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Briar can be more diligent than the CIA if she thinks something is up.

Maybe it’s in both our best interests if no one knows Willow is here.

Not yet anyway.

“All right,” I say quietly. “I promise. But I don’t know how long I can hold them off. Briar is bound to check in. And Atlas likes to stop by sometimes in the evening—we’re both night owls—for a drink. If that happens, I can keep him downstairs, though. He wouldn’t think to wander up here… as long as you’re quiet.”

“I don’t have anyone to talk to but you,” she points out. “I have no phone, no computer, nothing.”

“I’m going to get you one of our burner phones,” I tell her. “It won’t be in your name, of course, so you can call anyone you like without them being able to track you. You can also create some fake social media accounts—I have tons of work-related emails you can use—so you can get online and see what’s going on in the world.”

“Oh.” She looks startled. “Dylan doesn’t like when I’m on social media so the only accounts I have are my official ones that my PR people run.”

I stare for a moment, trying to understand how a woman like her allowed herself to be taken in by someone so controlling. I know it happens, but I never imagined it happened to rich, successful women too. I thought it was mostly women who didn’t have money or options.

That’s probably misogynistic, but at least I’m honest.

“Let me guess,” she says when I don’t respond. “You’re wondering how I got myself into this mess.”

I guess my poker face isn’t working tonight.

“Maybe a little,” I admit. “It just seems to me you could have left.”

“And that’s why no one believes me when I try to tell them who he really is.” She sighs and leans back against the pillows.

“I do believe you, Willow,” I say carefully. “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. It’s hard to wrap my head around it, I guess. I have so many damn questions.”

“You can ask me anything you like,” she says. “Though, I’m just not sure my answers will be very satisfying.”

“And I’m not sure what that means.”

“It means I don’t even know exactly how it all happened,” she whispers. “One minute, I was on top of the world, with a great new boyfriend who seemed to adore me. I had money, success, and even critical acclaim. And then slowly, one day, one step—one shove—at a time, it all disappeared. I can’t even tell you when I went from happily in love to…terrified. That’s how gradual it was.”

“Is he the reason you hit your head?” I ask, trying to keep my temper in check. I’m not mad at her but all I can think about is Briar. If some guy did that to her…

“We argued,” she says, her voice suddenly small and hollow. “He wouldn’t let me have a glass of champagne, which was never an issue before. Then he casually announced it was time for us to have a baby—like it was a business deal or something. And that’s when I knew I was in trouble. Because there was no way in hell I’d bring a child into my world. Not with him. So I told him I wasn’t ready and he was pissed.” She shudders suddenly, pulling the blankets up around her protectively.

“You don't have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say gently.

But she continues, her voice so flat it’s hard to listen to.

“He was mad. Really mad. He told me I would do what he tells me to do, when he tells me to do it… then he shoved me and—that’s all I remember. We were in the kitchen, so I probably hit my head on the edge of the island.”

The roaring in my brain is like a freight train.

The vision of Dylan putting his hands on her—shoving someone as slight as she is—makes me want to hurt someone, hurt him.

“He’ll never touch you again,” I say in a gruff voice. “I can promise you that, Willow.”

She slowly lifts her eyes to mine, and the look there is a cross between relief and doubt.

As if she can’t quite allow herself to believe me.

But she can.

She should.

There’s a reason I make a living protecting the rich and famous.