Only then did Taylor let him go.

Glen reached her in six strides, pushed his shoulder under hers, and relieved the SWAT officer of her weight.

“Baby, I’m here.” He was in motion; his free arm came up behind her knees and lifted her off the ground as he ran her to the waiting ambulance.

Mary buried her head in his shoulder as she wept and repeated his name.

The paramedic guided him toward the gurney. He gently laid her down, but she wouldn’t let go. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her vise grip broke his heart.

“Let them look at you, baby. I’m right here.”

He pried her hands free of his neck and held on to one of them while the medics pushed the gurney into the ambulance.

Chaos erupted behind him. A male voice barked orders over the loudspeaker, telling Duvall to walk out on his own.

The media, who had set up cameras before Glen had arrived, were in a state of animation as they scrambled to capture shots of Mary, of the house . . . of the officers in motion.

Glen climbed into the back of the ambulance along with the gurney and continued to tell Mary she was safe and he was there.

The noise from behind them disappeared when the doors of the ambulance slammed shut. The sirens proceeded to drown everything else out.

He glanced down at their clasped hands and noticed the welts on her wrists.

A little part of him died inside.

Everything moved around her as if she were in a tunnel.

All Mary saw was Glen.

It was as if her body and mind stopped functioning on their own the moment she was out of crisis. She knew she was safe and allowed everything to shut down.

Glen kept asking her if she was all right.

She told him she was.

They both knew she was lying and neither one of them acknowledged it.

The staff in the emergency room handled her as if she were a frightened child.

She took five stitches to her temple, had a nasty ankle sprain that required an Aircast and crutches, and a stupid broken clavicle, which made the crutches nearly impossible to use. Mary couldn’t remember the shove, the blow, or the training that had managed that injury.

The police questioned her in the hospital. A psychiatric crisis counselor insisted that Glen leave the room long enough for them to talk.

No one told her what had happened to Kent and she didn’t ask.

It surprised her. The desire to not ask and not want to know the outcome of the man who’d put her through hell for nearly twelve hours.

Someone would eventually tell her what happened, but for now . . . she only thought of herself.

She held Glen’s hand in silence, their communication nothing more than a look and a smile.

Later, Mary overheard Trent talking with Glen outside her temporary room at the hospital. “Dakota and Walt are on their way and Mary Frances and Burke have already landed.”

Glen spoke in a hushed whisper before returning to her bedside.

“The doctor isn’t going to admit you.”

She attempted a half smile. “Too many germs here anyway.”

He smiled and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “Exactly.”

“I’ll sleep better at . . .” The word home twisted in her gut. She placed a hand over her lips to keep from vocalizing her distress. Tears welled. The very tears she’d finally gotten control over once she’d reached the hospital and the doctor stitched her up. “I can’t go back there.”

“Of course not. I have everything arranged.”

Mary nodded and didn’t even ask.

Between the medications she’d been given and sheer exhaustion, she fell asleep in the back of a town car as Glen took them to a hotel.

It registered that she’d made it to a room; a suite . . . and Glen tucked her into bed.

“Don’t leave,” she told him as the lights dimmed.

“I’m right here, sweetheart. You’ll never be alone again.”

Mary woke with a start. The dream was part memory, part horror.

A gun had gone off . . . there was blood.

“Shh! It’s okay.”

Glen held her in her sleep. She attempted to move closer and whimpered in pain.

She rolled back to where her body didn’t protest. “God, it hurts.”

Glen scrambled out of bed. “I have medicine for you.”

Mary pushed herself up, noticed it was full dark outside.

When Glen stepped back from a small service bar with water and a pill, she accepted both.

“Thank you.” She swallowed them down and smiled. “Even smiling hurts.”

Glen kissed her temple as softly as he could to still register a kiss. “I wanna lie and say you look better.”

She managed a breath through her nose and counted it a blessing. “I do feel a little better. I think there might be a spot on my left thigh that doesn’t hurt . . .” She was joking . . . but now that she took stock of her pain . . . maybe not.

“You hungry?”

“What time is it?”

“Doesn’t matter. I have a half a dozen people waiting to run for you.”

“That’s sweet. Nobody has to jump.”

“You’ve slept for eight hours and I can’t imagine you ate since dinner two nights ago. Besides, the pills I just gave you say you need food with them.”

“Fine . . . something simple. Soup.”

Glen sprang from the bed, poked his head out the door, and said something to someone on the other side.

He told her it was after three in the morning.