Primal Instinct (26 page)

“Hey.” She dipped her head, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “I'm okay. We're okay.” Her throat thickened again, and she couldn't say anything else.

C
olt sat at the desk in his home office, tipping back in the black mesh office chair. The floorboards creaked softly under the plastic wheels, the only sound in the dark house.

After everything had gone to shit at the cabin, Baker had been arrested, and while Colt had had plenty to answer for—he
had
shot and killed a man—ultimately, they'd let him go. The man he'd shot had been an alleged contract killer wanted by the FBI, and Colt had killed him in self-defense.

A contract killer. Baker was so fucking psycho that he'd hired a hit man.

It was the first—and only—time Colt had ever killed someone on American soil. He looked down at his hands, half-expecting to see blood, to see gunpowder residue, to see something marking him as the killer he was. As a failure, as the monster he was.

Another nightmare to add to the menu.

They'd come back to his house from the cabin, and the word from the cops was that Taylor's dad was in the wind, probably long gone, running from the Brotherhood. But until they knew the Brotherhood issues were completely resolved, she needed protection. Maybe she needed better protection than what he could provide.

Taylor had retreated into herself after the attack. She was pretending she was fine, but he knew she wasn't. Maybe because he'd been putting on the same kind of front, pushing down pain, fear, and scars and slapping on a smile for years. Faking it so he wouldn't have to talk about any of the shit he didn't want to talk about. It was classic avoidance, and he was well versed in the techniques.

Back in LA, they'd settled in at his place; security was doubled by the presence of Virtus guards. After discovering the surveillance, she still didn't feel at ease at her house. He was pretty sure she didn't feel safe here either, but she hadn't wanted to go to a hotel. Mentally, he added it to the list of ways that he'd failed her. Tonight, three days after the attack at the cabin, he'd made sure Taylor had fallen into a deep sleep, and then he'd slipped out of bed, grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker from the kitchen, and made his way through the dark house to the office.

Not bothering with a glass, he screwed the top off and tipped the bottle to his lips, relishing the burn as the scotch sluiced down his throat. He curled his fingers around the bottle, clinging to it like an anchor in a storm. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, blowing out a long, slow breath. His brain buzzed and snapped with an anxious guilt, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep right now. Especially not beside Taylor, pretending he had any business curling his arms around her and pressing kisses into her hair.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and then took another pull on the bottle. Massaging his fingers over his forehead, he tried to block out the truth whipping through him.

That he'd tried his best to keep her safe, and his best wasn't good enough for Taylor.

That she was vulnerable, and he'd taken advantage of that.

That he'd failed to protect her when it was the only promise he'd ever made her.

She'd gotten hurt on his watch. It was his fault, and he'd carry that with him for a long time. Probably forever, and that couldn't be helped. It was done. But he could make sure it didn't happen again.

After another fortifying swallow of scotch, he pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk and lifted out a thick manila folder. One ankle propped on his knee, he leaned back in the chair and thumbed through the contract Clay had given him a few weeks ago. Before he could talk himself out of it, he picked up a pen and signed it, then tossed the pen back on the desk with a resigned sigh.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as his stomach churned with doubt.

No. Running wasn't the answer, was it? Was that who he'd become? Frowning, he stared at his signature on the page, and shaking his head, he dropped the contract back into the drawer and kicked it shut.

If running wasn't the answer, what was?

Maybe taking the contract was what was best for both of them. A job for him, freedom for her. He'd hand over her protection to Virtus, remove himself from the situation, and protect her from any further damage in the process.

“Fuck,” he whispered in the dark, hating the tightness in his throat. He took a long pull on the scotch bottle, trying to ignore the burning in his eyes. If he stayed, he'd inevitably hurt her in the long run. But if he left, he'd hurt her, at least in the short run. The plain truth was that she couldn't escape from him unscathed.

If that wasn't proof of what an asshole he was, he didn't know what was.

