And I want to stay just like this. Where I know she’s safe because my arms are around her, and I’ll never, ever let anything fucking hurt her again.

“They hit the car hard,” she whispers against my shoulder, her fingers clinging to my bicep. “I wasn’t wearing my seat belt, and we flipped on our side. I saw their feet—I knew they were coming for me.”

I press her closer and have to force myself not to hold her too tight.

Her voice goes shaky and I hear the tears. “And all I could think was that I’d never see you again.” She pulls back just enough so she can look up at me. “That I’d never have the chance to tell you that . . . that I have loved you forever . . .”

The last word comes out on a sob, her face crumbling. “. . . but never as much as I love you right now.”

I wipe her tears away with my thumb, kissing her softly—just a brush against her upper lip. And my voice is steady, solid, with the easiest words I’ve ever said.

“I love you.”

Then I tuck her in against my chest, my chin on the top of her head. “We’re going to have lots of time to say that to each other, Kennedy. Over and over again. Thousands of days to show it.” I kiss her hair. “It’s gonna be sickening.”

She laughs.

And that’s when I know for sure that she’s going to be okay.

• • •

A little while later, after a nurse checks in with pain meds and Kennedy’s sucking down some apple juice, I ask about the bastards who went after her.

“The agents shot them. They’re dead.”

“Good.” There’s a dark undercurrent to my voice.

I take the empty juice box from her and put it on the table. She lies back on the pillow, looking sleepy—the medication’s doing its job. She touches her discolored cheek. “You can start calling me Bruiser now—there’s a nickname for you.”

“Bruiser’s a name for someone who gives bruises, not gets them.”

She traces the frown lines on my forehead, smoothing my scowl. “Too soon to joke about it, huh?”

“A millennium isn’t enough time to make this jokeable.”

Before she can reply, a sharp female voice cuts through the closed door.

“Do you think I’m concerned about hospital policy? I don’t care if she already has a visitor, I will see my daughter now!”

Kennedy’s good eye slides closed. “Oh no.”

“Remove yourself from my path or there will be consequences, young man!”

“Oh no.”

Mitzy Randolph steps into the room, looking unusually haggard in an untucked dark blue blouse, black slacks, her pearls askew, her hair falling out of its bun. I’ve never seen Mitzy’s hair not flawlessly styled; I always figured the strands were too terrified to move.

Like a bodyguard, I stand but don’t move an inch from Kennedy’s bedside. Because, mother or no mother, if I hear one backhanded insult, I will lose my shit.

“Hello, Mother,” Kennedy says quietly.

Mitzy’s breathing is shallow as her eyes roam Kennedy’s battered features. She moves forward slowly, as if she’s in a trance. “Oh, Kennedy, your lovely face.”

“It’s all right.” She tries for a stoic grin. “They’re just bruises. Nothing permanent, no scars.”

Her mother’s lip trembles and her eyes fill, then brim over. I’ve never seen Mitzy cry—and from the look on her face, neither has Kennedy.

“My dear, precious girl . . .” Her voice cracks. “. . . what have they done to you?”

Kennedy’s expression goes soft and she looks almost apologetic and at the same time, grateful that her mother actually cares enough to be bothered.

“Don’t cry. I’m okay, really.”

But her mother just shakes her head, weeping quietly.

I gesture to the door. “I’m gonna step outside a minute.”

Kennedy’s eyes flick quickly to me and she nods a silent thank-you.

Before I walk out, I glance back at them. For some people, this is how it works. You have to get smacked right in the face with the possibility of losing something before you wake up and realize how much it means to you.

Mitzy whispers softly and gazes down at her daughter like she’s finally seeing her, not just all the things she wants her to be.

About fucking time.

• • •

Out in the hall, I spot the marshal who escorted me to Kennedy’s room and motion him over. “You think they’ll try again?”

His eyes narrow. “As long as there’s money being offered, they might.”

I nod, grab a pen from the nurse’s station, and take a business card out of my pocket. I scribble on the back and hand it to him. “Any security arrangements that need to be made should be made at that address. When she comes home, she’s coming home with me. And I’m keeping her there.”

19

I keep Kennedy in bed for the next three days.

Unfortunately, it’s not as hot as it sounds, because she’s bruised and sore and her pain pills knock her out cold. But I take care of her—I fluff her pillows, cook her food. Okay, Harrison does the actual cooking, but I bring her the food.

I also help her bathe—and that’s a fresh kind of hell.

Because with two cracked ribs, sex is off the table. I can’t even eat her out, because I know making her come will give her just as much pain as pleasure. She tells me it’ll be worth it, but I stick to my guns.

Until day five, when the sexy vixen takes matters into her own hands. Literally.