
Pushing off the sink, I cross the room, exit to the hallway, and seek out Myla, finding her standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, where she seems to stare at the wall. Seeming to sense my arrival, she turns to face me. “I heard what he said to you. I stayed by the door and I listened and I shouldn’t have, but I did. The man thinks I’m a loose cannon. And how dare he decide who can be in my bed, after all I’ve dealt with. How dare he-”
I’m in front of her before she finishes the sentence, my hands on her shoulders, my lips on her lips, my tongue doing a deep slide before she sighs and says, “You taste like spearmint,” telling me that I’ve successfully brought her mood down at least one notch.
“That was just to make sure you know where we stand, but he was just being protective. He cares. And I told you. He’s gruff around the edges but a good man, Myla.”
“I get that,” she says. “I do. I just don’t need anyone doubting me right now. I can handle this. I am handling it.”
“Like a champion,” I say, “Now. Let’s take a shower together. Yes?”
“Yes,” she says, and she’s barely spoken the word before I’ve scooped her up and started walking toward the bedroom, my action meant to tell her that I’m here to carry her if she needs me. And she will. Maybe not now, but later, because what I don’t say to her, what I can’t tell her now, but I know all too well, is that once touched by a monster, that beast stays with you forever. All I can do is make sure he doesn’t get the chance to add to her scars.
Chapter Seventeen
Kyle
It’s eight-thirty, half an hour before we need to be at her office, when Myla steps into the doorway of the bedroom looking sexy as hell in some sort of peachy looking dress she’s cinched with a belt at her waist, her long, dark brown hair silk around her shoulders. “You ready?” she asks.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” I say, shutting my computer, and picking it up to take with me, before standing and closing the small space between us.
“Thank you,” she says, sliding her hand over the light blue tie I’ve paired with my navy suit. “I like this. And since they say the man makes the suit, you absolutely do.”
“A compliment from a future famous designer,” I say, taking her briefcase from her, her shiny lipstick a perfect match for her dress, and the only thing keeping me from kissing her. “I’m honored.”
“I don’t want to be famous,” she says. “I just want…” Shadows settle in her pretty green eyes. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”
“You want to design your clothes, your way,” I say. “And you will, on your own label.”
“He owns some of my favorite designs now.”
“He’s not going to own anything when this is over. Now.” I tilt my head toward the hallway. “Let’s go get another day of playing this ridiculous game over with, and then we’ll come back here, take a run, get naked, and then watch Dexter while we eat pizza. Then we’ll do it all again.”
She gives me a tiny smile. “Dexter again?”
“He’ll feed your fantasies about killing Alvarez, I promise.” I shift to preparation for the day. “Do you have your gun?”
“Yes.”