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And there’s someone who desperately needs my protection currently staying in my guest room.

Maybe it’s because of my recent injury, or just because it’s who I am, but I’m invested in this now. In her. And Dylan fucking Durand will have to go through me to get to Willow ever again.

Eight

Willow

“Bitch!”

I’m flinching back, trying to get out of arm’s reach, but suddenly he’s right there, his face a mere inch from mine…

Gasping, I sit upright, heart pounding, hand clamping to my chest.

Panic rippling through me, I search the room, and it takes a few moments to recognize that Dylan’s not here, that I’m not in the hospital, that I’m in Hudson’s house.

Safe.

For the moment, anyway.

That settles my pulse enough to reach for the burner phone—and that’s a term I’ve never heard used outside of a movie script—and check the time.

It’s after midnight.

“Dang,” I whisper.

My sleep schedule is so messed up it’s not even funny, and the fatigue that’s clinging to my bones is even less so.

I know the doctor mentioned that it’s common, that I spent a month in bed and my body needs time to recover, but I hate that I was exhausted by a ride in a wheelchair followed by a drive in a limo and a twenty foot walk into the house. I can’t even count the flight of stairs up to the guest room, considering Hudson had one of his employees carry me up them and all but tuck me into bed.

I would have preferred Hudson be the one to do it.

And, good grief, just call me a spoiled princess.

Because of course he couldn’t carry me—like literally couldn’t—not with his hip.

And who am I to complain? I hadn’t even been able to look at the steps without wanting to curl up on the floor and cry.

I should have been grateful for the lift.

I am grateful for it.

It’s just…when Hudson touches me, I’m not scared, not holding myself carefully still, afraid to even breathe, so I don’t trigger a ticking time bomb of a man.

Which sounds insane.

Because I’ve known him all of a day.

Except…he’s Hudson Dash.

I know him by reputation, have never heard a whisper of violence or unwanted sexual advances, and this is Hollywood—rumors fly, we hear the rumblings.

But it’s not just his reputation that settles over me like a warm blanket.

It’s…an inner voice telling me he’s safe.

“And what the hell do my inner voices know?” I whisper, setting the phone down and reclining back against the pillows. I pick up my worn copy of Pride & Prejudice, opening it and getting lost in the familiar words.

But as the pages go by, my hunger grows.