Page 39 of Beckett (Warrior Security #2)

Beckett

Travis hovered in his doorway, his entire body rigid with the effort of being that close to outside.

His knuckles were white where he gripped the doorframe, but when Audra’s legs gave out completely, he forced himself forward.

Just two steps onto his porch, but I could see what it cost him—the way his breathing went shallow, his eyes darting to the gathering darkness beyond his security lights before forcing himself to focus on us.

“What the hell happened?” His voice came out strained as he helped me get Audra through his doorway. The second we crossed the threshold, his shoulders dropped with visible relief, some of the tension bleeding out of him now that he was back inside his walls.

“Someone rammed my truck off the bridge.” My teeth chattered so hard the words came out fractured. “Cut the brakes first. Then waited.”

Travis’s expression darkened, but he didn’t waste time on questions.

He guided us through his entry hall, our wet clothes leaving puddles on hardwood floors that gleamed like they’d never seen actual foot traffic.

The house opened up around us, nothing like the weathered exterior suggested.

High ceilings, clean lines, expensive fixtures trying to hide behind careful normalcy.

“Fuck. That goddamned stalker. Bathroom’s this way.” He steered us down a hallway lined with abstract art that probably cost more than most people’s cars. “You need to get warm. Now.”

He opened the bathroom door to reveal a space bigger than most primary bedrooms. Marble counters, a shower that looked like it belonged in a luxury spa. Dual rainfall heads, body jets, enough room for a small party.

“We’ve got to get these clothes off.” I was already fumbling with the buttons on Audra’s shirt, my fingers useless clubs of frozen meat. “Travis, call Lachlan. Tell him we were rammed off Mill Creek Bridge. Someone needs to check the scene.”

“On it.” Travis disappeared, pulling the door shut behind him.

Audra’s hands shook too violently to help.

I managed two buttons before giving up and just pulling the shirt over her head.

Her skin had gone past white to a blue-gray that made my chest tight.

My jacket hit the floor with a wet slap.

Boots were impossible—the laces might as well have been welded shut for all my fingers could manage.

“Forget it.” I grabbed her arm, dragging us both toward the shower fully dressed. “We’ll deal with them after.”

I cranked the water on, starting lukewarm. Anything hotter would be agony on our frozen skin. The spray hit like needles anyway, sharp enough to make us both gasp. I pulled Audra under with me, holding her upright when her knees buckled.

“Cold,” she mumbled against my chest, the word barely audible.

“I know, sweetheart. It’ll get better.”

Water coursed over us, soaking through what remained of our clothes, pooling in our boots.

I kept one arm locked around her waist, the other braced against the tile wall.

Every drop stung, but it was the right kind of pain.

The kind that meant blood flow returning, nerve endings remembering their job.

Five minutes. Ten. My fingers started to unlock, joints creaking back to life. I reached for the temperature control, nudging it warmer. Audra made a sound that might have been relief.

“That’s it.” I bent down and untied our boots then worked at her jeans one-handed, the denim stubborn and swollen with river water. “We’re okay. We made it.”

The button finally gave. Between us, we managed to peel the jeans down her legs. She kicked weakly, trying to help, but mostly, I just dragged them off and tossed them toward the corner where they landed with a splat. My clothes joined hers, and each piece felt like shedding weights.

Steam rose around us now, the water finally hot enough to chase the cold from our bones. Audra’s violent shivering had eased to intermittent tremors. Color crept back into her cheeks, pink replacing blue.

“Better?” I asked.

She nodded against my chest. Her arms came up, wrapping around my waist, holding on like I might disappear if she let go. We stood there under the spray, her in panties and a bra, me in boxers, neither of us caring about how ridiculous we looked.

“Thought we were going to die.” Her voice was small, muffled against my skin.

“Not on my watch.”

She pulled back enough to look up at me. Water streamed down her face, dripping from her lashes, running in rivulets along her jaw. “You saved us. Got us out of the truck, out of the river.”

“You swam. You didn’t give up.”

“I wanted to.” The admission came out raw. “When the water was everywhere and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see—part of me wanted to just stop fighting.”

My hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing water from her cheek. Or maybe tears. Hard to tell. “But you didn’t.”

The water poured over us, finally, blessedly hot. I could feel my feet again, every toe a separate entity instead of frozen clubs. Audra’s skin had warmed under my hands, alive and real and here.