A heavy guilt sat on his shoulders as he ran through his litany of failures. Of all the times he'd tried to do the right thing but had fucked it up. Had caused hurt, pain, and suffering. It was an inescapable truth that his main talent was letting people down. His mother. Lacey, when he'd gotten himself kicked out of the house. The guys under him who had trusted him and had come home in body bags. Owens, and the guys at Virtus. Now Taylor.

And hell, he loved her, which meant he owed her better than to keep deluding himself that he could give her the future she wanted and deserved. He just had to figure out what would cause the least amount of damage.

But fuck if he knew what that was.

Three days of distance.

That was how Taylor felt about the seventy-two hours following Baker's attack. And it wasn't due to any seismic shift in how Colt acted toward her. No, he still touched her, kissed her, held her at night when she couldn't sleep. When she couldn't get the images of Baker, his hands around her throat, out of her mind. But it was as though a thin shield had gone up around him, and although everything seemed the same, there was a tiny bit of space that hadn't been there before.

It was the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. She hadn't seen them crinkle in days. It was the way he touched her—delicately, as though he were scared of breaking her. When he laughed, there was a hollowness to the sound.

And despite the fact that they'd slept next to each other for the past three nights, he hadn't once tried to initiate sex. Granted she hadn't, either, but still. It was very un-Colt-like, and she couldn't help but think that he saw her as damaged now.

Well.
More
damaged. And she couldn't help but wonder how much damage she could sustain before she became an unsalvageable wreck.

He was pulling away from her ever so slightly. And damn, it
hurt
.

And now, here they were, entering hour seventy-three, sitting together but apart on his couch, eating In-N-Out burgers while she took a break from working.

For what felt like the hundredth time, she opened her mouth, having almost worked up the courage to say something. But every time, fear stopped her, and she shoved food into her open mouth instead.

What if she worked up the guts to ask and then didn't like the answer? What then? A tiny flare of resentment sparked through her at how vulnerable the doubt made her feel. She didn't usually pussyfoot around what she wanted to say, but the last time she'd had this feeling, this niggling, burrowing shard of worry digging through her brain, she'd come away wishing she hadn't said anything. Wishing that she hadn't told Zack she loved him just so he could rip her heart to shreds, confirming that a man like him would never, ever, really love a woman like her, with her history and her scars. Sex? Sure. Fun and games? No problem. Love? Get real, sweetheart.

A chill frosted over her skin as she wondered if she was misreading the entire situation. Maybe this wasn't about the attack. Maybe this was about her. About how unlovable she was. She didn't want to believe that he was just like every other man in her life, who'd used her and then thrown her away when her usefulness had run out. But it was hard not to wonder, given the empty space expanding between them.

Chords running through her mind, Taylor peeled open her eyes, humming the tune she'd found in her sleep. She sat up, glancing at the empty space in the bed beside her. She could hear the shower running, and she pushed her hair off her face, her shoulders slumping a little. With a sigh, she grabbed her phone from the bedside table.

She swiped her finger across the screen, but it remained black. Dead. Of course. She'd been so distracted with everything that seemed to swirl constantly through her brain—Colt, the attack, her music, everything—that she'd forgotten to plug it in last night before crashing. But she needed to write down the chords before they vanished and floated away like a dream. She threw the covers back and then kept humming the wistful D-B minor-E minor-A progression so she wouldn't lose it as she made her way to Colt's office.

The hardwood floors creaked under her bare feet, overly loud in the quiet room, and the noise made her feel as if she were intruding on Colt's space, a feeling that had been growing over the past few days. Maybe it was time to go home, to stop clinging to him, get one of the guys from Virtus to stay with her. Still humming, determined not to lose the tune, she hurried over to the desk by the window, skimming her fingers over the felt of the pool table in the center of the room as she passed by it.

