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“Her pussy isn’t that magical,” Dylan says dryly. “Frankly, it’s about the most frigid cunt I’ve ever had the displeasure of fucking.”

Fury boils inside me, but I cannot, under any circumstances, pummel him into the nearest wall. Or grind my fist into his stupid face. Or let Chuck and Ty give him the beatdown he deserves. No, we have to fight him in court. Which is going to be a lot more difficult.

“Let’s go,” I say to Willow, nodding at Ty, who moves toward the front door.

“My security guards can detain you.” Dylan looks directly at Willow. “And in an hour you’ll be back at the facility where you belong. Hiring a bodyguard isn’t going to fix your issues—you know you need help, Willow. Resisting only means it’s going to take longer to get you back to where you were before—where you belong. Where I can take care of you.”

Willow shivers slightly, averting her gaze.

Dammit.

This is how he wears her down psychologically. Another few minutes and he’ll potentially undo everything I’ve spent the last six weeks building up with her, and I’m not going to allow it.

“We’re leaving,” I say, nudging her forward.

Ty opens the front door, and as promised, there are three men standing by my black SUV.

Actually, it’s kind of amusing because I can spot amateurs a mile away, and these guys are basically rent-a-cops. Ty could take out all three of them with one arm tied behind his back. Hell, so can I, even with the bum hip.

“Get in the back, babe.” I speak softly, but I don’t care who hears me.

Dylan Durand has no idea who he’s messing with.

Twenty

Willow

The drive back to Hudson’s house is silent.

Tense. And silent.

“Thank you,” I murmur to Ty and Chuck, Hudson’s men who came with us to provide backup, as they carry in the suitcase and box of my father’s things.

“Breathe easy, Willow,” Ty murmurs, his big dark eyes gentle as they lock onto mine. “We’ve got your back.”

I want to ask why.

Why these gentle giants of men—Ty and Chuck, Atlas and Hudson, Royal and Banks—have my back when for so many years the men in this industry have chewed me up and spit me out.

But I don’t.

Because Hudson doesn’t come close when he strides into the house several moments later, doesn’t gently sweep my hair off my shoulder like he has been doing the last week or so, doesn’t find some excuse to lightly touch my hand or back, doesn’t even smile at me.

Instead, he walks right by me and disappears into the kitchen.

I jump when a cabinet slams.

I just force a smile at them, snag the handle of my suitcase, tuck my dad’s box under my arm, and turn for the stairs.

“I can carry that up to your room for you,” Chuck says softly, his hand landing on top of mine, staying me when I would have lifted the suitcase.

I slip my hand free, still not completely comfortable with men who aren’t Hudson touching me. “I’m good,” I murmur. “But thank you.”

He studies me for a moment before he nods. “We’ll arm the alarm before we go.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

He turns to Ty. “Let’s go.”