I adjusted the shower heads, making sure the water hit us both evenly.

Audra moved closer, not quite touching but near enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her skin.

We stayed like that, letting the water do its work, washing away river water and fear and the metallic taste of almost-dying.

“Your shoulder.” She reached out, fingers ghosting over a bruise already forming where the seat belt had caught me.

“Yours too.” I indicated the matching mark across her collarbone, purple blooming under pale skin.

We catalogued each other’s damage in silence. Bruises, scrapes, the thousand small injuries that came from violence and survival. But we were whole. Breathing. Alive.

Travis’s voice carried through the door, muffled but audible. “Leaving some clothes right here. Take your time.”

“Thanks,” I called back.

We stayed under the water another few minutes, neither of us eager to leave the warmth. Finally, I reached over and turned off the taps. The silence felt loud after the constant rush of water.

I spotted a cabinet, grabbed two thick white towels that probably cost more than I wanted to know. “Here.”

We dried off quietly, efficiently. The clothes Travis had left were exactly what I’d expected—T-shirts and sweatpants still in their original packaging, tags attached. I handed a set to Audra.

“Why are they…” She held up the package, confused.

“Travis goes through phases.” I tore open my own package. “Sometimes he can’t wear the same clothes twice. Contamination anxiety, though he’d never call it that. So he keeps a supply of new stuff.”

The clothes fit me well enough. On Audra, they swam. The sweatpants pooled around her feet, the T-shirt hanging past her thighs. She rolled the waistband several times and pushed up the sleeves.

“He really doesn’t like people here, does he?” She looked around the bathroom—the precise organization, everything in its exact place, no signs of regular use despite the luxury.

“Travis is particular about his space.” I gathered our wet clothes, wringing them out over the sink. “This house, the way it looks from outside versus inside—it’s all intentional. He designed it this way.”

“To keep people out?”

I shrugged. “More like to control who gets in. He doesn’t mind the Warrior Security team, but you are one of the few beyond that.”

We took our wet clothes to the laundry room, another space that looked barely used despite top-of-the-line machines. I loaded our clothes and set the timer.

“Come on.” I led her down another hallway. “His control room’s this way.”

The familiar hallway opened into the room that looked like mission control had collided with a paranoid’s fever dream.

Monitors everywhere—wall-mounted, desk-mounted, some showing code, others displaying camera feeds.

The exterior of the property from multiple angles, infrared and standard, motion sensors creating overlay grids.

Travis sat in an ergonomic chair that probably cost as much as a car, fingers flying over one of three keyboards. He didn’t look up when we entered.

“Lachlan’s been notified.” His eyes stayed fixed on scrolling data. “He’s heading to the bridge now with the forensics team. He’ll need statements from you both, but he said tomorrow’s fine unless you need medical attention.”

“We’re okay,” I said.

“He’s glad you’re alive.” Travis finally turned, taking in our borrowed clothes and damp hair. “Exact words were ‘Thank fuck they’re okay,’ but I paraphrased.”

Audra’s stomach chose that moment to growl, loud enough to echo in the tech-filled room.

Travis stood abruptly. “Kitchen. You need food.”

We followed him through more hallways that I was pretty sure he’d designed that way solely to be confusing.

The kitchen, when we reached it, was another contradiction.

Restaurant-grade appliances, copper pots hanging from a rack, a knife block that would make a chef weep.

All pristine, but the lingering smell of actual cooking said this room, at least, saw regular use.

“Sit.” Travis pointed at barstools along a massive island. He moved to the coffeemaker—some Italian thing with more buttons than the shower—and started measuring beans with scientific precision. “I have leftover chicken potpie from yesterday. Homemade.”

“You cook?” Audra sounded surprised.

“I eat,” Travis said simply. “Restaurants require leaving the house and interacting with people who don’t wash their hands properly.”

He pulled a dish from the refrigerator, portioned it onto plates with careful attention to equal serving sizes. The microwave hummed. The coffeemaker gurgled and hissed. Normal sounds that felt surreal after nearly drowning.

The coffee came first, served in matching mugs that were exactly two inches apart on the counter. Then the potpie, steam rising, pastry golden even reheated. My stomach clenched at the smell—I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until food appeared.