She smiled as she took in the desktop, which was military-precision neat, just like the rest of Colt's house. The simple black desk had only a computer monitor, a printer without any paper in it, and a white mug with a few pens and pencils. No notepad, no scrap paper. Not even an old bill. Looking for a piece of paper she could use, she sat down in the chair and tugged on the top drawer, but it didn't budge. Locked. Knowing Colt, there was probably a gun stashed away in there. She opened the second drawer, which was filled with hanging files, each with a name and number scrawled across the top in Colt's slightly messy block lettering. She flipped through them quickly and saw that they were client invoices, tax forms, and other stuff related to his business, so she slid the drawer closed. Fingers crossed, she opened the third drawer. A pile of printer paper sat under a few file folders.

“Bingo,” she sang in tune with the song that was still running through her mind, and she started to pull the stack of blank, white pages free, knocking open the top manila folder in the process.

She hadn't been trying to snoop, but when she saw Colt's name at the top of the page, in his own writing, just under the AtlasCorp logo, she paused. Before she realized what she was doing, her eyes skimmed down the page.

“What the hell?” she whispered, the song and its chord progression pushed from her brain. She set the brick of printer paper down on top of the desk with a soft thud and pulled the folder out of the drawer, then quickly paged through it. All the blood drained from her head and pooled thickly in her limbs, making her feel as though she weighed a thousand pounds. For a brief second, the room closed in around her, making everything tilt and slide.

She shook her head, trying to focus, and the words danced in front of her unfocused eyes. One-year contract…top-level security…high risk…Richmond, Virginia…threat assessment and protection…diplomatic specialized guard…

Kabul.

And worst of all, Colt's signature at the bottom of the last page. Flipping back to the first page, she noted the date on the contract.

He'd had this for weeks.
Weeks.

Her eyes stung and blurred as she let the pages flutter to the floor. She slumped in the chair, shoulders hunched as she tried to curl into herself and away from what she'd just read. Away from the hurt, the humiliation, the stunned confusion.

He was leaving. Leaving LA. Leaving her. Just like that. Without even talking to her.

Oh, God. She'd done it again.

Just like with Zack, she'd completely misread what was between them. Sad, lonely, abandoned puppy that she was, she'd mistaken friendship and great sex for something more, something deeper. She'd let herself fall, confusing lust and a bit of temporary fun for a real connection and love. Her heart thudded sluggishly in her chest as wave after wave of naked humiliation crashed into her, leaving her dizzy and wrecked. Suddenly the distance she'd felt over the last few days made a lot more sense. He was formulating his exit plan, trying to free himself from her. He was leaving her in his dust.

“Fucking idiot,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she dropped her head into her hands, her elbows digging into her thighs.

She'd let herself fall for someone who didn't want her. Who didn't love her. Again.

She'd thought maybe this time was different, what with the “it's you and me” and the “I'm falling for you” stuff, but she'd obviously misread that, too. He'd probably just wanted to make sure she wasn't fucking anyone else.

Why would he leave if he loved her?

Swallowing against the thickness in her throat, she forced herself to take a deep breath. She'd deluded herself into thinking this was more than it was. Because if it was more, he wouldn't be leaving. He wouldn't have spent the past several days putting distance between them, bit by bit.

She clenched her teeth as the first pulse of anger beat through her, heating her blood.

Fine. If he wanted out, she'd fucking let him out. Better to beat him to the punch than let him humiliate her any more than he already had. He'd played her like a fucking song, but the concert was over. Now. God, when had she gotten so soft? So trusting? So blind?

She heard the shower shut off, a dull thud echoing through the pipes. Squaring her shoulders, she picked up the pages of the contract from the floor and pushed out of the chair, striding through the house. She would
not
let him see the damage he'd caused.

The bathroom door opened, and Colt emerged, a navy blue towel knotted around his hips. “Hey, I…” His voice trailed off weakly when he saw the folder in her hand.

“I didn't mean to snoop. I was looking for a piece of paper.”